03.18.21

March 18, 2021 | 34st.com

LONG DIVISION HOW COVID–19 EXACERBATES THE DIGITAL DIVIDE IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

Letter from the Editor 3 WORD ON THE STREET

Regretting My Return to Campus

6 EGO OF THE WEEK Stephanie Zhong

9 MUSIC

Julien Baker

LOL 10 FILM & TV

Movie Theaters Have Started Reopening: How and Why?

LOL

M

arch 11 washed over me like any other day.

I did my silly little tasks: clock in at my internship and procrastinate any real writing, attend about four hours of Zoom meetings, go to the gym and cry about hating my body, and come home and cry about hating the things that comprise the pandemic– proofed version of my life. An endless stream of deadlines.

Financial insecurity. Social isolation. The end of choice.

On March 11, 2020, Philadelphia shut down to curb the spread of what was then the novel coronavirus, an unknown respiratory virus that was wreaking havoc on metropolises.

On March 11, 2020, Penn ordered us home for the same reason, sending many of us back in time to high school bedrooms we were happy to escape. On March 11, 2020, a lot of parents died, and even more people began to lose their jobs.

It’s a day that will pass with national markers of reverence in the future. But last week, I was too busy mourning personal bullshit to acknowledge that someone might have it tougher than me.

In a weird way, living during the COVID-19 pandemic has made us more selfish. We can all point to the examples of greed that exist beyond us. It’s Tana Mongeau attending 14 Hollywood ragers as Los Angeles city hospitals hover at maximum occupancy. It’s Camden County’s Atilis Gym reopening in secret as COVID–19 restrictions caused nearly a third of other New Jersey small businesses to shutter. It’s our classmates flying to Puerto Rico over Spring Stay to party on an island with crumbling infrastructure and our friends cutting Black Philadelphians in line to receive a vaccine. The challenge of collective austerity has created failures so public that it’s easy to ignore our own.

So, what about the selfishness that exists inside us?

COVID–19 has forced everyone to become a little too introspective. For the better part of a year, the world has

been confined to walls of apartments or parents' houses.

All that government–imposed 'me time' has made it easy to hyperbolize our own struggles and—even worse—write off the trauma of others as something we don’t need to worry about. We’ve all been so busy supporting ourselves through a pile of uncertainties that the emotional labor we reserve for others comes at a high premium.

These choices seem small. Do I watch CNN for an hour and learn about Biden’s new child detention centers, or turn off my phone and take a long bath? Sure, the pandemic has reinforced the importance of self care, but it has also desensitized us. Perhaps that’s why March 11 felt like any other Thursday and not the anniversary of something terrible.

Illustration by Alice Heyeh SSSF,

12 FEATURE

COVID–19 & the Digital Divide in Public Schools

Beatrice Forman, Editor–in–Chief Chelsey Zhu, Campus Editor Mehek Boparai, Culture Editor Karin Hananel, Assignments Editor Lily Stein, Features Editor Denali Sagner, Features Editor Hannah Lonser, Special Issues Editor Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Kyle Whiting, Music Editor Peyton Toups, Deputy Music Editor Kaliyah Dorsey, Focus Editor Emily White, Style Editor Eva Ingber, Ego Editor Aakruti Ganeshan, Arts Editor Harshita Gupta, Film & TV Editor

19 FOCUS

Mainstream Asian American Activism Won't Save Our Elders

LOL 22 UNDER THE BUTTON

2

Isabel Liang, Design Editor Alice Heyeh, Street Design Editor Mia Kim, Deputy Design Editor Jesse Zhang, Street Multimedia Editor Caylen David, Street Audience Engagement Editor Features Staff Writers: Sejal Sangani, Angela Shen,

3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

Bea

Lindsey Perlman, Mira Sydow, Amy Xiang, Pranav Mishra Focus Beat Writers: Rema Bhat, Kira Wang, Jean Paik, Gabriella Raffetto Style Beat Writers: Naomi Kim, Matthew Sheeler Ego Beat Writers: Maddie Muldoon, Nick Plante, Fernanda Brizuela, Saranya Das Sharma, Lily Suh Music Beat Writers: Emily Moon, Allison Stillman, Nora Youn, Evan Qiang, Walden Green Arts Beat Writers: Jessa Glassman and Avneet Randhawa Film & TV Beat Writer: Arielle Stanger Staff Writers: Meg Gladieux, Aidah Qureshi, Jillian Lombardi, Kathryn Xu, Alice Heyeh, Phuong Ngo, Aria Vyas Multimedia Associates: Dhivya Arasappan, Sage Levine, Sophia Dai, Sophie Huang, Samantha Turner, Sudeep Bhargava, Sukhmani Kaur, Alexandra Morgan Lindo Audience Engagement Associates: Kira Wang, Samara Kleiman, Stephanie Nam, Yamila Frej Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow

Cover Design by Isabel Liang Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Bea Forman, Editor-In-Chief, at forman@34st.com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com

©2021 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Wednesday.

here's to better days

WORD ON THE STREET

Regretting My Return to Campus I've struggled with unmet expectations for my first year of college.

G

oing to campus won’t fix my problems, my mom said.

I argued that it would.

Despite being a firm believer of science and witnessing COVID–19 cases rise across the country, I insisted that my family help me pack my belongings into our SUV and take a six–hour road trip to Philadelphia, just so I could sit in my dorm room for 22 hours a day.

I'd spent my first semester of college at home, and it had been a shit show. No exaggeration. Between struggling with the rigor of my classes and watching my new classmates party in off–campus apartments on Instagram, I felt even more confined in my childhood bedroom. But I coped with the overwhelming FOMO and isolation by promising myself that I would get a real college experience the following semester. I told myself to wait until January, when the loneliness would finally come to an end.

When Penn announced that it would offer on– campus housing to all undergraduates, I, against my better judgement, jumped at the opportunity.

This was what I’d been suffering through all of my classes at home for. I imagined myself finally living on campus, meeting my classmates in person, making friends, and experiencing—at long last—my first year as it was supposed to be.

Now that I've been on campus for over a month, I think back to my excitement leading up to move–in day and can’t help but feel a bit regretful.

Recent weeks have felt like a recurring battle. I struggle through my classes during weekdays for the briefest bit of relief that each weekend grants.

My life has become an endless cycle. Wake up, go to class, pick up lunch from 1920 Commons, study, pick up dinner from Commons, sleep, repeat. I attend class from my room. I study in my room. I eat in my room.

I roll my eyes when people tell me that I should just be more involved. Joining more clubs won’t solve my problems because I’ve tried. I've joined clubs, and I've made efforts to introduce my-

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

One day I will recall these difficult months and realize that my first–year spring semester was a small price to pay to protect myself and the people around me from a pandemic. self to strangers. Doing that has only made me feel worse. I can’t help but think about all the in– person club activities I’m missing out on and the events, like New Student Orientation, that I will never be able to experience as a first year.

Instead of scrolling through Instagram posts from the comfort of my bedroom, I do it from my shoebox dorm room. I sit in my dorm and wonder what I’m even doing here. I was lucky enough to be perfectly fine learning at home. Was I really stupid enough—desperate enough—for the college experience that I thought moving to a different city for four months would change everything?

But in the back of my head, I know that it will get better. One day I will recall these difficult months and realize that my first–year spring semester was a small price to pay to protect myself and the people around me from a pandemic. On campus, I'm able to leave my living space without putting my family at risk, but I often feel more isolated than I ever was at home. Even at Penn, taking precautions means sacrificing the social life I anticipated when I imagined myself at college. But I would rather isolate than party off campus. That way, I can protect my small group of friends and the people I share a bathroom with in my dorm.

The loneliness of the pandemic has taught me to cherish close friendships. Two of my friends have taught me that I don’t need to do something wild, expensive, or public to have fun. Simply being around them helps me forget the unfortunate circumstances of our first year in college. I will always remember us (literally) running to get boba when we were kicked out of our dorms at night during a false fire alarm, tuning in to Spotify together while studying in the library on Sunday nights, and figuring out, after much confusion, how to actually get to Cira Green. They are the people who will make leaving Penn hard when the semester finally comes to an end.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E

3

EGO

"Heal, Resist, and Grow": VietLead Plants the Seeds for a Better Future VietLead paves the way for change within the Philly immigrant community. | LILY SUH

V

ietLead is a force to be reckoned with. Founded in 2015, this nonprofit organization— created to address inequities that Vietnamese American youth face in Philadelphia—has closely served the city's Southeast Asian community. By providing services that range from voter registration to student leadership programs, the organization gives a voice to a group of people who are often overlooked.

Because of Philadelphia's history of gentrification and cultural erasure of immigrants, VietLead has taken its community's problems into its own hands by tackling language barriers, offering legal support, and helping people fill out the 2020 Census. Claire Nguyen (C ’22), a college organizer who's part of VietLead's Community Defense Campaign, explains the importance of the organization's purposeful action within the community.

"These are all things that the community needs and has been asking for, in some way, shape, or form, so VietLead has built it,” Claire says. “Everything has really been built from the ground up, rooted in the community's needs, and empowering the community to build it together.”

In order to target a history of colonization, displacement, and war, VietLead operates under a "heal, resist, and grow" model. Claire notes that its "work is to heal from that, resist the continuation of oppression and violence that our communities face, and to grow and to nurture our community.”

One long–term challenge the organization has is ending deportations. “A lot of Southeast Asian refugees, who have been criminalized by the war on crime, the war on drugs, and the war on poverty, are now experiencing increased, heightened deportations,” Claire says. Under the Trump administration, there was a sharp increase in Vietnamese and Laotian deportations among both the documented and undocumented immigrant populations.

"These are people who came to the United States as refugees and who lost their green cards due to the process of being criminalized," says Claire. VietLead's Community Defense team helps with deportation case management and leads awareness campaigns.

After witnessing Tony Pham, a former Vietnamese refugee, become the acting director of United States Immigration and Customs Enforcement, VietLead had to confront this betrayal. However, members of the nonprofit 4

3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

Illustration by Alice Heyeh did so with kindness “because we see our uncles in him, we see our fathers in him, [and] we see people in our community in him,” Claire says. “That is something we're constantly challenging—trying to meet the community where it's at, but also moving the community towards a place of liberation, towards a place of healing, resistance, [and] growth."

On top of its long–term agenda, the organization addresses issues that local Vietnamese residents experience in day–to–day life.

“When the pandemic was kicking off, we kept in contact with a lot of members in our base to ask if they needed any food support. If they did, we could bring them fresh food from the farm that VietLead has," says Julci Areza (C '21), an organizer for the Healthy Schools Campaign. "We asked about any sort of support or help that they needed.

Trying to create a system of mutual aid is one of the main components [of VietLead].”

Although the nonprofit aims to help the Philly Vietnamese immigrant community, VietLead doesn't work in isolation. It rallied with other community organizations in response to the Black Lives Matter Movement.

“Following the deaths of George Floyd, Tony McDade, and all the countless other folks, we've been trying to fight for the Philadelphia police budget to be reduced,” Claire says. “We're surveying community members to see where they would want to see money go, given that we know that in Philadelphia, there are several services that are terribly underfunded when the police budget is in the range of 600 to 700 million dollars.”

VietLead also addresses inequities in the Philly public school system, which often disproportionately harm the children of immigrants. Many schools suffer from poorly managed budgets, over–policing, and underfunding due to some of the city’s largest institutions, including Penn, failing to provide Payments in Lieu of Taxes. To combat this reality, VietLead offers internships to Southeast Asian youth. “[We're] cultivating the leaders of tomorrow by having a lot of leadership development for the new interns,” Julci explains. “You can definitely see their growth. Whether that’s just their ability to facilitate an event or discussion or their political knowledge and consciousness, it really shows.”

Some of these student leaders from VietLead are now joining the Penn community. Christina Ly (C '25) and Peter Keo (C '25) have been a part of VietLead since its early days and are now in the Class of 2025.

Christina and Peter have always been passionate about targeting inequity in their community, and they found a home in VietLead. “Everyone feeling comfortable sharing the vulnerable parts of themselves and what they’ve been through makes me feel a whole lot less alone,” Christina says. “It’s definitely a place where I not only feel tolerated but also celebrated.”

“It really has provided a unique experience for me to not only grow but reflect and heal from all of the hurt that I’ve experienced all of my life,” says Peter. “It feels like a second family to me because at VietLead, they all have the same passions and interests, so I don’t feel like I have to burden them with my experiences alone. We share it."

VietLead members don't have to be Vietnamese immigrants from Philadelphia to contribute to the cause. Claire and Julci aren't from the local Vietnamese community—but they believe in the organization's mission.

“I'm very conscious of the space that I take in VietLead," Claire says. "I know that it's not about me. It's about Philadelphia, and it's about the Southeast Asian community in Philadelphia.” She hopes to help Penn students recognize the shelter of the Penn bubble. Claire is passionate about reminding students about privilege, the importance of giving back to the city, and the danger of being "complicit in a lot of the harm that Penn enacts on the Philadelphia community.”

In both their work at Penn and in VietLead, students hope to motivate people to build a better future for South Asian immigrants in Philly. But they also recognize that these goals can be overwhelming.

“I think with organizing, it's really easy to feel very heavy with all that you're dealing with all of the time because the labor of all of the things you need to fix is so tremendous," Claire says. "But what I think that is really galvanizing for me is knowing that, if you show up and can commit to it, you can institute change, even at very small levels. I see the window of opportunity, and I also see the larger picture.

And once you see it, you can't unsee it. You just want to keep going at it.”

EGO

Photo Courtesy of the Merrygold Shop

Sammi Bateman Opened a Small Business In a Pandemic.

Here's How She Did It. Excitement, fear, grit, and gratitude sum up Sammi Bateman's experience in opening Fabric Row's beloved new addition. | KARIN HANANEL

I

n early March 2020, Samantha Bateman finally opened the doors of The Merrygold Shop to the public after months of preparation. Two days later, all nonessential businesses in Philadelphia were ordered to close for two weeks, which then turned into months.

While most small business owners were emotionally and financially devastated in the wake of COVID–19–related closures, Samantha (who cheerfully introduces herself as Sammi to all of her customers) only had two full days of an open shop before she had to lock up indefinitely. She had no regular clientele, a few hundred Instagram followers, and a very minimal website—Sammi was figuring it out all on her own. This made it difficult to pivot to virtual operations and invent ways to pay rent for her empty storefront full of merchandise, which she jokingly describes as the most expensive storage unit she’s ever had.

A year later, Merrygold remains intact, and—even better—it's one of the most beloved small businesses on Fabric Row and in Queen Village, if not the entire city.

Given the immense charm of Sammi’s self–described “tender and weird shop,” it’s not hard to understand why. The spacious yet cozy storefront offers anything an aesthete could ever want, from greeting cards made by local artists, stationery such as notebooks and notepads, printed dishcloths, and locally made jewelry, to fashion accessories, hand–poured candles, framed art, dishes, and even papier– mâché oranges hiding small surprise gifts. It’s hard to describe given its range of offerings, but the best description Sammi can give is that it’s an extension of herself, filled with all of the stuff that she finds appealing.

“I’m calling it a gift shop, which changes all the time …

Half of the time when I’m buying, I think that I’d love to have this in my own house. But jewelry and accessories are actually where it started,” Sammi says.

The store is objectively beautiful and well–curated.

However, most people can understand that beauty alone can’t keep a business afloat during a pandemic.

But, when you take a look behind the scenes, Sammi’s impressive creativity, extensive retail experience, and strong entrepreneurial spirit have been key in ensuring Merrygold’s success.

Even though her background as a fine arts major at the University of Delaware might not sound as useful for running a business as perhaps an MBA, Sammi says, “I’ve

always been very entrepreneurial. When cupcakes were a big thing, I made all these tiny cupcakes and I probably sold about 200 of them at 16 years old—silly things like that.”

She laughs heartily as she describes her frivolous teenage business pursuits, but it’s clear to see that they weren’t for nothing.

After cupcakes, there was ice cream—more specifically, an ice cream parlor in Dewey, near her hometown of Rehoboth Beach, Del., where she got her first–ever job at the age of 14. She worked there part–time throughout college, and then went on to work at a small boutique called Bella Luna in the same town. Sammi says she “basically learned how to do everything” there, and credits the owner of the shop for being a mentor to her to this day. From there, she became an intern at Anthropologie and quickly rose through the ranks and began to design displays for their stores in the Philly area. After college, she left Anthropologie to become a florist, but later returned.

It was through a unique experience in that job (for which she still works full–time) where the idea for what would become Merrygold was conceived.

As a display coordinator, Sammi opened around 12 or 13 stores for the label in various locations—think Palo Alto, Montréal, and Miami. But while opening a store for Anthropologie in Tel Aviv, Israel in March of 2019, things changed for her.

Sammi says, “While we were there [opening up a store], [Tel Aviv] was bombed … It was crazy. I don’t know what the saying is, but pretty much everyone in Israel lives this lifestyle of wanting to make the most of every day because they live in a war zone. That opened my eyes a little bit, because I’d just been grinding at work trying to create this corporate career for myself that wasn’t really getting anywhere. So, being in Tel Aviv and having all of that happen … gave me the push, or at least put me in the right mindset.”

From there, Merrygold slowly but surely came to fruition, and by November 2019, Sammi found her storefront at 707 S. 4th Street. She made a PDF mood board to convince the landlord that she was worthy of renting out the space, placing pictures of the Metropolitan Museum of Art next to those of costume jewelry. “I was just putting in all of these images, saying, ‘This is the world I want to live in.’ And the next day, he said yes … apparently he had gone

through 20 candidates and was really picky, and he picked me. This place sat empty for a really long time,” she says.

But places sitting empty on Fabric Row are extremely common occurrences. A historically Jewish hub of commerce in Philadelphia that encompasses the intersections of 4th and Bainbridge streets all the way to 4th and Catherine streets, the blocks–long business corridor peaked in the 1960s. The familial nature of the many textile stores meant that there was no one for these business owners to pass their shops down to, leading to the area’s eventual commercial decline.

That’s all changed in 2021, with the corridor revived due to small shops and restaurants such as Bus Stop Boutique, Walter Pine Studio, Moon + Arrow, Brickbat Books, Fitz and Starts, YOWIE, and more. They coexist among the old school textile shops that remain such as Baldwin Leather & Fabric, B. Wilk Fabrics, Fleishman Fabrics & Supplies, and a few others.

Along with these changes come some downsides, with a lot of the new shops being significantly more upscale than before. This fulfills a niche for the largely upper– middle–class shoppers who frequent and inhabit the area, but alienate large swaths of Philadelphia’s population— especially those who remember Fabric Row as a hub of affordable goods.

Sammi noticed that gap in the market and capitalized on it, renovating the building that became Merrygold on her own with some help from her partner Kenny, who works as a carpenter. In the process, she unearthed beautiful hardwood floors, painted egrets on the walls, and put her creative talents to use before opening, all while continuing to work full–time for Anthropologie.

Fast forward to the present day, and Sammi’s sweet, “tender, and weird” shop is thriving— all without breaking the bank for its customers. Sammi loves her regulars, but notes that her favorite customer is a 13–year–old girl, and that it’s those young customers coming in with pocket change who bring her the most joy when they step into the shop. Those customers also serve as extra motivation to keep her shop affordable and accessible, being mindful of both Fabric Row’s history and her experience of coming from a staunchly middle class family. “I built the store that I wanted to shop at, but that I felt like didn’t quite exist here,” she says.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E

5

EGO OF THE WEEK

STEPHANIE ZHONG HOMETOWN:

St. Louis, Mo.

MAJOR:

Dual degree in nursing and economics with a concentration in healthcare management

ACTIVITES:

Keynotes A Capella, Grace Covenant Church, Social Deduction Club (SDC), Penn Figure Skating Club

BY EVA INGBER

34TH STREET MAGAZINE: You're a dual degree nursing and Wharton student. What made you want to study both nursing and business, and do you see an intersection between the two disciplines?

STEPHANIE ZHONG: When I was in high school, I volunteered at a hospital, and I really enjoyed the experience there. I really enjoyed talking with the patients, and getting to know their story, and being there for them. Not just physically, but also mentally, and being there through a very vulnerable time for them. And so I kind of fell in love. I saw what the nurses were doing, and I wanted to have something like that. But then I also realized, as a nurse, there's only so much time you have and only so many individual lives that you can really change or touch or impact.

So then I was thinking that I wanted to take on a more business route, too, because then I feel like I can make larger changes overall to the healthcare system, healthcare admin, and hospital admin. So I wanted the aspects of both [nursing and business].

So I came into Penn and into this program with that mindset. And honestly, throughout my years of studying, finding that sort of niche was harder than I thought. When I talked to upperclassmen, they either became nurses, or they went into consulting or something really business–related.

And I was like, "Is there not really a midpoint here?" So that was a worry of mine for a little bit.

But I'm really excited because last semester, I accepted a job offer at DaVita. They're a healthcare company, and I worked for them last summer in their business analyst program. They gave me a

6

3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

return offer to work in their finance department.

And I just didn't know if that's what I wanted to do. [I told DaVita], "Hey, I'm actually going to graduate with a nursing degree, so is there any way that I can practice in one of your clinics?"

They have thousands of clinics throughout the country. And so basically, now I'm actually going to be a nurse in one of their facilities for a year.

And then we decided on this fast track, where I'm going to then become a facility administrator of an entire clinic. It's super amazing because I feel like I get the nursing experience, but then also, I'm going to maybe be in charge of a clinic in a year's time. I realized that this is the sort of job that this [dual degree] program got me. I'm able to work as a nurse. And also bringing in the business background, I'm able to fast track and have this sort of opportunity more quickly.

STREET: You're also a model and an actress. What drew you to these jobs?

SZ: When I was in high school, I suffered a lot from mental issues like depression, anxiety, that sort of thing, and it was pretty bad. What drew me to acting was the fact that I felt like I could escape being myself because my life felt so miserable. So it's kind of depressing, but that's what drew me to acting in the first place. I just wanted to be somebody else. I wanted to embody another character, another life, and another story, and just let go of the current life I was having.

That was in high school. I actually went to sign with an agency in St. Louis. And so the modeling kind of came with it. It wasn't like I sought out to do modeling. It just went hand in hand. I'm definitely more like in love with the acting part

of it.

You're starring in the independent film Jade this year. What was it like to work on the film?

SZ: Jade is one of the larger projects that I've been a part of in terms of the fact that I am the main character, which is pretty crazy. I actually really love the message that the story tells. It's about this girl whose name is Jade, or in Chinese, 玉.

She's from China originally. Her parents are being chased down by bad people in China. She gets poisoned, and her parents get killed. Before it all happens, she gets sent to America to live with her godfather, and her godfather is Black. Now, we know there's a lot of racial tension between Asians and Black people. This is something that's been a problem, and it's something that I've realized in my own Asian communities. In the film, it really touches on this. [Jade] basically does not want to live with her Godfather because she's heard all these stories [about Black people] from her grandmother. And she's super mean and horrible to her godfather. And then through time, she basically builds this relationship and bond after she realizes that it's not like that at all. She's been told lies. So it's like that impact combined with a superhero film at the same time, which is really fun, because it's not just about the combat. There's also a very real issue that's being addressed in the film. I really enjoyed it. I loved working with everyone. I got to do really cool fight scenes. You know, you get together with a bunch of people, and they're all really invested and really love what they're doing. And you come together to make this piece to show to the world.

STREET:

EGO OF THE WEEK

Your friends describe you as the busiest person they know. How do you it balance it all and make sure you're taking care of yourself?

SZ: I feel like I'm not doing my extracurriculars to have a leadership position, to look good, or to put it on my resume. Everything that I'm involved in is strictly because I enjoy it, and I want to be a part of that community. And so when I do my extracurriculars, it doesn't seem like work to me at all. It all seems like fun. So that's how I balance it. I feel like I'm already getting a lot [out] of academics, so I don't need to do more academics in my club work. I just do my classes, and then all the time that I'm spending doing extracurriculars, it's actually fun for me. So it's kind of like a break. A lot of my friends come from the different extracurriculars that I'm in, so it's time that I'm hanging out with them as well. I don't really feel that I'm that busy.

STREET:

What has been your most memorable experience at Penn?

SZ: It was] with SDC, which is the Social Deduction Club. This is a club that my friends and I started our [first] year. We play this game called Humans vs. Zombies. We take over the engineering quad with a bunch of Nerf guns, and we basically run around. Some people are assigned zombies at the beginning. You try and survive, and you have these Nerf guns that you're running around shooting zombies with. I remember one time, just in the middle of the chaos and all, just thinking like, "Wow, I did not think I was going to be having this much fun at Penn." I think it was those moments where you take a step back, and you look at the larger scheme of things. And you're like, "Look at all these wonderful people.

Look at this wonderful time."

I think my moments with SDC have been just so, STREET:

so nice. We stay up very late together. We do a lot of games together. We explore the city together.

But that's a specific moment from SDC that I remember just thinking, "Wow, this is really fun."

STREET: If you could impart one lesson to the Penn student body, what would it be?

SZ: I think this is very cliché, but I think it's very true. Don't feel like you need to compare yourself to everyone else. I know this touches on Penn Face and everything like that, but it's so true. Everyone's putting on the best version of themselves. And when you see that, I think it can get very discouraging at times. Because you stand there, and you're like, "I feel so insignificant when I'm surrounded by all these smart people."

But just remember that you're here for a reason.

You're amazing. Every person is amazing.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

LIGHTNING ROUND STREET: Last song that you listened to?

SZ: “Ocean Eyes" by Billie Eilish.

STREET: If you were a building on campus, which one would you be and why?

SZ: I would be Houston Hall. I feel like it's a place that everyone knows. That's where we gathered for SDC. I feel like it allows for people to hang out together.

STREET: Who's your favorite actor or performer?

SZ: I love Selena Gomez. I think she's amazing. I love her earlier stuff that she acted in like Wizards of Waverly Place. Legit my favorite show.

STREET: What's your favorite movie?

SZ: I really like Inception. I think it's so mind–boggling. No matter how many times you watch it, you're still confused.

STREET: Who do you look up to?

SZ: I look up to my fiancé. I think he has so many amazing traits. He's taught me so much about myself and allowed me to grow in so many ways. I feel like he is such a good person, so I really look up to him.

STREET: There are two types of people at Penn…

SZ: Those who go into consulting and IB [investment banking], and those who don't. Or those who sell out and those who don't.

STREET: And you are?

SZ: I am not selling out!

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E

7

MUSIC

A Closer Look Into Big Streams in Quarantine An ode to two artists who made it big on their own in the age of social media and streaming services | PHUONG NGO

T

here was once a time when the world was only familiar with mainstream musical artists. Backed by big record labels, these artists were ensured a straight shot to fame because at the time, how else would emerging artists get their name out there?

But there are new young names that have demonstrated otherwise. Due to the growing accessibility of the music industry, new artists have been able to insert themselves into the industry and do exceedingly well. Emerging artists Alaina Castillo and Anson Seabra were once small creators but now receive huge streaming numbers because of the evolving nature of the music industry and the platforms they use to share their music.

Alaina Castillo Alaina Castillo didn’t start her career in music. She initially created her YouTube channel to share ASMR videos, which was a growing trend at that time, with her first ASMR video on YouTube receiving over 1.6 million views. Her YouTube channel now has over 800,000 subscribers, each of whom is familiar with her routine background of a bedroom filled with fairy lights and Alaina singing with an orange microphone in hand.

Her “Sing You To Sleep” ASMR videos showed off her soft, melodic tones that she eventually used to create covers of songs from Plain White T’s “Hey There Delilah” to Billie Eilish’s “when the party’s over.”

8

3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

Even before she signed with AWAL Recordings— joining the likes of artists, like Lauv and Daya, whom you’ve definitely heard while waiting in line at coffee shops and clothing stores—Castillo already had a large following. Castillo collaborated with singer– songwriter RØMANS to produce her first EP, antisocial butterfly, through his label Chosen People in November 2019. But it wasn’t until May 2020 that she and Chosen People signed a deal with AWAL, which was recently bought by SONY.

Anson Seabra “Walked Through Hell” and "Robin Hood” show off a voice that parallels those of James Arthur and Lewis Capaldi, so it’s no surprise that Anson Seabra’s music took off. But the degree of how viral his music became took the artist off guard.

In a TikTok, Seabra showed his amazement with how his song “Welcome to Wonderland,” originally released on Spotify in 2018, suddenly blew up in February 2020 due to it gaining traction on TikTok. TikTok increased the virality of the sound, and Seabra watched as his song surged from a few thousand streams a day to nearly 400,000 streams per day on Feb. 11.

Anson said that TikTok “runs the music industry,” and most people who have paid attention to trending music on the app and the songs that appear on the top charts would agree. The app has been the reason many artists have found themselves on top of the

charts and have seen their music being used in viral TikTok trends.

The accessibility of sharing music—whether it be through SoundCloud, Apple Music, Spotify, or even TikTok—demonstrates that all it takes is a computer and some headphones to produce music and share it with the world. This new independence for artists represents a change in the relationship between artists and record labels.

Being signed to a label is no longer a requirement to be successful in the music industry. Especially when artists have now realized that self–promotion has a lot more to do with appealing to audiences rather than having a huge corporation behind you. Emerging artists have found that advertising their new work on social media apps like TikTok has been critical in the success of their work. Had it not been for the app’s dance trends, how else would BENEE's “Supalonely” or Doja Cat’s “Say So” have become Gen Z’s quarantine anthems?

In his TikTok, Anson said that “this app is too powerful,” and it is. It has served as the direct connection between us and emerging artists, whom we might not have heard of otherwise. Social media has not only allowed audiences to discover artists, but also has allowed them to relate more to artists as people, whether it be through TikTok videos, live streams, or daily vlogs. We love hearing from our favorite new artists, and we’re excited to stream more of their music, too.

MUSIC

Illustration by Isabel Liang

Julien Baker Searches for Meaning in Little Oblivions

Baker's third studio album grapples with its identity through a series of indie–rock existential crises. | EMILY MOON

I

t 's been over five years since Julien Baker first captured music critics' attention with her 2015 debut album, Sprained Ankle. Sparse instrumentation scattered around Baker's delicate voice in her first LP: Her existential musings were so lonely and fragile that the only way to listen without shattering her words was to hold your breath. Now, with a few more albums under her belt—including one with Phoebe Bridgers and Lucy Daucus in the indie supergroup boygenius—Baker returns to themes of faith, self–destructive behavior, and substance abuse in her third album, Little Oblivions.

Despite the album title's emptiness, Little Oblivions features surprisingly lush instrumental accompaniment throughout its 12 songs, sporting a full, indie– rock sound. Baker has slowly opened up to the idea of not being alone in her music, a change from the more isolated vocals in her earlier discography. Her sophomore album, Turn Out The Lights, tentatively featured a few more accompanying instruments than its predecessor; Little Oblivions boasts a full–bodied band sound.

Baker, the only producer on Little Oblivions, is hyper–aware to the point of terrifying realization. In "Bloodshot," Baker stares at her lover to rhythmic drum beats, eyes red from intoxication, realizing that they're both just projecting what they need the other to be. Illusion crashes down with percussion, as Baker registers that her partner isn't the idea of someone she desperately needs, but rather a complex and messy individual who is guilty of doing the same thing to her.

As Baker puts it, "Bloodshot" is a moment of realization that "We're each just kind of sculpting our own

mythologies about the world, crafting our narratives."

Little Oblivions often ignores this distinction between real and perceived, even though it's always painfully acknowledged. In “Hardline,” instruments are staggered in a crescendo until falling quiet when Baker sings, “Until then, I’ll split the difference / Between medicine and poison / Take what I can get away with / While it burns right through my stomach,” a nod to her battle with substance abuse. Baker has chronicled her journey to sobriety in all three of her albums, but, like the others, Little Oblivions doesn't offer a neatly– packaged resolution. Given the deeply personal nature of addiction and the monetization of artists' sobriety stories, Baker has explained, "I don't want to construct a narrative of this sort of oscillating prodigal redemption."

Still, Baker recognizes the potential importance of speaking about her experiences in a way that doesn't fall into a romanticized narrative. The harmonies in “Faith Healer” are almost angelic as Baker yearns for a dangerous high, waiting for a healer to ease the pain of withdrawal. Baker struggles with her immediate need to feel better and the unbearable realization that instant gratification remains out of her reach. Faith healing in Christianity has been explored as a possible psychological “placebo effect,” and Baker acknowledges this between luxuriant instrumental breaks.

Growing up in a highly religious Christian family, Baker is well aware that faith healing, a quick and miraculous fix, exists in the realm of impossibility—but it doesn’t matter. She doesn’t care to differentiate between feeling better and getting better as she closes the song:

Baker's clear voice reaches higher and higher until she implores, “Faith healer, come put your hands on me / A snake oil dealer / I’ll believe you if you make me feel something.”

In Little Oblivions, Baker launches listeners into a liminal space of existential crises, where the unknown transforms into a manifestation of our worst fears. If the distinction between real and fake no longer matters, what does? The turmoil within Baker's third album is sweeping and all–engulfing—and it's chilling. Apathetic harmonies admit, "I won't bother telling you I'm sorry / For something that I'm gonna do again." She asks, with startling intensity, "So Jesus, can you help me now? / Trade me in for a briar crown / Is there anybody coming back for me? / If they ever were, they are not now." Baker demands answers no one can provide, and it's unclear whether or not she would even listen for a response.

Baker is still learning in Little Oblivions, exploring the abstract through her lyrics and the actual through her new full–band sound. It's a deeply philosophical album, one that doesn't quite understand itself yet, but is beautiful regardless. Listening to the lightness of the folk intro in "Heatwave," it's almost possible to miss the dark lyrics that follow. Little Oblivions is easy to get lost in—part of its dangerous appeal—and constantly raises questions that are uncomfortable to ask. By the end of it, reality seems more susceptible to manipulation, and concrete concepts no longer seem so set in stone. Baker engages in solipsism without the extreme egocentrism: She is the only thing she can be sure of, but it's not by choice.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E

9

FILM & TV

Movie Theaters Have Started Reopening: How and Why? Silence your cell phone, put on a mask, and enjoy the show. | ARIELLE STANGER Illustration by Alice Heyeh

A

s t h e salty smell of artificial butter swirls around, you lean back in your squeaky seat, and the lights begin to dim. The room is somehow both freezing and stuffy, but the surround–sound volume and larger–than–life screen transport you to a fantasy world of your choosing. There’s truly nothing that compares to the timeless movie theater experience, something cinephiles have been missing since the onset of the pandemic.

Restaurants and similar institutions have begun opening at a limited capacity, and movie theaters are gradually following suit. This begs the question of whether or not it’s responsible for nonessential businesses to reopen while COVID–19 cases are still springing up left and right. Street had the opportunity to speak with several local and national movie theater companies about their health and safety protocols, as well as the financial struggles and reasoning behind their decisions to start screening once again.

AMC Theatres was unable to provide a spokesperson, but shared their “AMC Safe & Clean” policy overview. General cleaning procedures have been enhanced, air filters have been placed, and social distancing will be strictly enforced, just to name a few efforts. A ticket method known as seat blocking is in place as well: When you purchase a ticket or tickets online, the surrounding seats are automatically blocked out, so that no one outside of your party will be sitting within six feet of you.

However, when it comes to chain locations, the efficacy of their protocols will remain to be seen as COVID–19 rates continue to be monitored.

AMC and other national chains are your most basic, streamlined options for returning to the movies, but

10 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

smaller companies and independent theaters are worth exploring and supporting. A Philly staple, the Landmark Ritz Five, is an arthouse cinema screening award–winning indie and foreign films. Margot Gerber, Landmark Theaters’ vice president of marketing and publicity, had much to share regarding safety protocols. NATO—no, not that NATO—or the National Association of Theater Owners released a set of CDC–approved guidelines known as the CinemaSafe initiative. The company’s regional directors went above and beyond these preexisting guidelines, from training employees to use Ghostbusters– esque cleaning equipment, to understanding the varying drying times of different seat materials.

According to Gerber, theaters across the board have been down about 90% in business. Landmark specifically only has 14 of about 45 total theaters open nationally.

Fortunately, there’s been a bit of an uptick in business recently due to new theatrical releases like Nomadland and Minari. They’re currently focusing only on new releases, but as the situation surrounding COVID–19 eases up— hopefully in the near future—they plan to reimplement programs like their Midnight Madness series. It’s clear that Landmark is working to limit COVID–19 spread, even as guests trickle back into seats.

About a 30–minute drive from campus sits the Bryn Mawr Film Institute (BMFI), a nonprofit theater that has adapted well to pandemic life. Director of Marketing Gina Izzo shared that BMFI is unique in that it has a strong educational component. This is crucial in keeping up community engagement from home. Maybe you don’t feel comfortable sitting in a public theater just yet; in that case, BMFI has numerous online resources for watching, discussing, and learning about films. Se-

nior Director of Education and Administration Andrew Douglas quickly began to offer free weekly chats about classic movies, as well as various other free lectures and seminars. BMFI is currently only open for private screenings (following CinemaSafe guidelines as well), but as they gradually pivot back to in–person screenings, they plan to continue with this new virtual film empire they’ve cultivated.

Though their online programming is free, BMFI has relied heavily on donations to survive the pandemic.

They’ve only been doing private rentals since February, but Izzo said that this has been successful and well received so far. Each rental includes up to $100 in concessions, a movie of your choice, and even video games. Izzo also spoke in depth about their air filtration processes, heightened cleaning regimen, personal protective equipment provided to staff, and seat–blocking system for when regular screenings commence.

Theaters can only do so much when it comes to keeping patrons safe. Ultimately, it’s up to moviegoers themselves to be responsible and respectful, which is the biggest concern when it comes to whether theaters should reopen. It should go without saying that if you or someone you’ve been in contact with is experiencing symptoms of COVID–19, you should stream a movie from home instead, and that masks and hand sanitizer are a must. But, if you miss the movie theater experience and feel safe attending, consider a local venue. In addition to the everlasting popcorn scent and luminous screen, you’ll experience a sense of artistic appreciation, education, and community—and you’ll be helping a small business stay afloat. So silence your cell phone, put on a mask, and enjoy the show.

FILM & TV

Illustration by Felicity Yick

and Diversity: How its Efforts Have Continuously Failed Their baby steps often send them in the wrong direction. | ARIELLE STANGER

I

f The Bachelor is loved for one thing, it’s the drama onscreen. If The Bachelor is hated for one thing, it’s the drama offscreen. Most recently, it’s been the controversial casting of Matt James, contestant Rachael Kirkconnell’s past racist incidents, and host Chris Harrison’s comments on the entire matter. Unfortunately, none of this is all that surprising, as the fan–favorite reality show has never deserved praise for its diversity.

Since the series’ start in 2002, audiences have only seen two–and–a–half seasons with Black leads: Rachel Lindsay was the first Black Bachelorette in 2017, and Matt James is currently the first Black Bachelor. Tayshia Adams, who got the 'half–season' screen time, took over as The Bachelorette in 2019, after original lead Clare Crawley left mid–season.

There have been more women named Lauren in a single season than women of color—seriously, Bachelor Arie Luyendyk had four Laurens to choose from.

The few token Black leads that have been on the show aren't a reason to praise the franchise. Diversity on The Bachelor is a deeply rooted issue that can’t be fixed easily.

Season 15 contestant Mike Johnson described its disappointing lack of racial representation as atrocious. Where are the Indigenous contestants? Where is representation of other people of color, like Asian Americans or Latinx contestants? Sure, there have been BIPOC contestants, but rarely do they make it to the infamous hometown dates.

Memes and other pop culture elements show how The Bachelor's reputation beyond the show itself is ultra–white.

Saturday Night Live pokes fun at almost every season, but their parody of Colton Underwood's run highlights the typical fate of Black women on the show: "Anyway, I'm Black and I have short hair, so I just wanna say goodbye!"

In 2019, avid viewer of The Bachelor Suzana—@bachelordata on Instagram—began to create spreadsheets based on the show in order to practice using Excel. Now, she uploads visuals tracking contestants’ follower counts and screen time, as well as race representation for each episode.

In an interview, she shared a question with viewers that she often asks herself: “What are we seeing on our screens, and how are we reacting to it as a society that watches the show?"

Keeping up with @bachelordata’s statistics will continue to be one of the best tools to hold the show accountable for its historically empty promises of diversity. It’s about more than just the number of BIPOC cast members. Though the current season is the most diverse yet, white contestants still dominate the screen.

Interestingly, Latinx leads haven’t been nearly as celebrated as Black leads. Most fans don’t know that Clare Crawley and Tayshia Adams are both half–Mexican, meaning their shared season featured the first two Latinx Bachelorettes ever. There was no hype, rollout, or acknowledgement by the franchise, and their heritages weren’t depicted on screen at all. Yet again, the franchise settled for a lackluster missed opportunity.

Back in 2014, The Bachelor did give attention to the first Latinx lead, Juan Pablo Galavis. Unfortunately, Galavis is perhaps the most hated Bachelor in the show’s history. He was rude, uncooperative, manipulative, and stubborn, and his Twitter has proven to be quite problematic. This only demonstrates that the show needs to include more Latinx leads, so that Galavis isn't the only representation of Latinx Bachelors on the show.

Along this vein, Latinx contestants tend to fall into one of two categories: They either fit a certain stereotype or

don’t address their background at all. In the 22nd season, contestants Bibiana Julian and Bekah Martinez reflected this dichotomy. Julian, the hot–headed "dramatic" one, was eliminated in week three, and Martinez, the “white– passing” one, left just before hometowns. Latinas who don’t “play nice” typically don’t last nearly as long on the show.

The series is also seriously lacking when it comes to casting Asian men and women. The franchise had the opportunity to cast Caila Quinn, a half–Filipina contestant from Ben Higgins’ season, as The Bachelorette—but instead elected “southern sweetheart” Jojo Fletcher. Before the anticipated announcement, creator Mike Fleiss took to Twitter to tease fans—in a highly insensitive manner, posting, "After 5 years of BBQ chicken as our Night One dinner, I'm thinking of mixing things up this year. Maybe a little Thai food... Yum!" Not to mention that Quinn isn’t even Thai. Shortly after Fletcher claimed the spotlight, Fleiss tweeted a follow up, saying, "I chickened out and went with BBQ chicken. If it ain't broke... #Bachelorette."

There has yet to be an Asian Bachelor or Bachelorette, and unfortunately it doesn’t seem like there will be in the near future.

Truthfully, this pattern is symptomatic of a greater entertainment industry that regularly overlooks people of color, but fans of the franchise and alums alike must continue to push for these necessary changes and inclusions. A person’s cultural background can certainly impact their relationships, and viewers of all races have the right to see themselves as worthy of love. The Bachelor is an American reality show, but the reality of the United States is far more diverse than the show chooses to depict. If it wants to remain relevant, it's going to need to step up.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 1 1

F E AT U R E

F E AT U R E

S

LONG DIVISION:

HOW COVID–19 EXACERBATES THE DIGITAL DIVIDE IN PUBLIC SCHOOLS

Chronically underfunded, the School District of Philadelphia has long struggled to engage students. Now, teachers are feeling it the most.

BY LINDSEY PERLMAN

ue Weber teaches class from her garage, surrounded by exhaust fumes, concrete walls, and towers of a pandemic staple: toilet paper rolls.

But you wouldn’t know it.

Weber positions herself in front of a shower curtain, her “green screen,” which depicts stacks of books nestled in a mahogany wood bookcase. As far as an observer on Zoom is concerned, Weber could be in a library. And the garage acoustics, she says, are wonderful.

The setup isn’t glamorous, but it’s convenient. Weber is a foster mom of three. Her house is flooded with the clatter of children attending virtual school and her husband’s voice, which cascades through the halls as he speaks on his Zoom calls. The garage, though freezing in the winter months, provides peace and quiet.

More importantly, her setup is a source of solidarity with her students at Science Leadership Academy (SLA), a high school within the School District of Philadelphia. It’s a testament to the power of resourcefulness—a quality that Weber, who’s from a low–income town in rural North Dakota, has spent her life developing throughout her ascent to college, graduate school, and now the Ivy League.

Weber is the associate director of Penn’s Communication within the Curriculum program, which brings together Penn students and local public school students through service–based learning courses. For the second year in a row, Weber has partnered with SLA for her public speaking course.

“I try to make students feel more comfortable,” she says. “I show them that I'm not in a remarkable setting, either.”

But public school students fare worse, Weber and other teachers in the district say.

Gone are the colorful bulletin boards, creaky plastic desks, and pungent smell of sweat that

swirls through hectic hallways when the bell rings. The school building—closed for a year now due to COVID–19—is a fleeting memory. The classroom is now anywhere and everywhere, unpredictable because of the changing dynamics of a student's home life. Some days it’s a crowded one–bedroom apartment, with internet bandwidth strained by a tenuous balance of family members all speaking at once on their Zoom calls. Some days it’s at the kitchen table, where the teacher must battle for the attention of a teenage student bouncing her baby on her lap. Other days, the classroom is forsaken simply because students have to work.

COVID–19 exacerbates this 'digital divide,' which separates students who have digital or internet access from those who don’t. Just one of many problems with virtual learning, it amplifies all the others: truancy, poor grades, and cycles of poverty.

Those things are out of Weber’s control. In some ways, teaching is like standing on the side of a busy street, watching the problems compound like a slow–growing traffic jam of cars. Hardened by her upbringing, however, Weber maintains a sense of calm. She slowly coaxes her students into turning their cameras on, eventually having them deliver speeches in small groups. Learning right now is all about resilience, she says.

“How do you see yourself as a worthy learner, with agency in this classroom, when you're trying to just find peace and focus on the teacher?” Weber asks.

One of her students, for example, chooses to lay on her stomach underneath her bed during class, just so she can escape the distractions of her home.

SLA is one of the ‘better’ schools in the district. It’s a magnet school, meaning all of the students were handpicked through a competitive admissions process. It’s also a one–to–

"IF YOU'RE GOING TO CHOOSE BETWEEN A WIFI CONNECTION AND PUTTING FOOD ON THE TABLE, YOU'RE GOING TO PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE.” -Jill Ruck one school, meaning that every student is given a Chromebook laptop to complete their work.

That’s a huge feat in a district where just 58% of students in ninth through 12th grade have access to the internet from a computer at home.

In the broader scheme of things, though, it’s really a drop in the bucket. Getting computers into students’ hands doesn’t cure the systemic connectivity issues that plague Philadelphia, which is one of the worst cities in the nation for household internet access.

Maddie Luebbert knows the struggle with connectivity all too well. An English teacher at the Kensington Health Sciences Academy in North Philadelphia, Luebbert logs onto Zoom each day and teaches a wall of black squares—faceless students, usually with their cameras off, only distinguishable from one another by Zoom text boxes bearing their names.

Luebbert’s classes are often filled with long, awkward silences, causing their eyes to flit across the screen in the hopes that someone—anyone, really—will chime in to answer a question. Their strategy isn’t always successful.

“We just don't know what's

going on most of the time. We can't see the kids,” Luebbert says.

The black Zoom squares are a glaring reminder of what teaching is like right now: in the dark, out of sight, missing the bigger picture.

It’s not that Luebbert’s students don’t want to turn their cameras on and participate.

Most of them simply don’t have the internet bandwidth to do so. Nearly 30% of Kensington residents don’t have access to broadband Wi–Fi. At a school where the entire student body qualifies for free lunch and is economically disadvantaged, Wi–Fi is the least of families’ worries.

“If you're going to choose between a Wi–Fi connection and putting food on the table, you're going to put food on the table,” says Jill Ruck, executive director of CHILD USA, a Philly–based child protection nonprofit.

In Luebbert’s case, many students who lack computer access tune into school from tiny smartphone screens. They spend the day trying to decipher the garbled sound of voices that erupts from their devices. And that only includes the students who show up.

“When there's issues with Wi–Fi or a computer, that can derail a kid's whole day,” Luebbert says.

It’s a far cry from last year, when Luebbert’s classroom was filled with enthusiasm. The chorus of laughter that used to fill the room is now inaudible.

Students usually mute themselves on Zoom. Without cameras turned on, Luebbert can’t even register a smile.

Teaching like this takes patience. Patience to swallow your pride, discard those weeks of meticulous lesson planning, and start afresh during those long pauses. Patience to find solace in the small victories, like a student participating with the chat function rather than doing so verbally.

Illustration by Isabel Liang 1 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 1 3

F E AT U R E

Still, the lack of participation makes Luebbert wonder how much further behind their students will fall. In a typical year, less than 10% of students at Kensington Academy are proficient in math, and less than a quarter are proficient in reading. Virtual learning is bound to make those numbers worse.

Participation poses an even greater challenge for Luebbert and educators across Philadelphia. With poor connectivity, teachers can’t rely on their usual context clues—glimpses of a student nodding or a look of confusion—to tailor their lessons to students whose grades are slowly slipping. The usual mechanisms of intervention, like asking a truant student to stay after class or swinging by the cafeteria for a check–in, can’t be replicated.

“The toughest thing about that is just not knowing why students are disengaged,” Luebbert says. “We can't tell if we're reaching them in the right way. We can't tell if what we're providing is sufficient. We can't communicate in those informal ways.”

These issues are a district–wide phenomenon.

Students are “dropping off [and] disappearing,” says Charlie McGeehan, a humanities teacher at The U School in North Philadelphia.

Left with few other options, some teachers have relied on unconventional methods to keep tabs on their students. Louis Lozzi, who teaches math and science at Paul Robeson High School in West Philadelphia, keeps his phone on late in the evening in case students want to check in with him. Many of his students miss class because they work day jobs, so they call Lozzi on their way home to catch up. The COVID–19–induced recession has forced students across the country to pick up extra work.

“I’m talking to kids at 7 or 8 o'clock at night. It's not in the contract, but you’ve got to do what you got to do,” Lozzi says.

Lozzi, a Philadelphia native with a thick, South Philly accent, understands the value of work. The son of a small business owner, Lozzi got his first job at 12 years old washing dishes and bussing tables at a local restaurant. He alternated between his restaurant job and his unofficial job of helping out at his dad’s auto repair shop.

Problem solving and hard work, he says, are “in my DNA.” But the hardships his students are facing extend far beyond what he ever experienced.

“I've got 15– to 16–year–olds that need to pay bills. These kids are getting on buses and going down to the King of Prussia Mall and working in fast food restaurants to pick up $7.50 an hour right now to try and make a living,” Lozzi says. “A lot of these kids grow up faster than they needed to or wanted to.”

Lozzi adapts. He applies his background in business and economics— opportunity costs, tradeoffs, and all—to his lessons. A fierce advocate of hands–on learning, Lozzi insists that teaching isn't about memorizing facts.

Instead, Lozzi focuses his STEM curriculum on basic knowledge that will benefit students who might not come to every class. How does a light switch work? Why does it snow in the winter? With the students in the driver’s seat, leading the conversation and asking the questions, everything is up for discussion—even the physics behind a zombie apocalypse. For Lozzi, it’s the only way to keep students wanting to come

14 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

back to class each day.

“You've got to have fun. If you can't have humor in this crazy thing, then you don't belong in this field,” he says.

“Great teachers can only go so far,” Ruck says.

Ruck teaches students who can't participate on Zoom due to connectivity issues or focus in class because they don’t have enough food to eat. These are only a few of the ways she’s confronted with devastating manifestations of poverty in students’ lives.

Ruck has a word for this phenomenon: educational neglect. A term typically used to describe parents who fail to enroll their children in schools or provide adequate homeschooling, educational neglect has taken on a new meaning in the COVID–19 pandemic. Rather than being the fault of a parent or caregiver, educational neglect now describes when governments fail to provide adequate education to public school children.

“We are neglecting children's education right now simply because they don't have technology to log on if they're doing remote learning,” Ruck says.

It’s no secret that the School District of Philadelphia is chronically underfunded. Public schools in Philly are shortchanged by at least $5,000 per student compared with public schools in the city’s wealthy suburbs, like Radnor and Abington.

“Who should make the most money in the world when I run it?”

Weber wonders aloud. Her answer? K–12 teachers. And social workers.

Weber knows that school means more than lecturing students or doling out report cards. It’s the place where a child might get her only two meals of the day. It’s also the place where a child is surrounded by mandatory reporters, ready to protect her should any suspicions of child abuse arise. The vital services that schools provide in addition to education are often overlooked during conversations about school funding.

It took the complete closure of school buildings, and the ensuing chaos, for these issues to begin to come to light.

“Why have we let it get to this point? Why are we acting like teachers are equipped to save lives every day?” Luebbert says.

“We are not social workers. We are not medical professionals. We are not counselors. But we're expected to do that job, and schools have been this bandaid on the gaping wound of institutional failure for decades.”

FOCUS

THE YEAR WE LEARNED TO GRIEVE

BY M EG G L A D I E U X

LO S S I S H A R D. I T ’ S E V E N H A R D E R I N T H E M I D S T O F A G LO B A L PA N D E M I C.

Few things are as painful as a memorial service—except, maybe, a Zoom memorial service. It was early May 2020, the middle of finals week, and about two dozen of my family members had gathered on Zoom to remember my grandfather, who had died two weeks prior. In some ways, it had been a long time coming: His dementia was severe and it had been a few years since he was really himself. To some degree, I had already grieved for him: I had gone to see him in the summer of 2019 while visiting my aunt on the West Coast and had left with the knowledge in the back of my mind that I was seeing him for what could have be the last time.

Still, when news came from the full–time care facility where he lived that he had gotten sick, it was jarring. I had

prepared for my grandfather's death, but not for it to happen in the middle of a pandemic. Then, when my aunt called me early the next morning to tell me he had died in the night, the news rushed over my being in a wave of cathartic acceptance—part of me knew before I had even gotten the call.

The world was in lockdown, COVID–19 cases were continuing to increase, and my grandfather’s death faded into the background of the overwhelming reality. The impossibility of a formal, in–person memorial service only made the loss feel more unreal; the painful part wasn’t seeing all of my family on a Zoom screen taking turns sharing memories of my grandfather, but more so the fact that we couldn’t all be together to do it.

The New York Times reports that one in three people have

lost someone to COVID–19 this year. It is also estimated that for every one person who dies of COVID–19, nine people will bereave that loss. And with over half a million COVID–19–related deaths in the United States alone, we are in a period of collective mourning that has in one way or another touched all of us.

Still, there are the other deaths, like my grandfather’s, that weren’t COVID–19–related, but were nevertheless challenging in a time defined by separation and distance.

“Losing someone at any time is very difficult. But losing someone during a pandemic, when portions of our country are up in flames, we have racism and police brutality making daily headlines, and millions of Americans are facing food and housing insecurity, it makes that even harder,” says Dr.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 1 5

FOCUS

Laura Sinko, a mental health nurse and postdoctoral fellow in the National Clinician Scholars Program at Penn. Her expertise is in trauma and trauma recovery, but this year she has pivoted to working on pandemic–related trauma. She emphasizes that even if you’re privileged enough to be secure and more or less unaffected directly by this year’s political turmoil, it still amplifies the experience of grief and loss.

“Recognizing that while we aren't all experiencing the same trauma, there is this collective trauma that we all are experiencing in different levels and in different shades. We're all in the same storm, but we all have different boats,” she says.

When Penn’s campus shut down last March, it was only the beginning of a series of losses for Rebecca Hennessy (C '23). With her family in the middle of a move, not only had she just been removed from the home she was beginning to build at Penn, but she wasn't returning to a home that felt safe, comfortable, or familiar either. “I just felt so stranded,” she says.

Then in May, in the middle of finals, there was news of a girl whom Rebecca knew from her high school theater department who died from COVID–19 complications.

“It was shocking. You weren't hearing about young people getting COVID–19, much less dying of it. And that just really shakes you up,” she says. As she struggled through the end of the remote semester, Rebecca was also dealing with being part of a community rocked by loss in a world still navigating how to make sense of the immensity of the pandemic’s death toll and getting used to the norm of being socially distant. “We couldn't be with each other—I'm sure there are memories that we shared that I forget about because there was never a chance to just be together and remember.”

But the losses just kept piling on. On top of the shock of losing a former classmate at the beginning of summer and learning that she would have to do the fall semester from home, Rebecca lost one of her closest friends from high school in a sudden accident over Labor Day weekend.

“When COVID–19 happened, it all came on in a week, and then nothing was the same. It was the same thing with losing my friend: It just happened. Everything changed. That was it.” Major loss fundamentally changes the brain; just as we will come to view the COVID–19 pandemic as a turning point in global history, traumatic loss becomes a turning point in our lives.

With the amount of loss we’ve experienced this year, Dr. Sinko also sees room for paid bereavement time and policies that cater to grief. “We’re really in an age of disenfranchised grief. And it just builds up and festers, and it takes a toll on our mental health.” But in the middle of the semester, it can be particularly hard for college students to take time to really process grief; our losses—both big and small—become marginalized. While Rebecca shared old photos in her group chat with her high school friends and tried to commemorate her loss virtually, balancing grief on top of the isolation of asynchronous classes and life as a remote college student was an unprecedented challenge—she wasn’t able to fully mourn the loss. “In and of itself, COVID–19 is a lot to process. But then with personal death on top of that, it’s just so much. A couple of weeks after his death, it really hit me, and

WE’RE ALL IN THE SAME STORM, BUT WE ALL HAVE DIFFERENT BOATS.

16 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

I just broke mid–semester.”

For so many people, especially young people, this is the first time in their lives that they lost something so major, whether it be a person, a graduation ceremony, or just a year of in–person school. “I've never really dealt with grief, if I'm being honest. And that has made the last year a lot more difficult. That's a blessing, but then [the loss] just hit me like a ton of bricks. That’s not the way you want to be introduced to grief,” says Rebecca. In a year so defined by grief and loss, it’s still taboo to talk about, especially among young people who may have no experience discussing death. Sinko emphasizes the importance of supporting people who are struggling with loss and talking about death more openly: “We have to look inward and be comfortable with our own loss and vulnerability to support the people who need us.”

But even if you haven’t experienced the direct loss of a close loved one this year, you have also endured trauma and are experiencing a form of grief.

Over the summer, Emily* got news of the death of a the facilitator of a meditation group she used to attend on campus, one of the things she misses most about in–person semesters. “There was a virtual funeral and I wrote a small paragraph expressing my gratitude for her work.” Although the loss affected her, Emily didn’t feel comfortable going to the funeral. “It was on Zoom and it didn’t feel real.”

Everyone has lost something this year—even if it’s just the idea of a college experience you were going to have that has now been defined by masks, Zoom screens, and COVID–19 tests. But it can be hard to call it that. “My brain is often saying, ‘It could be so much worse. Don't be selfish because there are people who have lost parents and family members.’

But no one talks about the loss of experiences, and the trauma, and confusion. That’s real,” says Maya** on the grief of losing so much of her college experience.

Maya is missing an in–person Holi festival for the second year in the row, sorority formals, and the in–person experience of her dream internship in San Francisco. At the beginning, it was so overwhelming that she was struggling to cope.

“I was kind of trying to block everything out. I think the first several months I was just so angry and sad,” she says. Both of Maya’s parents are physicians, so that was also an added source of stress that took a toll on her mental health. Then, Penn canceled the reopening of campus for the fall semester.

“The fall semester was just very jarring,” she says. To deal with the mental health strain caused by the stress of the pandemic, Maya got rid of her social media accounts. “I didn’t want to see people returning to Philly off campus. I didn’t want to think about what I was missing.” Maya is back on campus now, and she’s trying to make the most of it: She goes on runs into Rittenhouse Square and makes the most of socially distanced gatherings with friends.

But Emily hasn’t had the same experience. “It feels like I don't even go to Penn anymore,” she says. She’s lost the comfort of studying in the library, the weekly Russian teas she used to attend, the sweet feeling of campus. Emily is a senior, but she’s also a non–traditional student. Though she lives in the Philly area, because she hasn’t been participating in campus COVID–19 testing, she has now lost something else: an on–campus graduation. On top of that, Penn is phasing out the College of Liberal and Professional Studies bachelor's degree program that allowed Emily to have the meaningful on–campus experience that she is now missing due to COVID–19. “It feels like they're pushing us out. I am a member of the Philadelphia area community. Doesn't it benefit everybody for members of this surrounding area to be educated by Penn and then give back to the community? I'm not moving to New York. I'm not moving to San Francisco—

FOCUS

I'm going to stay here. And I'm going to contribute to this economy right here.” That frustration, too, is a form of grief and deprivation that has been perpetuated by institutions like Penn in the past year in their sudden policy changes as a result of the changing pandemic situation. But in times of such global turmoil, it can be hard to label those feelings as a form of grief, especially when they feel so intangible and out of our control.

Sinko encourages students not to minimize their grief, even if it feels less important than that of others. “We're all— in some ways—sort of grieving. Try to hold space for that and connect with others during this time of loss and uncertainty,” she says. Naming your trauma does not in any way devalue anyone else’s. Acknowledging the trauma of a lost semester, canceled trip, or just the news every day in no way undermines the major traumas occurring across the world both as a direct result of the pandemic and otherwise. “Your feelings are valid, so really name them and claim them. Your grief is not small because it's not the grief of other people— it's uniquely yours," says Sinko.

“I think, these days, I’m just kind of tired. I’m not upset or angry about the things that I’m missing—I’m just kind of resigned to it,” says Maya. That sort of resignation, or pandemic fatigue, is also a symptom of grief. But on the opposite end of the spectrum, the trauma of the past year can also spur a sort of surreal denial and disbelief, something Rebecca has felt in light of her grief this year. “All I could think was ‘Why did this have to happen now?’ I don't know if everything happens for a reason. Sometimes I like to try to think that way, but I don't know if it's true. I don't know,” says Rebecca.

I’ve felt that, too. Last week I was walking down the street back toward my dorm after getting coffee with a friend. The sun was out, things felt vaguely ‘normal,’ and I got to thinking about the vaccine’s promise of a summer resembling that of one before COVID–19. For a second, I daydreamed of the possibility of planning a trip to the West Coast to visit my aunt and to see my grandfather. Then, I suddenly stopped, all the breath escaping from me. “Wait, he’s dead,” I sighed aloud, reminding myself of the reality of the past year. Everything about his death seemed so unreal and unmarked that, for a moment, I had completely forgotten that he was gone. Tears came to my eyes. Grief creeps up on you like that—even when you’ve reached a state of acceptance, it never fully dissipates.

The trauma of this year will linger whether we are grieving loved ones, missed experiences, or simply a future we had once imagined where COVID–19 did not exist. We are all perpetually mourning a world where the pandemic did not exist and coming to terms with the new reality that will never quite be the same as the one before COVID-19. The future still feels like a gaping hole of uncertainty, and we are only slowly coming out of the state of underlying anxiety that was our ‘normal’ for much of the past year. We can mourn the inconceivable number of lives lost, the time missed with family and friends, and a world where we didn’t live in fear of a virus. We can also mourn the loss of being young and carefree, the loss of the thrill of finding an empty seat in a crowded Stommons, and the death of the DFMO that wasn’t a major breach of the Student Campus Compact.

We have all lost something to the pandemic—no matter how small. This, too, is grief, and you can give yourself permission to call it that.

CAMPUS RESOURCES THE HELP LINE

215–898–HELP. A 24–hour–a–day phone number for members of the Penn community who seek help in navigating Penn's resources for health and wellness.

C O U N S E L I N G A N D PSYC H O LO G I CA L S E RV I C E S

215–898–7021 for weekdays, 215–349–5490 for nights and weekends. The counseling center for the University of Pennsylvania.

R E AC H – A – P E E R H OT L I N E

215–573–2727 for calls from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m., 215–515–7332 for texting available 24/7. A peer hotline to provide support, information, and referrals to Penn students.

*indicates name changed for anonymity **indicates last name omitted for anonymity

M A R C H 1 8 , 2 0 2 1 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E 17

FOCUS

Meet ' ,' the Podcast Sharing Stories of Belonging at Wharton How the Wharton podcast was born out of the initiative to champion diversity, equity, and inclusion | REMA BHAT

W

hen we come to college, there is always a nagging fear that we might not fit in, or that we won’t like our major, the other students, or our professors. A fear that people might not like us for whatever reason—who we are, what we look like, our interests—permeates our beginnings.

Even though many students experience this feeling at Penn, Wharton specifically has a culture in which it can feel like the typically successful student has already been predetermined. Because so many students feel like they don’t belong in Wharton, three Wharton students—Javion Joyner (W ’22), Nia Robinson (W ’22), and current DP columnist Surayya Walters (W ’22)—joined the Wharton Equity, Diversity, and Inclusion Group (WEDIG) with the vision of creating a more inclusive Wharton community.

Javion, a former co–chair of WEDIG, said that WEDIG’s mission is to improve the satisfaction of groups who have been historically underrepresented, haven't always felt included, or haven't always felt that they belonged in Wharton. WEDIG is “a group that tries to bridge the gaps across various underrepresented categories”—one that wants “to help students find the connection and find the intersectionality between their identity … and the problems that all sorts of groups are facing,” Javion says.

One of WEDIG’s initiatives is the recent launch of their podcast, MOSAIC, on March 12. The podcast, created by Javion, Nia, and Surayya, focuses on sharing and championing stories about diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI) from Wharton students.

Surayya, the current co–chair of WEDIG, says that the podcast is “the chance to really champion perspectives that I think the Wharton environment has neglected ... WEDIG is for everyone—we want this to really be everyone’s podcast where they see themselves represented.”

The podcast, which Javion and Nia say was Surraya's idea, began with the problem of community engagement in a virtual space.

“Having community forums is kind of an impossible feat right now, just because of Zoom fatigue, and people just don’t want to log on, and show their face, and engage,” says Surraya. So, she looked to something more approachable and asynchronous: a podcast. Surayya drew inspiration from the Black Student Forum and another podcast, Our Wharton, started by the Wharton Graduate Association (WGA). The podcast, founded by the former president of WGA, Nicolette Omoile Gangitano (WG ’19), inspired her. “[WGA] had a Black female president that year, and she spear-

1 8 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

headed that initiative and led it, and I was really inspired by her and her work. I was saying, 'Wow, we should step into that realm as well,'” says Surayya. “We should tell the stories not only from WEDIG, but the entire Wharton community.”

Surayya, who says she herself felt like she didn’t belong in Wharton, wants the podcast to be a space where all people feel represented. “Coming into Wharton, I really didn’t feel like I fit in. I’m one of the creative types in the school, and then I’m also a woman of color. So, [Wharton’s] not really representative of my demographic,” she said. “I think that this is what the podcast is going to touch on—intersectionality [is] not just a race and gender thing, but also ... more non–traditional.” In Javion, Nia, and Walter’s vision, there is a place for every student in Wharton no matter who they are.

The three want to emphasize that there is no one–size–fits–all version of a successful Wharton student and that, by sharing DEI stories, they are showing that people of all different types can be comfortable and successful in Wharton. “You don’t have to be the stereotypical Whartonite. You don’t have to be the straight, white, cis–gendered finance bro. There is a whole spectrum of people who exist here and are successful here. If we can really show people that these individual stories exist, then we can make students here right now and in future generations feel like this is a place where they can belong—that they can be comfortable in their own skin,” says Javion.

The podcast’s first episodes are hosted by Javion and Nia, with Surayya as the producer, and feature WEDIG’s founding members as well as an interview with members from Diversity and Inclusion Strategy Consulting, one of the first DEI student–led organizations in Wharton and at Penn.

FOCUS

MAINSTREAM ASIAN AMERICAN ACTIVISM WILL NOT SAVE OUR ELDERS

‘W

hy is nobody talking about this?’ is the common calling card of Asian American activism—it also exemplifies how mainstream Asian American activism falls short.

Grabbing attention is important, especially when violence against minorities often gets swept under the rug.

But the question—in both its phrasing and its implications—reveals the flaws in mainstream Asian American activism, and how it’s woefully unprepared to tackle these issues surrounding violence towards Asian elders.

Mainstream Asian American activism tends to have a nasty habit of priority. In the face of extraordinary levels of violence against Asian elders in the United States, well–meaning attempts at addressing an immensely complicated issue end up returning to hashed–out discussions that Asian Americans are used to having about representation in broader popular culture. Often, this feels like the end– all, be–all of Asian activism: Are Asian Americans represented on television?

In sports? Are Asian men considered desirable and attractive, especially by white people? A movie like Crazy Rich Asians (Awkwafina and all) becomes the pinnacle of Asian American representation and successful politics. Simu Liu becomes radical for not only joining the Marvel Cinematic Universe, but also for being an Asian man that is considered attractive.

Violence that ends with Asian elders dead becomes conflated with the

undervaluing of BTS’s success, Jeremy Lin’s athletic ability, and so on.

The latter discussions are ones that people are used to having. It is easy to explain how presence, representation, and attention could greatly influence the lives of young Asian Americans who see themselves represented on screen. It is easy to fall back to discussing how Asian American pop icons are undervalued, but it is not because of Jeremy Lin’s perceived unathleticism that Asian elders are being injured on the streets, nor the fact that Asian men are stereotyped as undesirable; the discourse cannot explain or fight against the deportations of Cambodian immigrants, slow suffocation of Chinatowns, or violence against Asian elders that is infinitely more complex than simple identity politics.

It also fails to address or even acknowledge the fears that Asian Americans and immigrants may be driven further politically right by the spreading of video recordings of Asian elders being assaulted. Some of the most widely spread videos feature assailants who are Black. Mainstream Asian American activism as well as mainstream American activism in general—has no idea how to address this type of violence. Often, the default falls back to the first question, or a more blatant variant thereof, ‘Why is nobody talking about us?’ which often arrives hand–in–hand with, explicitly or implicitly stated, ‘If it were an Asian person assaulting a Black person, ev-

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

Hate crimes against Asian elders reveal the flaws in mainstream politics that center around Hollywood and representation. | KATHRYN XU

eryone would be talking about it.’

This rhetoric gets trotted out often.

After Steve Harvey made a joke about how Asian men were (Ed. Note: you guessed it) unattractive, comedian and streamer Ryan Higa made a video that centered around the argument that if an Asian comedian made the same joke about a Black person, there would’ve been much stronger backlash. Under a Reddit post about Jeremy Lin’s suggestion that Asian and Black people should care about each other’s issues, user Soren_Camus1905 writes in a positively upvoted comment, “It’s hard to be critical of the Black community and its faults in this day and age without severe backlash.”

And in this rhetoric, a shift starts to be seen: another user writes, “The whole rhetoric was 'white people have to care about Black issues' but then none of them could give a shit about another groups issues” (sic). Suddenly, the discussion of anti–Asian activism pivots to a defense of white people.

The average Asian American liberal activist will balk against the model minority stereotype, but the ways in which we discuss anti–Asian racism now often just fall in line with it again.

'Nobody talks about us' implies that everyone instead talks about Black issues and that Black people (who are advocating for their own survival) are not talking about Asian issues enough, which almost immediately becomes seized to defend white people.

Or, more broadly, Asian Americans

are perceived as handling violence with grace—Asian celebrities turned social justice advocates are perceived as classier in the way they discuss and handle these issues.

Mainstream Asian American activism, with its focus on microaggressions and representation, is able to say that these personal, one–on–one patterns of violence are wrong and should be discussed. But it is unable to explain the larger racist structures and policies that disenfranchise, deport, and, yes, eventually lead to attacks on Asians in America that are often driven and supported by white people in power.

Simultaneously, it fails to acknowledge how often mainstream Asian American activism is also used to maintain that authority, whether by reinforcing anti– Blackness or policies such as greater policing.

There are areas of mainstream activism that are usable—pop culture, after all, does not exist in a vacuum—but activism that reaches no deeper than representation is facile at best. Even saying that there should be solidarity between Asian and Black people feels idealistic—saying so will not make it so. Instead, there are deeper questions to be asked. What is the root of anti– Asian hate crimes and how can they be stopped? What prevents the gap between Asian and Black Americans from feeling surmountable and how can it be bridged?

And no, Hollywood does not answer these questions.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 1 9

ARTS

Addy Walker Image Credit: American Girl Doll

&

the History of Black Dolls in America Representation in the doll industry is more powerful than ever. | JESSA GLASSMAN

D

olls, with their babydoll dresses, bonnets, and quick–to– tangle hair, are a quintessential aspect of childhood. There's something about a friend who never objects to being dragged around a sandbox or playing pretend that appeals to a child's imaginative tendencies. For some dolls, however, it isn’t always playtime.

Addy Walker, American Girl Doll’s first doll of color, is imbued with deep historical and educational meanings that extend far beyond picking out matching outfits and hosting mock tea parties.

Black dolls have a long, horrifying history in the United States. Black people have often been depicted and mimicked using offensive stereotypes byway of dolls. There were picaninnies, which were caricatures of Black children often with "bulging eyes, unkempt hair, red lips, and wide mouths into which they stuffed huge slices of watermelon." Then there were Sambos. Inspired by an 1899 offensive children’s book titled Little Black Sambo, an important yet insidious element of 20th century popular culture. Likewise, mammies—loyal and jubilant Black female servants of their white masters—played into the stereotype that Black enslaved women were passive, obedient, and content in their positions. These types of dolls bred hatred, spread harmful stereotypes, and even romanticized conditions of slavery and discrimination. Due to these objectionable visual representations

of Black people through history, it is important to hold a magnifying glass up to more contemporary examples to ensure they don’t reflect or reify any of those values.

Representation in dolls has been a topic of discussion among Black activists and scholars for decades. Booker T. Washington stated that: “In the same way colored people have begun to see the wisdom of giving their children dolls that have their own color and features, and which will have the effect of instilling in Negro girls and in Negro women a feeling of respect for their own race.” Years later, Marcus Garvey wrote along the same lines: “Give your children dolls that look like them to play with and cuddle.”

Despite the call for more Black representation in dolls dating back to the post–antebellum period, American Girl Doll and other companies didn’t answer until the late 20th century. In 1993, Addy Walker was added to the brand’s American Girls Collection, an assortment of young girl dolls from specific historical periods—each with their own set of educational, fictional stories illustrating how they would have lived. All of Addy’s predecessors were white, and they were set in historical times ranging from World War II to colonial Williamsburg. To construct accurate stories of their backgrounds and lives, American Girl Doll often hired experts to review historical details. In Addy's case, however, an entire advisory board full

2 0 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

of prominent Black scholars worked to determine her history, her appearance, and other salient details. One member of the board, Cheryl Chisholm, noted: “We [the board members] were all very concerned that the experience of slavery not be white–washed.”

Deciding that Addy should be a young girl born into slavery journeying to freedom in the north with her mother, the board struggled to find the best way to respectfully approach the horrors of slavery while also keeping the young target audience in mind. Numerous controversies arose during the creation process, including a debate on whether the n–word should appear in the books as well as what the texture of the doll's hair should be. Balancing corporate interests with profit incentives and target audiences, the board worked hard to construct Addy and her story in the most ethical way possible.

While Addy Walker’s journey to freedom was rousing and educational for many, it certainly elicited a fair amount of criticism. Given that so few options for Black dolls existed at the time, many disapproving critics felt that Addy’s story as the first Black American Girl Doll pigeonholed the Black experience as a source of anguish and trauma. While young white children had countless options of dolls with carefree stories, the only option for young Black girls was a representation mired in painful history. Many Black women remember having mixed

feelings about the doll, as one anonymous lifestyle writer remarks: "I was grateful to finally have representation in Addy, but seeing myself in her made me simultaneously relieved and uneasy."

Through the years, more and more brands have recognized the importance of diversifying their dolls.

American Girl Doll has since added the stories of many other young women throughout history, particularly women of color like Native American doll Kaya and Latinx doll Josefina Montoya. While the American Girl Doll company often retires characters that aren’t as successful, a handful of other dolls of color have been or are currently part of the collection.

American Girl Doll has also incorporated Cécile Rey from 1850s New Orleans and Melody Ellison from the 1960s Civil Rights Era. Furthermore, with an increasingly diverse range of skin tones, hair textures, and physical qualities in American Girl Doll’s Truly Me Collection, it is clear that representation is becoming a greater priority for doll companies.

While much progress remains to be made in the doll diversity domain, the story of Addy, as well as her successors, is largely inspirational in the context of America’s twisted history with Black dolls. Regardless, it is vital to maintain a critical stance in order to listen to the needs of young Black women when it comes to their representation.

ST YLE

A Closer Look into the

ZOOM ROOM Zoom was never the first of its kind, but it became the most popular video conference platform during the COVID–19 pandemic. | PHUONG NGO

COVID–19 brought about many challenges for businesses. But while many brands tried to stay afloat during the pandemic, some found the pandemic–induced transition to virtual events and working from home to be the perfect catalyst for their growth.

Zoom was one of these companies.

Cait Lamberton, professor of marketing at the Wharton School, shares her thoughts on the growing success of Zoom as the go–to video conferencing platform during the pandemic. According to Lamberton, the company’s skillful marketing strategies and collaboration with various applications shuttled it to success as businesses and classes transitioned to online meetings.

Eric Yuan created Zoom in 2011 after he left his job with Cisco WebEx, another telecommunications platform.

He took many lessons with him when he left Cisco, especially what it took to make a successful video conferencing platform. Lamberton describes Yuan’s time at Cisco as the opportunity to learn from the pioneers, understand the market, and realize he could do better.

Today, Zoom is the most popular platform for video conferencing, even beating its older competitor Cisco WebEx. Because of Yuan’s experience, Zoom was able to learn from the successes and failures of its competitors. Unlike Skype, which has been available for download twice as long as Zoom has, Yuan’s platform is easy to use. Yuan was able to fix the bugs that prevented more people from using Skype, which will be retired in July 2021.

Additionally, Zoom was innovative and constantly improved its platform when others didn’t. Zoom gave its users the option to have a gallery view, but

Google Meet just recently added that their classrooms, especially when people feature in April 2020. Before 2020, were under the stress of the emerging there were not many improvements pandemic. Even though there were in video conferencing platforms, but other options for the online classroom, Zoom’s innovation attracted such as Google Classroom, the users and helped it beversatility of Zoom come the primary made it the optition by Alice Heyeh a r t s video conmal choice for Illu ferencing all grade applicalevels. tion “It's a durnice ing

the COVID–19 pandemic.

A significant reason why schools and universities decided to use Zoom as their central platform for classroom meetings was because Zoom was easy to integrate into other platforms. On each class Canvas page, the toolbar has a link to the class's Zoom code. Zoom also collaborated with Slack, a workplace communication and collaboration platform, to allow users to download the Zoom extension through Slack and schedule video conference meetings.

Zoom made it simple for institutions to integrate the platform into

blend of usable features, but not overwhelming features,” Lamberton says.

Once Zoom became institutionalized, everyone learned how to navigate it, grew comfortable with it, and kept using the platform.

But Zoom was never limited to classroom and business usage. The growth of Zoom was also due to people realizing that Zoom can really be used for anything. Lamberton points out that in the early stages of the pandemic, in April 2020, Saturday Night Live aired a skit revolving around the usage of Zoom. Lamberton describes this event

as a shift in people’s perceptions of how they can use the platform. “Suddenly, you had one of these major beloved entertainment groups, saying, ‘Hey, you know what, you can use Zoom for the arts. You can be funny on Zoom,'” Lamberton says.

This realized potential expanded Zoom’s scope. We have all been on family Zoom meetings or 'Zoomed' with our friends during quarantine. People realized it was not only a business or school application, but much, much more in the age of the pandemic. This expansion in the application of Zoom “was sparked by this idea that if Saturday Night Live can even use Zoom, then everybody can use it for something,” says Lamberton.

From there, Zoom was able to expand even outside of our computer screens and became a part of our daily lives. “Zoom became part of our lexicon,” Lamberton says. “We had new words like ‘Zoombombing,’ or ‘Zoom fatigue.’” Once something is so ingrained in our daily lives during the pandemic like this, it becomes the default. Zoom became the conversational default, the “generic term for any kind of video conferencing experience.”

Now as we look forward to life after the pandemic, we wonder what role Zoom will have in it. Zoom impacted our lives tremendously during COVID–19 and has created a massive reputation for itself. It is now the standard for video conferencing platforms. Like Kleenex is used to describe tissues and Xerox for photo copies, Zoom proved itself to be the default by being the best of its kind through its usage across businesses, universities, and everyday purposes.

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 21

UNDER THE BUTTON

Campus Compact Misunderstanding? Frat Compacts Over 400 People from Campus Into House Party Darrion Chen

T

he brothers of Delta Upsilon Mu (DUM) have issued an apology over their massive house party last weekend which involved over 400 Penn students.

The brothers cited a massive misunderstanding of the Student Campus Compact.

The Student Campus Compact is a contract that outlines acceptable behavior in accordance with pan-

Photo by Daniel Lin / CC BY-SA 2.0

demic guidelines for Penn students while on campus.

However, the brothers had interpreted the Compact radically differently.

“When we read that we had to take part in the Penn Campus Compact, we were excited to do our part,” said Tod Bear. “We immediately began crunching the numbers to see how many people we could compact into our

house for a party.”

As a result, the brothers of DUM were able to compact over 400 students from the Penn campus into their fraternity house last weekend.

“It was very compact,” said Kat Walsh, who attended the compact. “We were all squished up against each other — I felt very compact.

I’ve never felt more compacted in my life.”

Modern Day Gatsby? Open Tabs in Zoom Screenshare Clearly Curated for Single Student Liwa Sun

T

Photo by Julian Gottfried

2 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21

he group was buckling down to tackle the motherfucking group homework of the week! During the Introduction to Microeconomics Friday recitation, Stephanie Lopez (C ’23), Dennis Ward (C ’24), and Josiah Gordon (C ’24), joined their breakout room, ready to get down to the problem set.

“Maybe we should start a Google Doc?” Lopez asked.

“Sure!” volunteered Gordon, “I’ll share my screen.”

Voila! Gordon’s screen was broadcasted for all to see.

The newly created Google Doc was visible, as were the open tabs on the Chrome browser. Lopez perused the tabs: Kate Bush…Borges… existentialism…

“I mean those are my interests…” mused Lopez, “Is Josiah also into Lacan?”

Lopez blushed.

Josiah Gordon declined our request for comment.

He was last seen walking circles forlornly around the Bio Pond.

A source close to Lopez told our reporter that she "was totally fawning over this Josiah guy" but unfortunately was "already cuffed to Todd Buchanan (W '22) who was old-money, jacked, and basically a hulking physical specimen."

UNDER THE BUTTON

Let’s Abolish the Pipeline from NASCAR to Penn Transit Kevin Zeno

L

ike most girls though, Penny can be quite problematic. It’s time to hold her accountable. We cannot be silent any longer.

Penny, sweetie, you’re too fucking fast.

And I get it; being speedy is necessary to be efficient when there’s one too many depressed students requesting to be driven around the same three blocks within the Penn Bubble. I guess we could use a little thrill and adrenaline in our lives.

But, going 60 on 40th and Walnut St in a minibus is simply not the way to go about this.

Photo by Kevin Zeno / The Daily Pennsylvanian

Every time I step onto a Penn Transit vehicle, I just know that my life will be jeopardized. Guaranteed.

When Jerry swerves and hits that sharp right turn, my heart drops to my ass, and suddenly I’m a devout Christian. Please, God, I promise you that my daily tweets about hating my life are just jokes, silly goose. It happens every single time.

At this point, the issue is bigger than a few rotten apple drivers putting our lives at risk; this is systemic.

After little to no research, I found that studies do confirm this. Due to the ongo-

ing COVID-19 pandemic, the National Association for Stock Car Auto Racing has been laying off their talented racers. One by one, NASCAR racers are becoming drivers for Penn Transit because of the University’s extensive employment benefits: minimum wage, no days off, and top-of-the-line protocols and protection against COVID-19 (i.e. plastic shield? door?).

Students must mobilize and take action immediately to fight against yet another step that the University is taking to kill us all.

Student Who Hasn’t Eaten in 30 Minutes Hands Back Blue Jolly Rancher Spit Test Julia Ellis

J

acob promises he has not had anything to eat or drink in the 30 minutes before his COVID-19 spit test. Nope, not even one thing. Anyone who would say otherwise is a lying little weasel and is falsely accusing him of an offense he did not commit. Jacob would never do something that could dilute the test and make it faulty. How his spit test came back the exact same

shade as a blue raspberry Jolly Rancher is beyond him.

Perhaps someone put dye in it when he wasn’t looking?

He promises he was framed!

Jacob doesn’t even eat Jolly Ranchers.

“I mean, don’t look in the cabinet, but if you do, the big bag of them in the kitchen belongs to my roommate.”

The person he handed his test to was fairly grossed out and got a little snippy

with him. They refused to take the test because it was “blue.” Aren't all colors relative anyway? What truly defines something as blue or not?

Jacob doesn’t even know what the big deal is anyway.

He doesn’t have COVID-19, so why does it matter? He didn’t do anything the past week besides go to Miami for spring break, so he’s pretty sure he's fine.

Photo by Governor Tom Wolf / CC BY 2.0

M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 2 3

24 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E M A RC H 18 , 2 0 21