01.28.21

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

Letter from the Editor 3 WORD ON THE STREET

Hope During Quarantine

4 EGO

Chanel Nichols

8 MUSIC

Biden's Inaugural Playlist

10 FILM & TV Soul Review

12 FEATURE

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ometimes the internet feels so vast I’m afraid it could swallow me whole.

On Jan. 20, the leftist side of the internet rejoiced as a mitten–clad Bernie Sanders sat down at President Biden’s inauguration, looking like he was fed up with another era of neoliberalism. The day after, a review of Shawn Mendes’ keto–friendly Chipotle bowl took over Twitter feeds, and I was nearly canceled by a gaggle of anonymous stans for saying Mendes, like his bowl, is underwhelming. The day after, Jojo Siwa, the modern–day reincarnation of Hannah Montana, came out as a member of the LGBTQ community. All the while, a large swath of Gen Z was coming to terms with the overdue cancellation of Shane Dawson, a YouTuber who built a following off of Blackface, bestiality, and throwing Trisha Paytas under the bus.

Did what I chose to consume leave me breathless, or is it the churn of the news cycle that creates enough cognitive whiplash to put my brain in a neck brace? Most days, I think I’ve curated a newsfeed that strikes the same tone as an easy listening radio station—a longform interview with an aging actor here, a roundup of TikTok trends there, and the occasional deep dive into Big Tech’s dubious morals.

College turned me into a person whose anxiety is the all– consuming, unpretty kind, so I crave a smooth brain. I read to satisfy that craving, and a steady diet of petty YouTube drama, fashion enterprises, and startup scams has filled me for over a year. Good writing doesn’t always come with existential dread, after all.

But lately it feels like I can’t outrun the inevitable: Trumpism has created a world where even the most frivolous of content must carry the burden of a moral lesson, so my escapes are growing fewer. Can Siwa’s sexuality just be her

Andre Brown & Black Philly Mag

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 Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Hannah Lonser, Special Issues 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

18 ARTS

Stitch it to the Patriarchy

22 UNDER THE BUTTON

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34TH STREET MAGAZINE

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

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sexuality, and not a “shining example” of individuality?

Can we just never platform creators who attempt to profit off of virtual minstrelsy in the first place? Can I just scroll through Twitter without thinking of what it means to be a person of color scrolling through Twitter?

This edition of Street explores what has become of internet spaces that used to be innocuous. We have an exploration of Clubhouse, an app whose exclusivity has turned it into a breeding ground for cyberbullying, and the virality of the anti–vax movement on social media. We have first years lamenting over being glued to their phones and writers searching for signals in playlists. Mostly, we’ve encapsulated what it looks like to search for relaxation and come up short.

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

SSSF,

Music Beats: Emily Moon, Allison Stillman, Nora Youn Film & TV Beat: Arielle Stanger Arts Beat: Jessa Glassman Style Beats: Tara O'Brien, Naomi Kim Features Staff: Sejal Sangani, Angela Shen, Lindsey Perlman, Mira Sydow, Amy Xiang Staff Writers: Meg Gladieux, Aidah Qureshi, Jillian Lombardi, Kathryn Xu Multimedia Associates: Dhivya Arasappan, Sage Levine, Sophie Dai, Sophie Huang, Samantha Turner, Sudeep Bhargava Design Associates: Gillian Diebold, Felicity Yick, Sudeep Bhargava Audience Engagement Associates: Kira Wang, Samara Kleiman, Shana Ahemode, Stephanie Nam, Yamila Frej Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow

Cover Design by Alice Heyeh and 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

©2020 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.

"Calling all bimbos! Report to the conference room."

WORD ON THE STREET

Right And/Or Wrong Finding sense in the senseless age of COVID-19 | LILY STEIN

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n Oct. 4, 2020, I began my University– mandated quarantine. The story started with an unexpected positive result from a routine COVID–19 test. My boyfriend received the message while we were ordering breakfast from around the corner. Blissfully unaware. Convinced that it was only minutes until I would test positive too, I spared my eight housemates, packed all my belongings into a duffle bag, and moved in with him.

I never got COVID–19, a fact that prolonged my initial ten–day quarantine into an additional 14–day sentence by myself.

Although I didn’t know it at the time, the University forbids moving between locations during your quarantine. I made what I still think are the right choices, but COVID–19 has made the difference between right and wrong impossible to navigate.

On Oct. 28, 24 days later, I re–entered society. The following is an open letter to the University: a necessary explanation for my transgressions.

Dear Penn,

This experience has been surreal. In years to come, it will all be a story, and I will tell it in rich detail. Thanks to you, I now have primary evidence of my struggle in the desperate year that was 2020. A younger generation of children, hopefully more fair–minded and thoughtful than we could ever hope for them to be, will ask where I was, what I felt, and how I lived during this time. And I will tell them.

I will tell them that I was quarantined for much of October—waking up each morning to check my temperature and guess whether or not today would be the day that I became sick. That I made a home out of my boyfriend’s half–moved–into room. That we lit candles, ordered groceries, installed a coffee station, created two makeshift desks, spent some days in silence and some days in laughter, pretended we were on vacation as we watched movies and ordered in food, and lived too deeply as we worried about the choices that we were making.

The landscape of my little narrative in a shoebox room will have been threaded and determined, in large part, by the erratic decisions of a fraudulent president who refused to acknowledge a crisis. And so the crisis met me at my door and kicked me out of my house. I will tell them that the political instability of my country touched my life in a way that I had never known was possible; I will think to myself that I hope that the politics of their country touches theirs too, but that they are instead the better for it. The choices of my leaders limited my own opportunities to

Illustration by Alice Heyeh choose. I became a twentysomething entering a divided society and an unstable job market. I became a girl living in a shoebox room.

policy. I was told otherwise. You were told otherwise. I’ve had to explain myself so much that it feels unreal. Like a character in a story. It only adds to the surrealism.

I will tell them that my choices before then had been far easier—right had been different from wrong, and sick had been different from well. Systems and institutions were trusted. They were constants in the discordant but repetitive rhythm of life. Somewhere along the lines, the music stopped. As my bedroom became my classroom, my kitchen, and my library, I asked myself: Is this what getting older feels like? Is this the world of my parents? Or is what I am living through a different world altogether— foreign to all of us?

But for you, it is unfortunate too. It is unfortunate that you must straddle the line between limiting our present and expanding our future. We have so much distrust in each other, and I am sorry for the both of us.

These questions will still be rhetorical when I am grey and old and telling this story. They are unanswerable, but I choose to believe that this is not what getting older is like. I welcome the existence of a world that is different.

I choose to go forward. Our ability to hope for a brighter future has not been taken away. And our ability to fight for such a future has not been taken from us either, which is why I understand and I respect your role in this crisis. We are both fighting. We are both living in our own shoebox rooms and exhibiting the infallible nature of the human spirit. I commend your diligence in limiting the spread of a pandemic that I know will only cloud my future more. You’re a part of my story now.

It is unfortunate that I had to give away my October, that words were lost and blame drifted to me, that what I believed to be the right choice did not fit within written

Yet when a younger generation asks about my time in 2020, I will not end my story on “sorry.” I will tell them that for many weeks when I was young, I wore a cotton mask as I walked back from the shower, and that it felt foreign on my clean skin. That I did not think that my life would mirror the dystopian novels I grew up reading.

Then I will tell them that when I went out into the bright sunlight without a mask for the first time in weeks and felt the warmth hit my skin, nothing in the world had ever felt better.

I will tell them that no feeling is final, that we control the balance of our lives, that America found a new song to sing, that we voted and danced in the streets, that empathy matters, and that without it we are nothing. That our story does not end in a shoebox room. That it does not end at all.

Best, Lily Stein J A N UA RY 2 8 , 2 0 2 1 3 4 T H S T R E E T MAG A Z I N E

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Chanel Nichols and MyMARC are Revolutionizing the Beauty Industry How this 29–year–old Penn senior was inspired by the challenges she faced as a hairstylist to help beauty gurus everywhere | MADDIE MULDOON

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h anel Nichols (C ‘21) is a 29–year–old senior. The California native spent a year in beauty school, started as a beauty assistant for three years, and then spent seven more years working tirelessly as a hairstylist— building her clientele while making over six figures. During this time, Chanel was also in community college. The current philosophy, politics, and economics major is passionate about her education and decided that a two–year college wasn't enough for her, which ultimately motivated her to transfer to Penn. But when Chanel moved from California to Philadelphia, she felt that all of her hard work was lost.

“When I moved from California to Philly, I had to give up my entire client base," she says. "Every single review I’d been given was tied back to the salon I worked at in California. When I transferred to [Penn], I looked like a brand new hair stylist—as if I’d just graduated from beauty school."

“To build a good clientele, you have to sit at the salon for seven hours and hope that somebody is going to walk by your door or find your salon on Yelp. I wasn’t ready to do that again, but I had no reviews because I was brand new in Philly. I’d put so much time, money, and education into my career, and none of it mattered,” she says. "There are no reviews of individual stylists on Yelp—all of the reviews are tied to salons, where clients might occasionally mention a stylist's name, but more often don't."

Because of this, Chanel says that many stylists feel as if they’re stuck in one location, as they’re afraid to give up the clientele that they’ve worked so hard to build. In an area like Silicon Valley—where Chanel is from—the cost of living is so high that even if hairstylists want to move somewhere cheaper, they worry that the risks outweigh the reward.

Chanel was determined to combat this problem, but she never had the time until the pandemic hit. When she moved back to California to quarantine, she took the opportunity and started her company MyMARC. 4

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MyMARC is an online review platform for independent stylists, who can build their own profile on the site for clients to leave reviews. “In a way, it is like a LinkedIn for blue–collar workers—whether they’re tattoo artists, aestheticians, or makeup artists—to show that they have a reputation,” Chanel says.

After salons closed due to COVID-19 shutdowns, Chanel expanded upon her initial idea by allowing clients to book at–home hair appointments through the site. She has three stylists on MyMARC as of now, and when each joined the platform, Chanel input their previous reviews. This allows clients to look through individual reviews of the stylists upon booking at–home appointments, so they can choose whom they’re interested in. Her platform allows stylists to bring their reputation with them, no matter where they may go.

MyMARC has only established itself in the Bay Area as of now, but Chanel is hoping to expand in the near future. After graduating in May, she plans to fully devote herself to building the company.

Chanel currently spends her days taking classes remotely and doing whatever behind–the–scenes work is necessary for the company—be it working on the website and social media, finding stylists, marketing, or writing blog posts. If some stylists are unavailable for at–home hair appointments on the weekends, she takes them on herself.

Looking into the future, Chanel anticipates that the pandemic's impact on the beauty industry may last longer than quarantine, leaving MyMARC in a unique position to cater to the changing needs of clients.

“Prior to the pandemic, at–home hair appointments were far less popular. [COVID-19] has made us realize how convenient it is for a stylist to just come to your house," she says. "There’s such a movement towards doing things at home right now. Who even knows if people will go back to the salon once the pandemic is over? Who knows if people will use a platform like mine to book appointments for the rest of their lives? Time will tell."

EGO

MISHA MCDANIEL HOMETOWN: MAJOR:

BY EVA INGBER

34TH STREET MAGAZINE: You’re majoring in English and minoring in Africana studies. What drew you to these disciplines?

MISHA MCDANIEL: I always liked English growing up. I liked reading and writing. I liked English class. I liked analyzing literature. One of the things I wanted to do when I got to college was study Black literature specifically. I feel like K–12, you don't really talk about race theory and literary theory. I feel like it's a very white–washed curriculum. So I enrolled in "Intro to African American Literature" [first–year] fall, and that kind of introduced me to the cross–section between English and Africana studies, and also to Black literature being studied in an academic space. That class basically changed my life, and professor Crawford become one of my mentors.

STREET: You're on the English Undergraduate Advisory Board. What's that been like, and why did you join?

MM: Professor Park wanted to revamp English UAB when she came on as the undergraduate chair.

She wanted to make the English community feel more like a community, and I wanted to be a part of that. Just thinking, too, about my perspective as a Black English major, as a first–generation, low–income (FGLI) English major—I wanted to be able to offer my perspective. But also I like trying to do community engagement—coming up with fun events for English majors and minors, and cool merch ideas. That's kind of what drew me to it—just trying to be a part of making the English community fun. And also just to meet other English majors!

STREET: You're also on the FGLI Dean's Advisory Board. Can you talk a little bit about what that's meant to you, and how you got involved?

MM: I actually joined this past fall! FGLI students have always had a very complicated relationship with the administration because we are such a small minority and our needs are underrepresented and often misunderstood. And 2020—with the pandemic, and the way Student Financial Ser-

ACTIVITES:

vices (SFS) handled things like housing and food support, just seeing the way that affected FGLI students ... it really made me be like, "I want to do something." I want to actually try during my last year here. I know more about how SFS works and what opportunities and resources are available to us. I wanted to raise awareness around our issues and make sure our needs are met and heard by the administration directly. I thought it would be a great opportunity to meet other FGLI students and become active in something that I'm passionate about personally, but also ethically.

STREET: Is there anything you wish more Penn students understood about the FGLI experience and what it means to be a FGLI student at Penn?

MM: I feel like I wish more people understood what it means to not come from a super rich family or a financially stable background. And financially stable can mean a lot of different things, too. I think that's something to note. Penn's definition of FGLI is very different from the world's definition of FGLI. FGLI can come in all sizes and look in all ways. It can be a single–parent household, double– parent household, Black, white, brown—it doesn't matter. But what's important to note is that without those financial stabilities and without family financial support in a way that's 100%, FGLI students need more support from the administration, and need more attention and transparency and communication. There's only a few of us—we're a very small percentage—and we need more help.

Most of the demographics of students here aren't from our background, so obviously professors and admin are not necessarily used to dealing with folks who can't afford their textbooks—who have to find other means to get food for the semester or to have a computer. I didn't have a laptop half of my [first–year] fall. It's something that I feel like a lot of students won't understand, but it's something that happens a ton and can be very mentally and emotionally draining. You're already at this

Atlanta, Georgia English, minor in Africana Studies, and certificate in French English Undergraduate Advisory Board (UAB), FGLI Dean's Advisory Board, African American Arts Alliance (4A), Harrison College House office, TAC-e (One Acts), Vote That Jawn, New Spirit of Penn Gospel Choir

rigorous school competing against all these people.

We all still need support and attention. Not special treatment, but just more support.

STREET: What inspired you to get involved in performing arts at Penn? And I've heard you're also part of the Penn Gospel Choir?

MM: I discovered my love of acting the summer before I went to high school, and so ever since then I've been acting in theater and musical theater.

When I got to Penn, since school–wise Penn was very critical and academic, I wanted to make sure I had an outlet through theater. So I did a show— not every semester, but almost every semester. It was really fun getting to know different theater troupes. I did PenNaatak, Quadramics Theatre Co., and I was doing a Front Row Theatre Co. show when COVID–19 hit. Having that creative outlet every semester and putting on a show for peers, and friends, and family, and the West Philadelphia community as well—it's just been very rewarding to keep up with that side of myself.

I wanted to join the Gospel Choir my [first– year] fall, and I finally did junior spring before COVID–19 hit, and I was super happy about that.

I'm a Christian, and I've been missing worship and praise at college. It was cool finding a community of Penn students who love God and wanted to just sing and dance. And I don't even think you have to be a Christian to join the group—you know, if you just like gospel music! It was also cool being exposed to different types of gospel music and to see the mesh of cultures coming together for a fun, joyful cause.

STREET: You studied abroad in the UK. What was your favorite part of your travels?

MM: The fact that I was able to travel within the continent. My biggest thing when I came to college was being able to study abroad, being able to travel—not on my dime. I grew up traveling up and down the East Coast, but I didn't travel

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out of the States because I didn't have a passport when I came to college. So I think it's considered kind of low–brow, but I think fantasy stories and scidefinitely one of the most rewarding things for me being in London was being ence fiction stories reflect our realities in ways that are unbelievable in order to able to get to other places in Europe for a relatively inexpensive price. That's get us to think critically about what we know to be real, and what we know to something that I'm very grateful for. And it was on, you know, Penn's dime— be possible. which is always what makes it better!

STREET: What has been your favorite part or most memorable experience STREET: You're a Mellon Mays Undergraduate Fellow and a Beinecke at Penn?

Scholar. Can you talk a little bit about these honors, what they mean to you, MM: I guess the Africana Studies Department, just as a whole. Every proand what they entail? fessor I've had from Africana—since being a [first–year] until now. I can call MM: So I guess Mellon introduced me to academia in general. I didn't my graduate fellow from the program, and she'll have a conversation with me. know what academia was when I came to college. My mom has an associate's The faculty themselves are all brilliant. Being at Penn has been so cool—bedegree, which was the norm when she was getting her degree. I don't have ing able to be exposed to the minds of some of these professors. Honestly, the anyone in my family with doctorates. I come from a working—class backfaculty that Penn has just across the board is exemplary. The Africana faculty ground, so just figuring out that academia exists and there is a place for me are so welcoming, and their classes are always super interesting. They give you to study English and Africana studies—to kind of mold my own research and space to really think about these issues in ways that are unique and different do that seriously, legitimately—that was just super cool to find out through and artistic. So I guess that's been my most memorable thing about Penn: Mellon. Just having the logistical support in thinking about how Ph.D. apAfricana and all it means. plications work, what you need, your elevator pitch, how to construct your STREET: If you could impart one lesson on the Penn student body, what own independent research project—all that stuff I had no clue about. So this would it be? has been very formative for me and my own understanding of academia and MM: Get Penn to pay for it! Whatever you want to do—whether that's a academic research in the humanities. fellowship, or research, or studying abroad, or whatever. Penn has so many Beinecke was kind of wild because I received the scholarship two weeks after resources, and so many people that will come to bat for you. A lot of times it's COVID–19 hit. I applied while I was studying abroad, so it was a very disjust asking the right questions, doing the right internet deep dives, and figurjointed process—I was in another time zone and trying to schedule meetings ing out what programs are available. There's so much here. You can get grants, and do everything through email. For me, it's been very reassuring because I you can get funding for lots of different things, or do lots of programs through feel like, like a lot of us, I suffer from Penn that aren't available elsewhere. imposter syndrome. Being recognized And if you can get Penn to support in that way was super reassuring and you, I would say go for it. The worst just made me feel like I can go to they'll say is no, but they're not going graduate school, and I can do this. to say no, because you're going to be Also, for me, money is something I knocking at their doors like, "I want STREET: Last song that you listened to? do stress about. So it was also reassurto do this opportunity." That's what MM: "I See Fire," by Ed Sheeran. ing in that way—I can pursue graduthey're here for. They're here to help ate studies and not have to worry as us!

STREET: What's something that people wouldn't guess about you? much about funding and all of that.

STREET: What's next for you after STREET: You're planning to earn Penn, and what do you hope to acMM: I can tap dance! your PhD focusing on Black speculacomplish?

STREET: Favorite book? tive futures. What does this mean, MM: I applied to graduate school last and what does this mean to you? semester. I applied to Ph.D.s in English MM: M Archive: After the End of the World, by Alexis Pauline Gumbs. Her explicit tie of the critical and the creative just blew MM: Black speculative literature— and African American studies, and then my mind my sophomore year, and ever since I haven't been able how I kind of define it—is narraMFAs in creative writing, specifically ficto put it down. tives of sci–fi [and] fantasy that are tion. So hopefully after Penn, I'll be in a featuring Black stories, Black people, graduate program starting my career as a STREET: Favorite adverb?

Black voices, and Black experiences. I scholar creative, as they say. I hear back in a MM: Imaginatively—because I write about the power of the specifically am thinking about African few weeks, I think, so fingers are crossed. imagination.

American literature—contemporary, In terms of the bigger picture, I'm a STREET: Who do you look up to? so post–1970. And when I say Black writer first and foremost, just like at heart. speculative futures, I'm thinking So I do want to publish my novels. I do MM: N.K. Jemisin. She is the type of creative writer I would about, how does African American want to continue to write academically and want to be. I think she's a brilliant mind, and I'm happy to be speculative literature get us to think do my research. I want to create. I want to alive while she's alive so I can write about her books in real time! about Black presence and legalities? write stories. I want to write stories featurSTREET: If we weren't in a pandemic right now and you could How does it get us to think differently ing Black people: Black young people, travel anywhere in the world, where would you go? about Black possibility? And how Black women, Black queer people. And I MM: Hawaii. can that be used in a conversation want them to be speculative. I want us to about resistance, imagination—what have Black superheroes, but I also want STREET: There are two types of people at Penn... is the power of imagination? How do us to have Black worlds that aren't our MM: People with Canada Goose jackets and people without we think beyond the disaster of the own—whether that's through my novels, them, but I think somebody already stole that one. transatlantic [slave trade]? How do or going into TV writing, or teaching as a STREET: And you are? we think outside of the afterlives of professor. I want to cast those voices and slavery? And I believe speculative litperspectives to the forefront as a writer MM: Oh, definitely one without one. erature in general is a beautiful genre of them, as a curator of them, and as a that is often overlooked in academia. teacher of them.

LIGHTNING ROUND

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I Can't Feel My Face: The Evolution of The Weeknd's Look in the After Hours era The Weeknd stands out among his fellow male pop stars in his self–presentation. | PEYTON TOUPS

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o other cisgender heterosexual male pop star in the current mainstream puts as much effort into their aesthetic as The Weeknd (Abel Tesfaye) does—especially during the campaign for his most recent album and era, After Hours.

Tesfaye anonymously debuted in 2011 through a hazy spew of mixtapes (Trilogy). Then, he appeared on the cover of his first studio album, 2013's Kiss Land, bearing a messy mop of coiled braids. For 2016's Starboy, he cut his signature hairstyle, sparking mild interest, and flaunted a sharp cross around his neck.

And now, for 2020's After Hours , Tesfaye has radically altered his look. Notably present in the album's imagery are a band–aid over his nose and black eyes, with bandages wrapped around his head like a mummy. The Weeknd has cultivated a distinct aesthetic that has only grown more exaggerated with time: bleak, violent, sensual, and hauntingly empty.

The drastic looks of the After Hours era are darkly comedic. For the "Save Your Tears" music video, The Weeknd reveals a face distorted by (faux) plastic

surgery: high protruding cheek bones, enlarged lips, and a nose carved to inhuman perfection. Perhaps he is making real the depraved inner life of his character at the center of After Hours : a man with all the luxuries in the world but no one to enjoy it with.

The narrative around After Hours is convoluted and associative. In the videos for "In Your Eyes" and "Too Late," women dance and play around with The Weeknd's severed head—playing out an extended metaphor for women "messing with" his head to show the absurdity of a desperate situation.

His career truly is an example of the double standard in the music industry. Compared to other men of his stature, whose unwaveringly wholesome images have been carefully manufactured for longevity, Tesfaye markets himself more like mainstream female artists such as Lady Gaga and Taylor Swift— though with noticeably less extreme makeovers between eras.

Women in mainstream pop music are supposed to perform as an exaggerated version of themselves; it's as if women are expected to one–up each other,

while men are accepted with the first (and maybe only) iteration of themselves. The Weeknd upends this norm by mocking his past self—the person he presented to the world.

The only counterpoints to this argument are Harry Styles, who has ruffled conservative feathers by wearing dresses in his editorial photos for interviews, and Bad Bunny, who shocked the world last year with his turn to drag as a heterosexual man. Still, Styles makes dresses and somewhat femme pants an aesthetic but doesn't integrate his signature style into his work. Bad Bunny’s look in the "Yo Perreo Sola" video seems to be a one–off deal for now, a welcoming statement of LGBTQ solidarity.

Tesfaye has solidified his reputation as one of the most influential acts in pop music today with his cinematic After Hours era. Through the drug-addled blur, it's difficult to decipher where The Weeknd's character ends and Abel Tesfaye begins. Above all else, we see a man metamorphosing into his own demons, cackling at the pain, and setting himself apart from his peers.

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H Biden's Inaugural Playlist Sounds Like Hope and Resilience With artists like Mac Miller, Kendrick Lamar, and SZA, the new administration's soundtrack is already looking forward. | ALLISON STILLMAN

Illustration by Felicity Yick

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istory and music are indisputably interconnected. Specific decades celebrate distinctive artists and genres. Through the bright and the dark days, music provides us with one thing: a universal language that unites us all. This past decade was categorized by wild ups and downs that propelled our sense of ‘normalcy’ into disarray. However, music temporarily erased the blemishes of our imperfect country by spreading awareness and bonding citizens towards a united cause.

As we reflect on an exciting shift in the presidential administration of the country, with President Joe Biden sworn into office on Jan. 20, the music representing this transformation of office and boost into a new decade is revitalizing and powerful. President Biden and Vice President Harris put together a playlist of 46 songs— ranging from Springsteen to Kendrick Lamar to Dua Lipa—that are emblematic of the new administration's distinguished objectives for diversity, resilience, and restoration.

The range of artists, genres, and tracks that this playlist boasts is wild. Jumping from new releases like SZA’s “Good Days” to Bill Withers’ 1977 hit “Lovely Day," the Presidential Inaugural Committee partnered with DJ D-Nice and Raedio to sequence a diverse range of music that champions one fundamental idea: coming together to reconcile and create a brighter future.

When I first scrolled through the playlist, I was daunted by the length and ostensibly disorganized feel of having such an assorted scope of music. Truth be told, I only recognized a few songs, but even ones that I knew felt a bit out of place. However, after comprehensively listening to and analyzing Biden’s specific song choices, I developed a strong appreciation for the brilliance of this playlist. Despite this year’s virtual inauguration ceremony, citizens of all backgrounds, ages, and musical preferences were united by the universal medium of music.

The playlist itself highlights contemporary songs like “Now or Never” by Kendrick Lamar ft. Mary J. Blige and “Blue World” by Mac Miller. Both songs are noteworthy choices, conveying a similar notion regarding Biden’s objectives for his time in office. Lamar states, “From the place I used to be, struggling usually / look at the newer me, fate pursuing me” which can be interpreted as a representation of Biden’s plans for shifting the current state of the United States into a position of greater capabilities.

Against a syncopated hip–hop beat, Miller spills a similar message, singing “This a mad world, it made me crazy / might just turn around, do one–eighty.” Together, these seemingly disparate tracks possess a parallel idea: Despite the current dire state of America, we are resilient and can mature exponentially under Biden’s leadership.

Another aspect of the playlist emphasizes the imprudent nature of the Trump administration, boasting songs like “Fool in the Rain” by Led Zeppelin and “What a Fool Believes” by The Doobie Brothers. These tracks are innuendos regarding the harmful policies and actions prioritized during these last four years, leaving Americans vulnerable like "fools" in the eye of a storm. The Doobie Brothers song about ill–fated lovers can also be interpreted as a statement about the damage of a careless authority: “But what a fool believes, he sees / no wise man has the power to reason away.” There is no point trying to rationalize with a leader unwilling to listen.

Nevertheless, this playlist has an extremely positive and upbeat aura that upholds the notion that these next four years will be stamped by optimism and rejuvenation. Songs like “Whatta Man” by Salt–N–Pepa, “Pick up the Pieces” by Average White Band, and “FIND YOUR WAY BACK” by Beyoncé are representative of one huge step forward in America. To restore the broken pieces of our country after COVID–19, the recent insurgent storming of the Capitol, and a presidency characterized by prejudice and futility, these powerful songs are emblematic of the newfound hope offered by the Biden administration.

The last track on the playlist, “Steps 8 & 9: Nature vs Nurture” by Sylvan LaCue was a significant choice to conclude this uplifting playlist. LaCue expounds on the differences between "nature and nurture," concluding that individuals are truly a product of environmental factors. With a strong leadership under Biden’s directive, Americans will “grow and change and hear other perspectives and new ideas and adapt.”

We are in the heart of a historic moment of the American story. While there are no guarantees towards the future state of this country, one thing is for certain: music is a permanent connection between global citizens. This playlist represents a stamp of renewal, proving that there are exciting and positive days ahead.

MUSIC

Nobody is Listening The former members of the beloved boy band are still struggling to develop their own voices. | EMILY MOON

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t would be difficult to explore Zayn Malik and his new album, Nobody is Listening, without mentioning One Direction—which is perhaps the reason all five former members have tried to establish, and even prove, their individuality. With an outpouring of disappointing solo tracks and well– intentioned but poorly executed albums, some of the former boyband stars have begun growing into their own skin while others falter. Nobody is Listening lands Malik in the former category, marking a clear step in his personal journey and improving upon his past work.

Malik shows maturity and growth on his latest project through a more developed exploration into romance, sexual connection, and introspection. Restraint colors the 11 tracks as Malik further explores his own artistic identity. He continues searching for the full potential of his soothing voice, showcased well on “Better”—a song that conjures up the atmosphere of a low–key cafe. Evidence of his experimentation presents itself from the outset of the album with opening track “Calamity,” a brooding Ed Sheeran–esque rap that feels a bit juvenile yet adventurous in its own manner. Malik still seems to be finding his way with Nobody is Listening but shows promise in his journey to develop an individual sound, something he lacked in his previous albums.

The first to part ways from the massively popular boyband, Malik had a lot to live up to with the release of his debut solo album Mind of Mine (2016).

His initial independent streak reflected a desperation for both creative freedom and individual identity after five years of being a part of a package deal. The sultry album took on more explicit themes like sex and drugs, a change from his days singing appropriately clean pop–rock in One Direction. Malik had previously admitted to feeling out of his element during his time in the group, explaining “If I would sing a hook or a verse slightly R&B, or slightly myself, it would always be recorded 50 times until there was a straight version that was pop."

Shedding the restrictions of One Direction’s vigorously maintained public image and employ-

Credit: RCA 2021

Finding Individuality After One Direction: Zayn's

ing a markedly different sound paid off commercially, with both the album and his single “PILLOWTALK'' peaking on the Billboard charts at #1.

Still, Mind of Mine felt repetitive in its sexuality and didn't bear much heart lyrically during its many love songs, despite moments of unabashed infatuation from tracks like "INTERMISSION: fLoWeR." In 2018, Malik released Icarus Falls, a conceptual album meant to explore the flight and fall of the mythical Icarus. Even with its heady themes, the project delivered more of the same. In “Back To Life,” he details redemption through the arms of his partner ... whom he loves to have sex with in "Let Me,” “Natural,” “Common,” and so on. While receiving mixed reviews from critics, Icarus Falls flopped commercially and drew comments labeling its 29–song track list a "data dump." Like Icarus, who infamously crashed while attempting the "transition from boyhood to manhood," Malik fell a bit short with his highly ambitious sophomore album.

With the album's indifferent reception came Malik's realization that nobody is listening, perhaps giving him the space he needed to reflect and work on his next studio album.

Malik’s break from One Direction’s genre clearly stems from an artist deeply inspired by the R&B scene, but his discography as it stands still lends itself more to pop. Since the dissolution of the group in 2015, the majority of its ex–members have fallen victim to unremarkable or confused music, but one has risen above the rest. Rather than shying away from the pop–rock roots of the boyband like Malik, former bandmate Harry Styles has been leaning into the genre and running away with it. With two back–to–back No.1 albums as well as a shining charisma big enough to support his chart–topping aspirations, Styles has emerged as a breakout from One Direction and has firmly cemented himself as an artist separate from his past. From the folksy, dance–around–the–campfire feel of “Canyon Moon” to naked vulnerability in “From the Dining Table,” Styles’ solo career is marked by a self–assured sound centered around adventurous rock.

One Direction's other fledgling artists have yet to replicate Styles' success, and not for lack of trying.

Like Styles, Niall Horan seemed to have a strong sense of direction when it came to his music with his debut solo album Flicker (2017), citing Fleetwood Mac and The Eagles as major influences. However, both Flicker and its successor Heartbreak Weather (2020) were lukewarmly met and characterized as generic Ed Sheeran imitators lifted by a few gems.

Horan seems to shy away from risk and true emotion, sometimes fumbling around shallow lyrics like "tell me what you want because you know I want it too / let's skip all the small talk and go straight up to your room." Horan joins Malik as an artist who hasn't quite found his footing, but his endearingly open emotion on tracks like "Still" show he has the potential to discover it.

Unfortunately, Liam Payne and Louis Tomlinson fared considerably worse compared to their former bandmates. Critics tore apart Payne's debut album, LP1 (2019), which could be described harshly as laden with flat bravado and borderline–creepy innuendo ("baby, why you always act like you don't want me / don't make me bring up your dirty laundry"), and described mildly as competent or generic. Critics didn't spare Tomlinson's lackluster album either, slamming Walls (2020) as a "depressing Xerox of people like Coldplay and Oasis." Tomlinson and his debut clung firmly to the routines of One Direction—to his own detriment—even as the last of the group to foray into a solo music career.

In 2010, Simon Cowell told each Malik, Styles, Horan, Payne, and Tomlinson they wouldn't be able to make it as musicians on their own. A decade later, the One Direction alumni struggled to navigate their solo careers under the pressure to disprove Cowell's declaration. With some successes and some failures, most of the former members are still trying to find independence and venture away from the comfort of unexceptional pop music. Even so, they all have the resources, connections, and time to grow out of their One Direction identities and make something special—it's up to them where they go next.

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FILM & TV

Pixar's

Explores Existentialism

Illustration by Sudeep Bhargava

Though Soul is targeted at children, it's a film that resonates with people of all ages. | ARIELLE STANGER

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ixar’s Soul goes where few children's films have gone before in order to explore the ideas of existentialism and purpose. Its lessons about life, death, and finding your spark can be easily understood by young audiences, especially when accompanied with its mesmerizing visuals, witty characters, and whimsical music. The writer and director of Soul, Pete Docter, expertly explores difficult questions that are as intriguing to children as to adults. Pixar doesn't just make movies for children—Soul in particular is a multilayered film that appeals differently but equally to viewers of all ages.

I wish I could have seen this movie when I was a kid. It's a pleasant adventure that takes the fear out of both life and death. For children who are dealing with anxiety about dying or experiencing a similar loss, the film presents a comforting new perspective: our souls exist in an infinite loop, and no one is really gone forever. Whether you believe in reincarnation or not, Soul reassures audiences by suggesting that individuals live on, even after death—especially in the memories of their loved ones.

The film takes place in present day New York, where we are introduced to music teacher Joe Gardner, who falls down a manhole on the way to perform jazz. He finds himself on a conveyor belt to "The Great Beyond," but in his attempt to escape he falls into "The Great Before." This is where counselors—called Jerrys—prepare unborn souls for life on Earth. Joe is mistaken for a mentor and assigned to soul #22 to help her find her "spark"—the last part of her badge that deems her ready to live.

22 has no desire to go to Earth and live. She assumes she'll hate it, even though she's never experienced it, and she’d rather exist as an unclaimed soul

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in The Great Before. Joe, though less cynical about life, lives solely to have his big break on stage and one day accompany famous singer Dorothea Williams.

He assumes this will be the ultimate euphoria in his life.

With the help of Moonwind, a mystic who rescues lost souls, Joe goes back to Earth—but 22 accidentally accompanies him. 22 falls into Joe's comatose body, whereas Joe's soul inhabits the therapy cat on his hospital bed. Eventually, Terry, who counts souls en route to The Great Beyond, catches up to the pair and brings them back to The Great Before.

After returning to Earth in his own body, Joe finally achieves his dream but is surprisingly underwhelmed. At this moment, Williams tells him a story—a possible homage to David Foster Wallace's This is Water speech—about a fish who swims to an older fish and says, "I'm trying to find this thing they call the ocean."

"The ocean?" the older fish says. "That’s what you’re in right now."

"This," says the young fish, "is water. What I want is the ocean!’”

If we always want something bigger and better, how can we truly be happy with what we already have? Williams' anecdote explores how our expectations can skew our perceptions, and how if we're always chasing happiness, we might fail to notice it in the moment.

Soul tackles the consequences of relentlessly pursuing a goal and putting undue pressure on oneself to achieve it. Describing 22 after her visit to Earth, Moonwind tells Joe, “Lost souls are obsessed with something that disconnects them from life.” In the film, lost souls are dark silhouettes that wander a desert–like scene, frantically repeating their unattainable

goals to themselves. When we begin to obsess over finding success, we lose the ability to get there. This anxiety can paralyze us and trap us in a purgatory where it’s impossible to move forward.

Both Joe and 22 experience the joy of life's small moments throughout the film. While 22's soul briefly inhabits Joe's body, she enjoys eating pizza for the first time and chatting with new people, showing her that life is worth living. Similarly, Joe remembers how much happier he was before pressuring himself to achieve a singular goal, and reflects on his best childhood memories.

As a college student, I found that this film spoke to the pressures of late adolescence and early adulthood, especially in how we find ourselves always pursuing specific goals instead of enjoying the moment.

Students are continually encouraged to plan life ten years in advance. In high school, it’s all about where you’re going to college, and in college, it’s all about what you’re doing post–graduation. Soul tells us that it’s more than okay to be undecided.

Joe and 22 discover that one’s purpose in life has nothing to do with talent, fame, or fortune. Rather, it’s about appreciating life’s little gifts—the perfect slice of pie, a beautiful sunset, the feeling of waves crashing on your toes. Once 22 realizes this, she is finally ready to go to Earth. The film shows us the importance of slowing down and living in the moment instead of constantly striving for some nebulous future.

Joe's journey comes to a close with a question of how he’s going to spend his newfound life. Joe responds by saying, “I don’t know … but I do know I’m going to live every minute of it.” Soul shows us the difference between being alive and living, while encouraging children and adults alike to find their purpose in appreciating everyday life.

FILM & TV

Songbird and the Film Industry’s Failing Attempt at Pandemic Production

Credit: STX Films

Hollywood is rushing to give us pandemic–themed content. No one’s asking for it. | MEG GLADIEUX

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he opening sequence of the Michael Bay– produced Songbird was perhaps the best part: a cacophony of radio dispatches and news anchor commentary as we’re flashed aerial shots of an abandoned city à la I Am Legend, except set in Los Angeles instead of New York. “New strand, new year!” says a voice seeped in cynicism. “Remember the good old days of fake news? Real news is worse,” says a talking head in a mocking tone. It’s a clever introduction, but from there, it’s all downhill.

Songbird takes us into a botched near–future fiction where COVID–19 has mutated into the more contagious and much deadlier COVID–23. All except the immune are confined to their homes. Temperature checks are required every morning. If you fail, you’re forced into the dreaded “Q–Zone,'' which is practically a death sentence. While the trailer showed promise upon its October release, Songbird itself was wholly disappointing: The character development is sparse, the plot thin, and the premise stale and clichéd.

Capitalizing on quarantine anxiety, the notoriety of its cast, and the boastful intrigue of being the first feature–length film to shoot in Los Angeles amid the pandemic, Songbird is at its best gimmicky and at its worst deeply exploitative of the trauma of COVID–19.

Songbird is a wannabe pandemic thriller in the likeness of The Happening, 28 Days Later, and Contagion; the result is a rushed and sickeningly predictable attempt at COVID–19 commentary. Songbird’s world has descended into a sanitation department–ruled martial law that’s far from our present reality—though the movie makes no attempt to give any further detail about how exactly things became so severe and corrupt. This, perhaps, is the most anxiety–inducing thing about the film: It never actually explains the context

of the diseased dystopia it attempts to depict. Though there are vague allusions to political corruption, rampant mutation, and societal apathy, the audience is left to guess how the situation came to be. Is the ambiguity a form of commentary on the uncertainty of our present world? Maybe, but that sentiment is too shrouded in bad dialogue and confusing plot points to be palpable.

Sure, bad movies are released all the time. For a film with so much hype, the final product is particularly disappointing. When so much is still uncertain, it’s too soon to create some fictional narrative of a near future pseudo–apocalypse when real–world grief and trauma still feel world–shattering. We still don’t know if the vaccine will be effective against new COVID–19 mutations, if our economy will bounce back, or if our healthcare system will endure. With daily symptom checks just to enter buildings at Penn, empty streets, and vaccine gatekeeping—isn’t this world already dystopian enough? The last thing we want is a movie essentially telling us, “It could be worse.”

And it’s not just Songbird that’s failing to deliver with its pandemic production; other big–budget pandemic content is falling just as flat. Other projects both shot and set in the pandemic are hardly streaming success stories. HBO Max’s Locked Down led by Anne Hathaway and Chiwetel Ejiofor has received only modest reviews. Though Black Mirror's creators acknowledged it wasn’t appropriate timing to release a new season of the anthology horror series, their alternative star–studded political satire Death to 2020 was unfunny and bland. Even Saturday Night Live’s pandemic–themed sketches have been lackluster; there was even something more wholesome when SNL was operating remotely from the homes of its cast.

In fact, it’s that type of home–produced pandemic content that has actually been the most successful in the past year. Candid pandemic humor from TikTokers is better than most of the attempts at large–production content made since March 2020. Reality TV is a sweet escape. Or take Host, Shudder’s low–budget pandemic–era horror flick of a séance among friends gone wrong, told entirely through the lens of a quarantine Zoom meeting. It’s timely without treading into the depths of commentary, carefully capturing the Zoom–defined era without making light of existing trauma.

Sure, topical content generates buzz, but it’s far from what we want right now—and nearly impossible to do tastefully when our collective trauma is still unfolding. We get enough of the pandemic angst on our news feeds—no one’s asking for it to be packaged and dramatized for entertainment. No, we want distraction and escapism, the sort of thing brought to us by The Bachelorette, Bridgerton, The Office reruns, and Taylor Swift documentaries. Or better yet, unbothered commentary from small creators on our “For You” pages.

There will be a time when good film and television will emerge with art, narrative, and discourse to make sense of this horrific era in world history.

There will be a time for telling true stories of families and first responders, for rom–coms about failing couples who met over Zoom, and, yes, even for imaginings of dystopian worlds where the pandemic was much, much worse. But that time is not now.

Hollywood, may this message be clear: Let the trauma of the pandemic come to an end before you begin to exploit it.

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F E AT U R E

F E AT U R E

Andre Brown Wants to Tell Philly’s Undiscovered Stories The founder of Black Philadelphia Magazine talks about pursuing journalism, celebrating Black success, and leaving a legacy for the city. | AMY XIANG Andre Brown never expected to see his name in print. Though he knew he possessed a natural flair for writing, Andre didn’t think that he would have an audience for his work.

The piece, written for a journalism class that he took during his junior year of college, explored the phenomenon of “cuffing season,” where single people tend to seek out romantic relationships in the colder months, usually starting in October and ending around Valentine’s Day. Andre’s professor, thoroughly impressed, submitted it to the school’s student–run newspaper. The next thing Andre knew, he was the author of a story that would be seen by people other than just him and his professor.

Yet, his whirlwind of an experience wasn’t enough to get Andre, who was planning to pursue a sports–related field, interested in journalism.

It wasn’t until eight years later, when the COVID–19 pandemic forced the world into lockdown, that a 28–year–old Andre began to write seriously for the first time. What started

“The city of Philadelphia to me will always represent a place where everyone can come together and create beautiful things.”

"This is not a beautiful life to live, but I lived through it, and my job now is to help spread hope for others.” as infrequent contributions to Uptown Standard, his friend’s newspaper and a hub for Black–centric news in Northeast Philadelphia, quickly turned into founding the groundbreaking Black Philadelphia Magazine in January 2021. The publication, available both online and in print, covers Philadelphia’s arts and culture scene, as well as relevant news coverage, all from a Black perspective. By supporting everyone from up– and–coming artists to small business owners, Andre hopes to “highlight the parts of the city that currently might not be on a platform to be discovered.”

The arc of Andre’s life is centered on Philly culture, from Eagles games to city politics to Black Lives Matter. This past summer, Andre marched with thousands of protesters during racial justice protests, and he also volunteered with voter registration drives before the presidential election.

“I love Philadelphia. When I look at Philadelphia, I don’t see what [former President Donald Trump] sees, that ‘bad things happen in Philadelphia,’” Andre says.

“The city of Philadelphia to me will always represent a place where everyone can come together and create beautiful things.”

Still, Andre acknowledges that growing up in Philadelphia wasn’t perfect. From an early age, Andre noticed the systemic inequalities that surrounded him.

Many neighborhoods in Philadelphia are shaped by gentrification and redlining, which disproportionately harm the city's Black population—40% of Philadelphia's total population. According to the City of Philadelphia’s Office of the Controller, racial segregation in the city is strongly correlated with poverty, lack of educational and job opportunities, and urban violence.

“I remember being scared to go home at times. I remember being stopped and frisked by the police. I remember people close to me getting beat up and killed,” Andre says. “This is not a beautiful life to live, but I lived through it, and my job now is to help spread hope for others.”

After attending high school at Philadelphia Military Academy, Andre left behind the city that he called home. He spent three and a half years at Lock Haven University, a small, quiet, predominately white institution in Central Pennsylvania.

“It was different, being in the middle of nowhere, but I think I’ve always been able to navigate through places that I don’t feel like I belong,” he says. However, that didn’t mean he wanted to stay. “The main reason that I graduated early is because I just felt so motivated to leave. I didn’t want to be there anymore,” he adds with a laugh.

Although his degree was in sports administration, Andre took multiple electives related to journalism. He became increasingly interested in the field and began dedicating large amounts of time to interviewing, writing, and editing his articles for class. Yet even though he enjoyed his classes, he didn’t think much of making a career out of it—it was just one of his many passions.

After graduating from Lock Haven in 2014, Andre was drawn back to Philadelphia, where he began coaching track and field at Martin Luther King High School.

He quickly rose through the ranks and became the youngest head coach in the School District of Philadelphia.

Then came the pandemic.

The isolation of quarantine gave Andre time to reflect on his disparate interests. While he still worked part–time as a coach, Andre says he often found himself

“We might not be able to get the biggest people in the city to talk to, but we’ll get the people that someone can read about and think, ‘Wow, they came from the same neighborhood I came from.'"

sitting at home, wanting more. “I love coaching, and I think I’ll always play a part in influencing the youth somehow, but I also love acting. I love music. I love writing. I love making people happy," he says.

One by one, Andre began pursuing these side passions. He appeared in a few small movies and TV shows, released music under the name Black Noir, and reached out to his friend James Williams, publisher of Uptown Standard, to see if he could help out with writing stories.

“I read one of [James’] stories about MLK High School, the school I worked at, and I saw tons of errors in it—a bunch of the names of the kids were spelled

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wrong,” Andre recalls. “I was immediately like, ‘Let me help and make this story better.’”

After editing the article, Andre continued to contribute to Uptown Standard, where he mainly covered Philadelphia City Council. In his own words, he went from “writing one story to writing four stories to writing a whole newspaper.”

A big turning point for Andre’s budding career in journalism occurred on Juneteenth. He became one of the first reporters to interview a resident of a tent encampment on the Benjamin Franklin Parkway, where hundreds of homeless people lived, protesting the lack of affordable housing for Philadelphia’s growing homeless population.

Andre says that he was able to get through barriers that other reporters couldn’t, since residents were tense about talking to mainstream media. Many Black Americans feel a distrust towards journalists who cover Black issues, as a result of seeing their stories often misrepresented.

He eventually found himself inside the camp, surrounded by around 300 other residents, protesters, and volunteers. Uptown Standard was the only local paper able to interview a resident of the encampment.

“By then, my editor saw what I could do and trusted me, and he said, ‘You want a magazine? You got it.’ And that’s pretty much how Black Philadelphia was born,” Andre says.

To Andre, the goal for his magazine isn’t to get “The New York Times­­–big” or “The Inquirer–big,” but rather to create a time capsule for the next generation by sharing stories that would otherwise be lost.

“We might not be able to get the biggest people in the city to talk to, but we’ll get the people that someone can read about and think, ‘Wow, they came from the same neighborhood I came from.’”

Andre saw the disconnect between different areas of the city as an opportunity to shift the narrative and change what stories were being told—the basis for what would eventually become Black Philadelphia Magazine. With a balance of entertainment and education, the magazine is “a magazine for people who live in Philadelphia, told through the voices and perspectives of the Black community.”

“If you live in the city and you don’t understand the Black culture that you’re surrounded in, it’s going to seem scary to you. It’s like going to a place where you don’t know anything,” Andre says. “I thought if I could say, ‘Here [are] the good things that happen in places that you don’t go [to],’ maybe people will realize they do want to visit there or support businesses there.”

It took a few months for the magazine to find its voice. It wasn’t until the first week in December that Andre sat down and began working—with “zero stories, zero pictures, zero [anything].”

By early January, the magazine’s first issue was out.

The hardest part of building a magazine from scratch, Andre says, is

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convincing people that it’s “legit.” To build credibility to readers, collaborators, and featured artists, Andre knew that he needed to secure a strong cover story.

That is exactly what he found in Jimmy DaSaint, a Philadelphia– based author of the Black Scarface series, as well as many other urban fiction books, who found his passion for writing while serving time in prison.

“As soon as we got Jimmy DaSaint, the floodgates opened. People started reaching out to us, instead of us reaching out to them. All I had to do was reply,” Andre says, adding that he responds immediately to every email that he receives.

At a time when keeping up with mainstream media outlets can be more overwhelming than educating, Andre says Black Philadelphia Magazine is a much–needed escape, spreading stories of hope that lie underneath the constant negativity of the news cycle. In celebration of Black History Month, the upcoming February issue will highlight Black businesses around the city.

"You have to document this time because there’s gonna be a time when we don’t exist, but our future will,” he says. “We’re gonna have to tell, how did these people have so much hope? How did these people really live through all this destruction?”

Although Black Philadelphia is at the forefront of Andre’s priorities at the moment, he's uncertain about what lies ahead—whether it’s fulfilling his dream of starting a podcast or pivoting from coaching to teaching students in a classroom setting. What he does know, however, is that he wants to be “helping and encouraging youth at some level."

For now, Andre is channeling his drive to make an impact through the magazine.

“How many people have thought about creating something like [Black Philadelphia Magazine], but didn’t have the resources or the initiative? I’m in a position where I’m lucky enough to actually do it,” Andre says. “It’s not for me anymore. It’s for the people. That’s why I’m so motivated to continue and grow.”

“I thought if I could say, ‘Here [are] the good things that happen in places that you don’t go [to],’ maybe people will realize they do want to visit there or support businesses there.”

FOCUS

The Anti–Vax Movement, Explained Anti–vaxxers have been in the public sphere since the 1800s, but today, they have a new weapon in their arsenal: social media. | AIDAH QURESHI Illustration by Isabel Liang

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accines have been described as some of the greatest inventions of the 20th century by so many—they have saved countless lives, eradicated diseases such as smallpox, and all but eliminated diseases such as polio.

Yet opposition to vaccination has existed as long as vaccination itself has existed.

The origins of the anti–vaxxer can be traced back to the 1800s, when the smallpox vaccine became widespread and, with it, fear and protest. People questioned the vaccine's efficacy, the ages at which children should receive the vaccine, the risk of the vaccine in comparison to the disease, and whether or not local authorities should enforce compulsory vaccination in the case of an outbreak.

The misleading claims and concerns we hear about the newly released COVID–19 vaccines are very similar to those made about smallpox vaccinations 200 years ago— the ingredients are toxic, the vaccines have not been thoroughly tested, the scientists who produced them have falsified results, or even that the disease itself is all a conspiracy. Even though the concerns and claims of anti–vaxxers have largely remained unchanged over the eras, today’s anti–vaxxers have a tool that those in the 19th century could have never even dreamed of: social media.

The campaign against the vaccine has already begun. Within the first 48 hours of people in the United States receiving the Pfizer vaccine, anti–vaccine activists had already begun spreading misinformation on social media platforms like Facebook and Instagram, fabricating stories of allergic reactions and sharing claims that friends of friends have died after receiving the vaccine. Anti–vaxxers have also flooded timelines with tutorials on how to refuse a COVID–19 vaccine.

One such tutorial was posted by musician Nino Brown who has over 1.6 million followers on Facebook and over 1 million followers on Instagram. He urged his followers to refuse the vaccine, citing the same misinformation as countless other posts. Brown’s video was viewed over 60,000 times on Facebook and 57,000 times on Instagram before it was taken down.

Public opinion polls have indicated that millions of Americans are what is referred to in the medical community as “vaccine hesitant.” This hesitancy is only reinforced by outlandish and exaggerated stories of people who experience unwanted side effects from vaccines or coincidently die after receiving a vaccine. In today’s form of activism, groups—from Beyoncé’s Beyhive to QAnon adherents—are able to leverage an entire social media ecosystem to promote

their own agendas. If they succeed in getting a hashtag or a meme to trend, they are able to get their message to a larger audience. This is how the deadly narrative spreads.

One such group that was trending was the Facebook group entitled "Stop Mandatory Vaccination," a group opposed to what they claim as "deadly vaccinations.” It boasted over 195,000 members. Some of its most recent posts include videos claiming that the COVID–19 vaccine is killing people, as well as a post claiming that children are having the disease injected into them. The group became so large that Facebook removed it from the site in November for violating the community guidelines. Despite Facebook’s attempts to silence vaccine misinformation, a quick search will reveal that thousands of anti–vax groups still exist on the site.

The ramifications of refusing vaccination are endless. In fact, the World Health Organization has even listed vaccine hesitancy as one of the top threats to global health. The slowing vaccine uptake has led to increases in both measles outbreaks and death due to measles, a disease which had almost been completely eradicated thanks to the MMR vaccine. In 2019, four European countries lost their measles elimination status as a result of vaccine hesitancy. In the case of COVID–19, a much deadlier disease, refusing to vaccinate could kill or permanently disable hundreds of thousands of people. The anti–vax community has only grown since 2019, both in influence and size, and now poses an even greater risk.

Countering grassroots anti–vax propaganda is a significant challenge for those of us who want the vaccination effort to succeed and for this pandemic to end. Since most of this plays out on social media, more often than not, it is viewed as a problem belonging only to social media platforms. To be fair, this is partly true—the attitudes of the Silicon Valley conglomerates enabled these groups to grow for years—but we as humans also need to play our collective part to address this misinformation. Research shows that, when it comes to vaccination, discussing the vaccine with family and friends appears to eliminate the negative views of vaccination that social media often promotes. So while one person can’t shut down massive Facebook groups or eradicate every anti–vax post that exists, by being cognizant of what we say and share, we can do our part to bring an end to the pandemic and get back to partying in sweaty basements.

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Anti–Asian Racism in the NBA and the Plague of Transactional Activism How Jeremy Lin's career highlights our flawed discussions of anti–Asian racism in the NBA | KATHRYN XU

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hen I lived near Houston, Yao Ming was having a hall of fame career on the Houston Rockets, and I was arguing with my elementary school gym teacher about Yao’s height (7 feet, 6 inches tall, for the curious). After I moved to New Jersey, Jeremy Lin led the New York Knicks on a seven–game winning streak that was one of the most electrifying sports moments I have ever experienced. I owe the entirety of my sports obsession to the time I spent watching those two Asian men lighting up the NBA. Fast forward a decade: Jeremy Lin is no longer the icon he used to be. His career has been plagued with injuries; he followed his brief tenure in New York with stints on other teams before he finally won his first NBA championship in 2019 as a bench player with the Toronto Raptors. His contract with the Raptors ended after a few months of disappointingly poor performance and afterwards, he was out of the NBA entirely. He then signed with the Beijing Ducks for the 2019–2020 season. However, there now is a possibility of a return to the United States basketball scene—on Jan. 9, it was announced that Lin would play for the Golden State Warriors’ minor league affiliate, the Santa Cruz Warriors, where he first started his career.

Lin’s Asianness has indisputably influenced the lens through which his performance and career is viewed. He left Harvard University undrafted and was frequently labeled as unathletic, but as former general manager of the Rockets and current Philadelphia 76ers President of Basketball Operations Daryl Morey once said, “He’s incredibly athletic. But the reality is that every fucking person, including me, thought he was unathletic. And I can’t think of any reason for it other than he was Asian.”

After Lin signed with Toronto, the large Asian population and more specifically, Chinese communities in the surrounding areas were cited as a large part of the excitement. A Reddit user said, “I'm just here to warn r/nba that our fanbase is about to get a lot more annoying, with plenty of casual fans who know nothing about basketball other than Lin's stats.” Near the height of Linsanity, ESPN fired an employee who wrote an overtly racist headline about Lin and the Knicks, entitled “Chink in the Armor.”

The anti–Asian racism in the NBA has its own complexities outside of the media. The idea of Lin as a cerebral player with a high basketball IQ is viewed as offensive stereotyping while simultaneously being leaned into; Lin’s Harvard–ness has been the 16 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

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center of both a SportsCenter advertisement and a video featuring Ryan Higa. Add on the fact that the league’s athletes are primarily Black (though, notably, that is not the case in front office and executive positions), and the way people discuss Lin’s Asianness reveals the flaws in our conversations surrounding anti–Asian racism.

In the storytelling surrounding Lin’s struggles, comments, or controversies, there is always a nemesis, and that nemesis is almost always Black. Propagators of Linsanity claim that Carmelo Anthony was intensely jealous of Lin’s sudden ascension to the spotlight, a fact supported by his then–teammate Amar’e Stoudemire. After Lin criticized Trump and anti–Asian sentiment following the spread of COVID–19, an internet response viewed by many trotted out the line commonly employed by Asian Americans and non–Black marginalized groups: “Well, if the racism was directed against Black people, more people would care.”

The anti–Asian racism experienced by Lin throughout his career is legitimate and easily condemned, as it should be, but the responses ought to be examined more critically. Often, it feels like the discourse we tread when it comes to discussing anti–Asian and anti–Black racism in relation to each other has always been done before. Before Awkwafina’s minstrel–esque blaccent performance in Crazy Rich Asians, Lin had his own moment of cultural appropriation when he wore dreadlocks. Kenyon Martin criticized the decision; Lin subsequently pointed out that Martin had tattoos with Chinese characters. A Washington Post article written by a white man spun the situation just as you might expect, using a stereotype of Asian American dignity to put down supposed Black aggression with a bizarre sort of glee: Lin “[takes] the highest of roads,” Bonesteel wrote, capped with a headline of “Jeremy Lin kills [Martin] with kindness,” and a subheading of “Jeremy Lin’s hair is now A Thing We Have to Talk About, apparently.” (The appropriation of Black hairstyles has been “A Thing That We Have Talked About” for a while now.)

I don’t have a concrete answer to this situation other than the fact that the over–heightened portrayal of Asian dignity is not flattering, and that this discourse never feels productive. It also feels equally unproductive to dismiss concerns about how culture is commodified and aestheticized.

What I do know from my experience of chronically being on the internet is that Asian people

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

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often (and uncomfortably) jump on opportunities to criticize Black people of anti–Asian racism or cultural appropriation. At the same time, we also view activism as a zero–sum game, where discussing anti–Blackness is at least part of the reason that anti–Asian racism might go unaddressed.

What is perhaps most important in looking at these responses to racism is what is forgotten: the white bystander. In discussing issues of race, there is always a sense of expected reciprocation— the sense that if I am speaking out for you, you should or must do so for me. Activism becomes transactional. It is telling that Black NBA players, who speak out against police murders and anti– Black violence, are expected to make comments on all other social justice issues—often criticized when they do not. Meanwhile, white athletes in the NHL are not pushed to speak up on any issues whatsoever.

For people of color, speaking up is often a matter of survival; for white people, activism for the marginalized is an ego boost. White people exist in a position where privilege—never needing to defend themselves against discrimination—begets privilege—therefore never being expected to speak up to defend others against discrimination. In the world of transactional activism, white people are not expected to advocate for anybody.

On the other hand, there’s an expectation for people of color and marginalized groups—particularly Black people, whose issues are often hypervisible—to speak out about everything. While there is an auto–cannibalization of the marginalized through fights over who needs to speak for who, white people are free from needing to speak up at all.

Ultimately, the root causes of Lin’s struggles against anti–Asian racism don’t stem from othwer NBA athletes, but from the top: the overwhelmingly white coaches and general managers who make the decisions for athletes who are largely non–white. Carmelo Anthony and Kenyon Martin were not the reasons why Lin went undrafted out of Harvard, why he was perceived as unathletic, or why he was incapable of finding a team years later. It’s not that the discussions of anti– Asian racism in the Black community or anti–Black racism in the Asian community should cease, it’s that the conversations might become more productive if they are not constantly weaponized against one another.

Who are we expecting to speak up, who are we not expecting, and why?

It's Time to Move Past Choice Feminism Mainstream feminism is preventing our liberation from the patriarchy. | REMA BHAT

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aybe you’ve watched one of BuzzFeed’s videos like “Women Try Manspreading For a Week” or listened to a couple of episodes of the podcast Call Her Daddy. It could be one of the episodes where the hosts attempt to convince you that men who prey on women for casual sex are just “masters of the dating game” or another one when they discuss a woman's "ranking" based on her physical features and attractiveness. Even if you haven’t consumed either of those media, you’ve probably seen some catchy “feminist” slogans on T–shirts and merch like “Feminist AF” or “Yes to Masks, No to Bras," or some company’s pink branding which supposedly tells you that they care about women’s issues.

These articulations of feminism can be identified as “choice feminism,” or liberal feminism—the mainstream type of feminism in the United States—and it often gives the movement and ideology a bad name. How does eliminating manspreading liberate women from misogyny?

Choice feminism can be understood as the idea that any action or decision that a woman takes inherently becomes a feminist act. Essentially, the decision becomes a feminist one because a woman chose it for herself.

What could this look like? It could really be anything.

Wearing makeup is a feminist act. Not wearing it is also a feminist act.

Shaving or not shaving. Watching one TV show over another. Choosing a certain job over another. Listening to one artist over another. Picking a STEM career. Choosing to dress modestly or not. The list goes on.

At first glance, there does not seem to be an apparent negative consequence of choice feminism. A woman’s power is within her choices, and those choices can line up with a feminist ideology. For example, a woman’s decision not to shave may be her response to Western beauty standards that are forced onto women. Not shaving may make her feel beautiful, comfortable, and powerful, and there is nothing wrong with that. Women making choices that make them feel good is not the issue. The issue lies in calling these decisions feminist ones.

Choice feminism accompanies an amalgamation of problems—the first being that this iteration of feminism operates on faulty assumptions about said choices. Liberal feminism neglects the different realities that exist for different women—especially the difference between white women and women of color, transgender women and cis women, etc. Not all women have the same circumstance and access to choices, not all choices made by women are treated equally, and not all choices are inherently feminist.

We can look at various examples where this rings true. Even in the shaving example, we can criticize the act of shaving or not shaving as being feminist.

Women who shave for themselves are still placed under the male gaze, which implicates and influences their decisions. Why would you shave for yourself if men don’t?

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

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Another case of the fallibility of choice feminism is that not all women have the same access to choice. This is evident when we take a look at a recent feminist movement: bimbofication. Bimbofication occurs when women present their personality, clothing, makeup, etc. to align with a traditionally understood “bimbo,” but with the intention to undermine the idea that women who are very beautiful are unintelligent. While there are criticisms of the bimbo movement, the point of contention lies in how the majority of new–age bimbos blowing up across media are white women.

If women of color, and in particular Black women, were to participate in this trend, there would be violent repercussions. Black women and Asian women are already in a state of hypersexualization. Because these women suffer from disproportionate rates of sexual violence, participating in Bimbofication would most definitely be implicated by these realities. Therefore, it would not be an accessible or safe choice for Black women or Asian women because they have to consider how their expressions of femininity would affect their safety.

One of the most insidious and dangerous narratives that choice feminism feeds women is that their choices are always their own; it argues women exist in a vacuum without the influence of society’s pervasive misogyny. A notably recent example of this disposition can be observed on TikTok and Twitter.

Grown women make posts targeting girls—17 and younger—that proclaim the allure of seeking out sugar daddies. They upload lessons on making OnlyFans accounts and selling feet pictures when they turn 18. A large–scale grooming tactic is taking place on social media and being spun as a “feminist choice.”

A women’s decision to be a sex worker can be a feminist one, but this is not. Telling young girls that they can get rich quickly by selling their bodies, and telling them these choices make them feminist, is both extremely dangerous and wrong. Choice feminism tricks young girls into believing that their exploitation is justified because they made that decision even though it is steeped in society’s desire to manipulate and exploit young women.

In addition to the previous problems, choice feminism also implies that the solution to gender oppression and misogyny lies in our personal choices—that we alone can make the changes we need to be lifted from the weight of oppression. This is not the case. Misogyny and the patriarchy are systemic issues that require movement organizing in order to make real changes and differences in the ways that women experience their lives everywhere. Getting caught up in the weeds of choices—is this album more or less “feminist” than another—will not be the decision that frees us. We should make these individual choices for ourselves—choices that make us happy and empowered—but we need to unite as women in order to form a movement that can liberate us from misogyny and the patriarchy.

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Stitch it to the Patriarchy Marks a New Epoch in Activist Fashion The women–owned small business is changing the community from the ground up, one embroidered sweater at a time. | AAKRUTI GANESHAN

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n the fall of 2019, Rachel Harris (C '23) followed the official Instagram account of “Stitch it to the Patriarchy.” The brand sold thrifted clothing with a twist, featuring an assortment of sweaters, hats, and shirts—all embroidered with politically charged messages in angled backstitch. Rachel’s friend had recently begun working for the brand, and the ethos of “Stitch–It,” as it is referred to colloquially, appealed to her: “I thought it was really cute, and so I ordered a couple of shirts."

A year later, amidst the onset of the global pandemic, she received a direct message from founder Nina Harris through the account. “Nina DM’ed me … because I was ordering another shirt, and she said ‘I know you go to Penn, you’d be a great fit for this, you should definitely apply.'"

Rachel, along with Marissa Ephron (C '22), both applied to be campus representatives through Stitch–It’s summer recruitment process. After submitting a written application and interviewing, they were both selected to lead Stitch–It’s Penn chapter for the upcoming year.

Originally, Stitch–It was confined to Tulane’s campus and acted as “an embroidery brand … and kind of an activism offshoot,” says Marissa.

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“It was a team of girls—some were stitching—and they thrifted and then upcycled the clothes. It was a business with a social impact. A percentage of proceeds went towards different nonprofits, mutual aid funds, and things like that.”

Followers of the Stitch–It Instagram had the opportunity to choose where those proceeds went, and were able to select organizations for donation.

In the summer of 2020, however, things changed.

“The founder wanted to branch out, and before she graduated, [she] started this expansion program,” says Marissa. At the time, the company had gained a large following and began reaching out to their followers on different campuses to extend their reach.

Now, Stitch–It has 13 chapters across the nation. Their official mission statement highlights two generalized areas: grassroots activism efforts and sustainable clothing.

Both Rachel and Marissa acknowledge the broad spectrum of the brand’s goals.

“The purpose of the organization at Penn is to be a space for progressive activism and grassroots organizing for any progressive issue. We focus on issues across the progressive platform,” says Rachel. This versatility affords Stitch–It a rare kind of flexibility when it

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comes to activism. Marissa indicates that the organization’s adaptability is what drove her to join, saying, “I really like how they don’t have just one focus. It’s the ability to shift to whatever is the pressing or urgent need for the community and the nation at large is what I really thought was cool.”

As far as hands–on projects go, Stitch–It is just about as ambidextrous as it gets. Last semester, members of Stitch It at Penn spent two separate

Sundays canvassing North and West Philadelphia as part of a voter information drive.

“We walked around west of campus and north of campus on separate days to hand out information packets we put together,” Rachel says. The information packets consisted of pre–addressed envelopes to City Hall, a voter registration application, a mail–in ballot application, and a two–sided piece of paper detailing instructions for voting by mail

and in person, as well as explaining different parts of the ballot. “We were able to hit hundreds of houses,” says Rachel, “It was awesome.”

As the pandemic has worsened, Stitch–It has gone completely virtual like many other organizations. Marissa describes how she and Rachel have worked to create graphics centered around pressing issues, such as domestic violence in COVID–19, Walter Wallace Jr.'s shooting, and sustainability at home. Moving forward, she says, they’re thinking about a way to “use the Stitch–It platform to reward people who are showing their commitment to conservation.”

Rachel says that Stitch–It’s intersectionality places it in a unique position at Penn: “There’s a lack of groups like Stitch–It, which focuses on a lot of issues. Our strength comes from being able to switch gears. Personally, this allows us to focus more on the intersectionality of things.”

This fluidity in activist efforts resonates beyond Penn’s campus, especially in the current climate. Issues of sustainability and health often intersect with topics of racial and economic justice. For instance, systemic inequalities have put racial and ethnic minority groups at a disproportionately higher risk of contracting and dying from COVID–19. Sim-

ilarly, environmental sustainability is inextricably linked to issues of economic mobility, as the discourse around fast fashion becomes increasingly classist.

Stitch–It’s multifaceted approach to activism allows it to target complex issues with a truly interdisciplinary lens. In a way, the organization’s approach seems prescient of the slew of issues that bombard the news and media this past year. As the modern activist discourse seems to inch along the “why–aren’t–we–talking– about–this” approach, Stitch– It’s dynamic tactics fill a void that is constantly transforming.

While the organization has chapters and campus representatives that lead them, Marissa rejects the concept of being an ambassador. “At Penn there’s a thing about chasing leadership positions, and that’s really not what we want this to be about. It doesn’t matter to us what names or titles people really associate with us,” she says. While she and Rachel provide guidance, they do the same work their team members do. Rachel echoes this sentiment, saying, “It’s not about being a brand ambassador—I’m not standing on Locust Walk handing out stickers that say 'Stitch it to the Patriarchy' on them— it’s really brand second, activism first.”

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Arts and Crafts ... and Gender A breakdown of the historic exclusion of women artists and the dismissal of traditionally “feminine” art forms | JESSA GLASSMAN

Illustration by Sylvia Zhao

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a Vinci, Dali, Degas, Durer, Duchamp … a cursory look at the names of artists, even just those whose names begin with the letter D, tells us a lot about being a woman in the art world. Unsurprisingly, the number of well–known female artists throughout history pales in comparison to that of their male counterparts. While each of these inspirational women has her own complex and intriguing backstory worthy of its own article, understanding their collective exclusion and erasure from the art world is a necessary step toward making it more equitable.

Are women just less artistic than men? The answer is no, despite the fact that they are often perceived to be. Studies show that the public often associates creativity with masculine character traits. Male artists are seen as the inventive visionaries of the art world, meaning women are left with none of the credit.

The lack of female creative icons in our modern understanding of

art history has contributed to this misconception, conditioning the public to believe that men are superior in the field.

Barring a few exceptions, art education and painting academies were historically only accessible for men—due to explicit regulations, social pressures, or domestic obligations. Much like the present day, beating the “starving artist” stereotype was incredibly difficult and required the connections and skills only a formal education could provide.

There were insurmountable challenges to becoming a female artist: the social stigma surrounding working women, a lack of educators willing to take on female students, and family expectations, to name a few. These factors, plus the same competitiveness and fluctuating demand that male artists struggled with, made it practically impossible for women to find success in the field regardless of their raw talent or artistic passion.

Despite their relegation to the home, many women found

ways to express themselves that merged domestic duties with creative desires. Embroidery, crochet, and weaving are just a few examples of socially acceptable forms of art for women due to their utilitarian value. Decorative arts or crafts were typically used as hobbies for wives—they often had functional domestic uses and were tea–time activities passed on through matrilineage while husbands worked and sons studied.

Regardless of the immense manual skill required for needlework, tapestry composition, or any other one of these traditionally female crafts, they have never been considered true forms of art. The decorative arts have often been deemed less inventive and intensive compared to painting, sculpture, or other forms of “high art”; they have historically gotten very little recognition accordingly. The cultural understanding of craft as less valuable than fine art should make art connoisseurs think about the sexist stereotypes that may underpin their preferences.

For instance, while creating a tablecloth requires a different expertise than painting with gouache, they both require a diverse set of skills, a large time investment, and plenty of requisite knowledge. Fine art and decorative art serve distinct purposes yet are individually beautiful, begging the question of why the art world exhibits such a bias for the former. The answer, while far more nuanced and complex than can be captured in a sentence, is a combination of the many points previously discussed—women, considered by society as the less

creative gender, have been historically excluded from art education, patrons, and success, leaving men to dominate the art world. By extension, men also determine what is and isn’t valuable based on their own, often gendered, assumptions.

Many female artists deserve praise for their attempts to give crafting the widespread appreciation it merits. During the Women’s Liberation Movement of the '60s, feminist artists began to use decorative art forms to start forming a “female aesthetic” as well as to make a political statement about their identity–based experiences. Rather than distancing themselves from artistic expression deemed “low” or “too feminine” by the male–dominated field, many female artists incorporated crafting more and more into their creative process as a method of resistance.

For example, Faith Ringgold created quilts that celebrated the heritage of her black female ancestors, and Miriam Schapiro’s “femmages,” or feminist collages, extravagantly and vibrantly drew on stereotypes that women’s art was kitschy and overtly girlish. The Dinner Party, a multimedia piece by prominent feminist artist Judy Chicago, celebrates female icons through history and challenges the concept of sewing, embroidery, and other female crafts as lacking artistic value.

These are just a few examples that have gained visibility, but, as aforementioned, the creative work of many more female decorative artists throughout history has flown under the ra-

dar. Regardless, there are many up–and–coming 20th–century artists capitalizing on these traditionally female forms for subversive reasons, much like the activists of the '60s.

Much work remains to make museums, art education, and historical narratives more inclusive, but in more recent years, many influential women have worked toward breaking down biases on these fronts. One such example are the Guerrilla Girls, a gorilla–masked anonymous association of women that have been shedding light on gender bias in the arts since 1985.

They have seen some improvement since their formation, but statistics from this past decade reveal there is so much more to fix. A study of 820,000 commercial and public exhibitions in 2018 found only one–third of the artists were female, and furthermore, that women artists earn 66 cents on their male counterparts’ dollar.

While male domination of the creative world won’t disappear anytime soon, there are mechanisms by which we can achieve equitability. For one, shedding light on the structural factors that have excluded female artists from self–expression and notoriety is key to alleviating institutional issues.

Moreover, appreciating crafts as an alternate, equally rich, and gendered mode of expression is another precursor to an egalitarian art world. Despite many persistent prejudices and ignorant understandings of history, women remain resilient, creative, and above all else, crafty— in every sense of the word.

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Clubhouse: A Social Media Experiment Gone Wrong?

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Like LinkedIn, but douchier! | KARIN HANANEL

here is something so incredibly attractive about exclusivity. Even for the nice people who care about inclusion and openness, nothing matches the sexiness of being part of a club that’s hard to get into.

It’s why people apply to Ivy League schools, join sororities and fraternities, or beg for Raya friend passes. It doesn’t matter what kind of person you are, no one can resist the allure of being at least a little inaccessible.

That allure is exactly what a new app, Clubhouse, banks on. In order to join the audio–based app initially populated by the rich and famous, you have to be sent an invite from a current user or get bumped up to the top of the waitlist by them (anyone who has your phone number saved could get this prompt to bump you up).

In terms of what “audio–based” actually means, there’s no other way to communicate with another user. Clubhouse describes itself as “a new type of social network based on voice—where people around the world can come together to talk, listen and learn from each other in real–time.” A “room” can be started by any user and can be about any topic; some examples include sports, entertainment, faith, wellness, tech, identity, etc. The more popular that user is, the more people will join the room. Users can either actively participate in the conversation by “raising their hand,” after which they are permitted to unmute and speak—or they can sit back and listen. It’s basically like you’re

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raising your hand on Zoom before being permitted to unmute and ask a question.

Naturally, being attracted to the idea of orbiting around the insular world of celebrities and those adjacent to them, I signed up for the waitlist a couple of months ago. Right after the new year started, I got bumped up to the front by a friend who was already on. I was excited to step behind the red velvet rope and see what was going on in the VIP section of the App Store. Immediately I was greeted by well–known names to follow—Jared Leto, Ramy Youssef, Tiffany Haddish (who was recently embroiled in a Clubhouse bullying scandal), Diplo, 21 Savage, Ashton Kutcher, Meek Mill—and so many more.

The first room I joined was entitled “Virtual Dinner Party,” featuring the mayors of Miami, San Francisco, and Austin, Van Jones, and Gayle King, among others, discussing tech company– friendly cities. It was initially shocking (because of the many powerful, famous participants), later enlightening, and overall, very tame. In the days following, I joined rooms focused on helping women negotiate in the workplace, social media marketing, and parenting fails—but only because it was hosted by the TikTok–banned blogger–pariah known as Perez Hilton.

So far, it seemed pretty innocuous. Clubhouse seemed slightly reminiscent of LinkedIn in its mildly douchey emphasis on networking, but I knew there was more to it. Even though Club-

house intends to be a platform for positive discourse, there’s no way it would stay all positive.

While hopping around rooms in hopes of pursuing some scandal, I heard a raspier–than–usual Tiffany Haddish lament not being able to talk on Clubhouse without her words getting twisted on Twitter. I stumbled into a large room debating (in a ridiculously sexist manner, I should add) whether women in relationships should be allowed to use sex toys. Another room about positive thinking in business was overtaken by a multi–millionaire—who claimed he wasn’t there to convert anyone—proclaiming that Scientology is the reason he no longer experiences negative thoughts.

Another room seemed to be a place where people would connect in exchange for paid sexual favors.

My experience in witnessing questionable content and behavior on the app is no anomaly. Taylor Lorenz, a tech culture reporter for The New York Times, was harassed by a well–known venture capitalist (part of the Silicon Valley elite who was one of the original test pilots of the app before it expanded into a larger yet private beta phase).

His name is Balaji Srinivasan, and he accused Lorenz of trying to ruin his personal life and career because of her reporting on the app. It's safe to say that him and his venture capitalist anti–media cronies on Clubhouse saw her as an easy target as a young female journalist.

These conversations seemed like a far cry from the post–modern utopian app Clubhouse branded itself as. Instead, they reinforced my original hunch: This app wasn’t just being used for enlightening, deep, and intellectual conversations among strangers. In reality, it’s also a platform that glamorizes wealth, fosters classism, racism, sexism, and bullying, and uses its invite–only structure to create a facade of exclusivity and therefore, quality.

Even when there are high–quality conversations, it’s pretty hard to break in and actively participate when you don’t know the hosts personally and the audience is large.

Is Clubhouse all bad? Not at all. I don’t see QAnon conspiracy theories spreading (yet), and I’ve learned some things. But is it the douchiest place on the internet? Probably.

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HEY FIRST YEARS,

Here's How to Not Let Your Phone Ruin Your First Semester at Penn Follow these simple steps and your phone won't become your foe! | JILLIAN LOMBARDI

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s first years settle onto campus, our phones have been our best friends in college. Through Penn’s mandatory Open Pass policy, we are required to bring our phones everywhere.

As young adults adjusting to a new environment and city, this policy has many safety and social benefits. Penn’s Division of Public Safety (DPS) actually advises students to "not display your smartphone ... when walking about," but relies heavily on students’ access to phones. The first bullet point of the DPS “Top 10 List” directs students to program an emergency number into their phones. Our school also has the UPennAlert Emergency Notification System that uses texts and emails to notify us of important safety information.

First years are very familiar with their phones being at the center of their college experience. In the fall, the GroupMes were our version of Penn’s Campus. We had hundreds of chats and already followed people on Instagram and Snapchat.

Now, first years need to be very careful and deliberate in order to safely socialize in person while following the rules of the Campus Compact. There are no in–person New Student Orientation events planned or football games to attend. If you want to see someone in person, the only thing you can do is ask if they want to go on a socially distant and masked walk or if they want to sit outside (in the cold, for now). Phones have been the biggest asset for planning safe socializing.

While phones are integral to the Penn experience at the moment, what's the deal with first years constantly being on their phones?

Look around on Locust Walk. Whether it is reserving a meal time, remembering to fill out their daily Penn OpenPass, or setting up another walk with a friend—even when people are safely outside together, they are looking at their screens. The usual spots to unplug, like the gym or library, are not available. Sometimes, I feel like I’m squandering the little in–person time I have.

CNBC and the Center for Humane Technology, a nonprofit concentrated on the moral philosophy of

Illustration by Tyler Kliem consumer technology, outlined some tips to curb your phone use.

Push Notification Be Gone

Get rid of the push notifications in order to gain back some sanity. The feeling that accompanies receiving an Instagram notification or a Snapchat from a new friend is positively addictive. However, removing notifications is probably the easiest way to limit the distractions.

Simple Home Screen Apps

It may be helpful to just have your phone essentials, Penn Eats, and Penn Open Pass on your front screen.

“A lot of [phone usage] is unconscious behavior. You shift from Facebook to Instagram, to checking the weather, to texts,” California psychologist and author Larry Rosen says. If you have to go find an app, then you may be less likely to use it.

Simple Background

Funnily enough, if your phone is not as nice to look at, you'll probably look less! It is recommended to switch over to the grayscale setting to curb the innate feeling of reward that comes with bright, distracting features.

Aside from our phones being the ultimate distractors, they're also a breeding ground for germs. A number of infested surfaces, like door handles, pin pads, elevator buttons, and hand sanitizer stations—all of which our phones graze—are unavoidable. A 2017 study found high levels of bacteria and viruses, like E. coli and Staphylococcus aureus, on the phones screens owned by 16– to 18–year–olds they tested. Now, when you add COVID–19 to the mix, phones can serve as carriers for the deadly disease.

However, there are steps you can take to reduce the risk your phone may pose to your health. Using disinfecting wipes on both your phone and on your phone case regularly are essential—if you do so, there's no doubt the risk of getting COVID–19 from your phone will decrease.

The Class of 2024 is going to have a very plugged–in spring semester. Unfortunately, it would be irresponsible to go completely off the grid. With this in mind, it's important that we continue to assess our relationship with our phones and find physically and emotionally healthy ways to use this essential technology.

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UNDER THE BUT TON

Greedy Little Piss Babies: First Years Want to Make Friends James Morrison

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Photo by Max Mester / The Daily Pennsylvanian

n an act of utter moral repugnance, the first year class has, at Penn’s invitation, arrived on campus for the first time and decided that they want to make friends. These greedy little piss babies have come to Philadelphia for the exclusive purpose of spreading disease and desperation — just like the little plague rats that they are. Although the Penn administration may have encouraged first years across the country and globe to travel vast distances during a pandemic to sit in lonely dorm rooms and cry, the Class of 2024 is entirely and solely to blame for wanting to breathe the same air as their peers.

Penn may have made a bold decision in inviting young, reckless, and lonely teenagers to campus. But it only makes

sense that any Penn-related outbreaks that spread to West Philadelphia should be blamed entirely on the friendless freshmen gathering in each other’s dorms. Vanessa Wright (C ‘24) agrees, stating that her peers are loathsome little shits “who actively conspire to infect as many West Philadelphia community members as possible” by doing such morally reprehensible acts as “leaving their dorm rooms, talking to other people, and breathing.”

Carson Banks (N ‘22) adds that those first years who join Greek life seeking a community and some semblance of a college experience are “coldhearted killers” who deserve no place at a prestigious university like Penn. Although first years may have felt pressured to participate in in-person events by

upperclassmen who they desperately wanted to befriend, these first years, and only these first years, should be held accountable for their actions.

President Amy Gutmann, when asked about the several COVID-19 outbreaks taking the College House system by storm, tersely shook her head in disapproval. “We thought that these young, irresponsible students would be able to control their innate impulses to socialize during this pandemic.

We never could have predicted that this would happen on campus, and may consider sending these students home if they continue to act so recklessly. But if we do, they better be ready to pay the entirety of their housing bill and allow us to exploit them as completely and thoroughly as possible.”

Good News! Simultaneous Tube Spitting Not Awkward Whatsoever Adam First

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hy salivaters, fear no more! Under the Button can finally confirm that perpetually spitting into a tiny vial, surrounded by 50 other students you’ve never seen in your life, is not at all uncomfortable. In fact, the experience overall is quite moving, thrilling, and engaging.

The process begins by standing in the cold for approximately 20 minutes. This is the time to get to know your fellow spitters and size up the competition before heading 22 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

inside. Social distancing circles line the checkered linoleum flooring — each one a personal salivic stage. Challengers hunch, with only a plastic vessel dividing the space between mask and mouth, desperate to avoid even the slightest glimpse of eye contact. Not out of awkwardness, but out of sheer competitive might!

On his first day of testing, College first year Ian Pavlo was feeling the anxiety. “Everyone else in the room just looked so cool drooling into their tube,” said Pavlo. “I was so nervous I

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would disrupt the immaculate vibes emanating from the testing site.”

Lucky for Pavlo, he got the hang of it right away, blankly staring forward and slobbering as well as the rest of them.

Added Pavlo, “I had such a great time — now every time I walk past Houston Hall, I start drooling right away!”

See shy salivaters? If Pavlo can get the hang of it, then you have nothing to fear. Now get on out there, you amylasegenerating animals — you’ve got spit to do.

Photos (with edits) by Chase Sutton / Daily Pennsylvanian; Pixabay / Pixabay License; Todd McCann / CC BY 2.0

UNDER THE BUT TON

0 Cases! Penn Sends COVID-19 Positive Students To Drexel Alicia Lopez

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OVID-19 has shut down much of the country, but with the vaccine rolling out to health care workers and the most vulnerable members of our community, Penn has decided to reopen campus this semester. "We have the best testing around," responded Gutmann when asked how the school plans to limit the virus. "We have plenty of tests — enough for everyone!" she lied.

Astonishingly and fortunately, Penn's positivity rate has been low so far (zero cases). "It's statistically close to impossible!" explained math professor Warren Ewens. "We expected many students to test positive within the first few weeks on campus." We turned to Gutmann for further questions about this low number.

She ignored our questions and instead threw her hands up screaming, "Zero cases baby! I

knew we had the best testing!

After all, it's not just a slogan — Penn Cares!"

News of the legendary zero case count, later termed "no trace of a case," quickly spread around the school with widespread effects, mainly a surge in religious devotion. Accepting "the big zero" as a miracle, Catholicism spread rapidly through campus, disbanding Penn Atheists and overwhelming the now-open Philadelphia churches.

About a week after the first day of move-in, several Penn students began reporting absences of their suitemates, floormates, and friends. On Snapchat, these same missing individuals were seen hanging out with non-Penn students. It was only when junior Charles Hall was seen wearing a Drexel shirt that we discovered the horrible truth: Penn has been sending their COVID-19 positive students to Drexel.

Word spread slowly at first, whispers filling the halls. But with a day or so, all religious fervor had died out, and students lived in their rooms, mourning the loss of their fallen comrades. "I guess it took us a while to notice," sobbed sophomore Katie Seka. "They probably took all the anime kids who don't wash their hands first, so we didn't even see it coming."

The Undergraduate Assembly has deemed the week of Jan. 17 a week of solemn reflection. Students are encouraged to wear black and talk quietly out of respect for the departed. With the help of a medium, we were able to talk to Charles Hall to hear his last words to the Penn community.

"Look, it sucked to get COVID-19, but I'm better now and really thriving at Drexel.

While I never wanted to get sick, at least I'm no longer at Penn."

Screenshot (with edits) by Alicia Lopez / The Daily Pennsylvanian

“FAFSA? Omg, I Love Soccer Tournaments” Says Friend With Multiple Homes

Megan Striff-Cave

Photo by EA SPORTS FIFA / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

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ikes! It appears that Nina Gomez (W ‘23), a native of the Upper East Side (with homes in the Hamptons and Colorado) who uses “summer” as a verb, has unfortunately confused the FAFSA with FIFA. The incident occurred when Gomez was reportedly texting one of her friends from her hall whether she was “skiing in Vail or Aspen,” to which Keren Goodfellow (C ‘23) replied that she was actually “doing the FAFSA in Oklahoma.”

“She sent, like, four voice memos about how she had so

much more fun at the Winter Olympics in 2010 than she ever did at the FAFSA or Winnamonbun. I assumed she meant FIFA and Wimbledon,” explained Keren.

Once Goodfellow explained what the FAFSA was, Gomez was extremely apologetic.

“I felt so horrible. I had no idea Keren was … you know … poor. I guess I should’ve realized when she always insisted on taking the SEPTA to Trader Joe’s instead of taking a $14 Uber both ways.” UTB explained that actually around half of Penn’s students are on financial aid, as a majority of

American families could not possibly pay $80,000 a year for a college education. Upon hearing this information, Gomez said that “someone definitely should do something about that.” Agreed, Nina.

However, when Goodfellow suggested that Gomez should examine her “class privilege,” Gomez was confused, as if we were speaking another language — well, one of the seven they did not teach at her elite private school.

“What do you mean, ‘class privilege?’ It’s not my fault Wharton courses are so much easier than the College!”

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