04.01.21

April 1st, 2021 | 34st.com

LIFE IN A DEMOCRATIC BLACKOUT

B U R M E S E S T U D E N TS R E F L ECT O N T H E M I L I TA RY C O U P T H AT I S F U N D A M E N TA L LY C H A N G I N G T H E I R C O U N T RY A N D T H E I R L I V E S .

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

Letter from the Editor W 3 WORD ON THE STREET Experiences with Anti-Asian Racism

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Meet Sciaska Ulysse

LOL 11 FILM & TV

Netflix's Bad Trip

LOL

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Life in Burma's Democratic Blackout

hen I was younger, comfort looked a lot like solitude, and more acutely, avoidance. I’d burrow myself in the corner of the big blue chair in the living room and read chick lit for hours on end, the acoustic guitar of Ingrid Michaelson’s Pandora station insulating me from the words I didn’t want to hear: that my father was cheating again, my mom lacked the means to leave him, and that everything would be easier if I was just somehow a little bit less. If I couldn’t hear the conflict, it didn’t exist, and I could deal with it later or not at all, depending on if I wanted to finish my book.

I’ve always associated being comfortable with escapism, so I’ve never quite understood what self–care is supposed to look like when you aren’t sad, or yearning, or a mix of both. If everything is surface–level okay, do you really need to carve out time to check in with yourself? Or do you just plod on? I still don’t know the answer, so comfort looks a lot like watching eight hours of RuPaul’s Drag Race against a looming deadline, wandering around Center City with my phone off when I really should just call my mom, and ordering goPuff instead of buying groceries. In short, comfort looks like procrastination.

Lately, that’s become a bit more complicated. My version of comfort isn’t sustainable—at least when everyday brings something to avoid. There’s the endless drone of Zoom lectures and meetings and happy hours, none of which accomplish much other than exhaustion. Or the lopsided pile of emails in my inbox, asking me to buy things and write about things and fill out things, even though those tasks feel Sisyphean at best. Even my Instagram feed is screaming at me to be hyper–vigilant, a cycle of half–fact–checked infographics shouting to read theory, donate money, and perform some activism.

To let you in on a secret: Most days I want to ignore everything. But I know doing so isn’t going to bring me the other, better form of comfort: the relief of accomplishment. There’s something quietly beautiful about closing your laptop and crossing

Beatrice Forman, Editor–in–Chief Hannah Lonser, Special Issues Editor Chelsey Zhu, Campus Editor Mehek Boparai, Culture Editor Karin Hananel, Assignments Editor

19 ARTS

The Penn & Slavery Project’s Augmented Reality App

Lily Stein, Features Editor Denali Sagner, Features Editor Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Kyle Whiting, Music Editor Peyton Toups, Deputy Music Editor Kaliyah Dorsey, Focus Editor Emily White, Style Editor Eva Ingber, Ego Editor Aakruti Ganeshan, Arts Editor Harshita Gupta, Film & TV Editor 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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off the last item of your to–do list. Sure, chasing that feeling is a byproduct of grind culture, but I think celebrating the small wins is more important than having days when you don’t win or lose anything at all. Maybe, true comfort is in finding the balance.

This week’s edition is about looking for comfort in the inanimate, since abstractions can’t always hit the spot. We have roundups of country songs and house plant shops that make the doldrums of quarantine feel like a warm blanket, and an interview with the cast of Bad Trip about what it takes to make a guilty pleasure film in an age desperate for laughter. Most importantly, we acknowledge that comfort may be elusive, but small joys are never too far out of reach.

Illustration by Alice Heyeh SSSF,

Bea

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

Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow Cover Design by Ava Cruz

Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Bea Forman, Editor-In-Chief, at forman@34st. com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com ©2021 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Wednesday.

nothing — not even IBS — can stop me

Dolce > Miss BFP

WORD ON THE STREET

I Spent Years Downplaying My Experiences With Anti–Asian Racism. Not Anymore.

A (far from comprehensive) list of times I’ve felt like a foreigner and a caricature | CHELSEY ZHU 1. A girl calls me Chinese in the first grade. It’s not an insult: She doesn’t know what 'Chinese' means, and neither do I. But I burst into tears anyway. This is the day I learn that she is white, and I am not.

2. In fifth grade, my friend pulls the skin around his eyes back with his fingers until they become slits. He moves his fingers so his eyes slant upwards. “Chinese,” he says.

He moves his fingers down. “Japanese,” he says. He’s grinning. I laugh. I know which one I am.

3. I stand in front of the mirror, my face almost pressed up against the glass as I stare at my eyelids. I wish for the fold that isn’t there, the one that would make me prettier. My mom has given me double eyelid tape. I press it deep into my skin until it sticks.

4. I love the feeling of the sun on my arms and back. My mom doesn’t love what it does to my skin. She slathers me in sunscreen and shakes her head at how brown I’m becoming. I stay inside.

5. Middle school is the first time that I’m in a class with other Chinese girls.

There are two of them. They look nothing like me, but everyone calls me by their names anyway. Teachers are always embarrassed when it happens; they say that it’s an accident, and that they mix up names all the time. It’s hard to believe them when it happens in social studies, English, gym, algebra, geometry, geography, and earth science. It’s hard to believe them when it happens in sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, tenth, 11th, and 12th grade. It’s hard to believe them when my favorite teacher does it and tries to defend herself. If it’s an accident, what is she defending herself from?

6. I bring my mom’s homemade dumplings to school for a cultural food day. Nobody eats them.

7. Other kids talk about my race in that callous, joking way that makes it impossible to feel offended. I’m good at math because I’m Asian. I get good grades because I’m Asian. I’m good at playing the flute, writing essays, and studying Latin because I’m Asian. How can you be mad

talk about it. It’s not real if I ignore it.

12. My professor wants to take time during class to reflect on the shooting. She asks us to prepare some thoughts. I start to panic. Are people going to look at me? Are they going to expect me to say something raw, or real, or poignant? I don’t want to share anything. I log onto Zoom. When it’s my turn to speak, I almost stay silent.

But I manage to stumble out a sentence.

“I’ve spent my life convincing myself that the racism I’ve experienced wasn’t real,” I say. “So to see everyone talk about it now, it’s—” I struggle to find the word. My voice wavers. “Jarring,” I finish.

“Jarring” is not what I mean. I want to say that it feels fucking fake. But that’s too dramatic.

Illustration by Alice Heyeh when people tell you that you’re good at everything? I’m 13. I want to be liked, so I lean into the attention.

8. I share my name, my personality, and my identity with the two other Chinese girls. We have a dress–up day at school for spirit week. The theme is twins. The three of us put up our hair into pigtails, wear red T–shirts and blue jeans, and go to school together as triplets. It’s so funny.

“Who’s the superior Asian?” a classmate asks us. We categorize ourselves accordingly: smart Asian, dumb Asian, pretty Asian. I don’t remember which one I am anymore.

9. I’ve spent weeks waiting for senior superlatives. It’s a chance to get recognized for standing out. It’s been a few years, and I don’t want bigger eyes or paler skin. I don’t want to be a caricature of a “smart Asian.”

I want people to know that I wrote a novel and dream about getting tattoos inspired by my favorite books. I want people to know that I grit my teeth through every STEM class I’ve ever taken, working ten times harder than everyone else because people expect me to be good at it. I want people to know that I’m going to college to study English, and that I want to be a journalist.

I get a text from the yearbook

committee: “Congrats! You got ‘Most Likely to Become a Scientist.’”

I want to laugh. I text back that I don't think the label represents me. They hand it off to someone else.

“Why would you give up the superlative?” a friend asks me. “People just think you’re smart. It’s a compliment.”

I know it won’t make sense if I tell him that it feels like nobody knows me. So I say nothing.

10. I move to a huge, diverse city for college; I think that there’s no way I’ll ever have to feel like that again. That seems true for a while. Then COVID–19 happens. I watch former President Donald Trump talk about the “Chinese virus.” I read about how Philly’s Chinatown has become a ghost town.

I get sent back home. I’m walking down the street past a church I’ve walked by a million times before. They have a Little Free Library on the front lawn. There’s a piece of paper posted on the door: “Closed because of the China virus.”

11. I don’t hear about the shootings in Atlanta until the day after they happen.

Then it’s impossible not to hear about it.

It’s everywhere on social media: “Six women of Asian descent were killed.” I don’t want to hear about it, or read about it, or

I tell myself that I’ll forget this, but that’s a lie. I remember everything.

13. I call my mom. She tells me that she’s worried about me, and that I shouldn’t walk outside alone when it’s dark. I tell her I’ll be fine. I’m in Philly. “I’m more worried about you,” I say.

14. Eight days after the shooting, I’m walking outside in broad daylight. There’s a group of guys blocking the sidewalk.

They stare at me as I come closer.

“Ni hao,” says one.

“Ching chong,” says another.

I don’t react. I’m already writing it off in my head. Later that night, I message my friend that I have a funny story.

She’s angrier than I am. Or angrier than I let myself be.

“It’s not a big deal,” I text.

I tell myself that I’ll forget this, but that’s a lie. I remember everything.

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Meet Sciaska Ulysse, a Recipient of the Women of Color at Penn Award Learn about Sciaska's goal to give back to her community through medicine—as well as her passion for makeup. | FERNANDA BRIZUELA

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ciaska Ulysse (C '21) began to visit Penn in ninth grade, when her brother was receiving treatment at the Children's Hospital of Philadelphia (CHOP).

Sciaska recalls taking breaks during hospital visits, walking around, and finding herself fascinated by Penn’s campus.

As a first–generation, low–income student and the daughter of Haitian immigrants, Sciaska always kept the importance of higher education in mind. When it was time to apply to college, she saw Penn as the perfect fit, in part because it was close to her hometown and allowed her to visit her brother at CHOP. The summer before her senior year of high school, Sciaska participated in Penn’s summer business institute for high school students, the Leadership, Education, and Development Program. It made her even more interested in attending Penn and gave her a clearer picture of what she wanted to study.

“I found out that business wasn't my first love. I didn't see myself pursuing it full time, but it's still something I really want to dabble in. So I was like, ‘Okay, I'm not going to major in it. I'm not going to go to Wharton, but I still don't want to give up [that] side of me,'” she says.

She decided to follow the pre–med track, majoring in neuroscience with minors in health care management and chemistry. Sciaska says that even though she tried to stay away from medicine growing up—a lot of her family members are in the field—she constantly found herself back on that path. She hopes her studies will allow her to accomplish her goal of making medicine and health care more accessible.

On top of her academic pursuits, Sciaska has found other ways to accomplish her mission. As a first year at Penn, she got involved in the Moelis Access Science Program at the Netter Center for Community Partnerships, which supports STEM education in K–12 classrooms.

She saw this as a way to use her knowledge of neuroscience to support other students interested in the field.

“I've always been this person who likes to really mentor students and teach other people, just because I grew up with a lot of help and a lot of people guiding me," she says. "I felt like this would be the best way for me to give back.”

She also works with Community School Student Partnerships (CSSP), an organization that provides academic support to schools in West Philly. Through her involvement, Sciaska has had the opportunity to help students with both academic and general life skills, like how to apply to college or how to write a check.

“I thought [CSSP] was really cool, just because it was very, very personal. It was after school, and a lot of stu4

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dents didn't have to be there," she says. "So the fact that they wanted to spend their time really just perfecting these important life skills meant the world to me—because if I'm giving my time, [and] you're giving your time, we can make something happen."

Sciaska has also dedicated her time to organizations that focus on undergraduate Penn students’ needs. Since her first year, she's been involved with the Minority Association of Pre–Health Students (MAPS). Initially, she was a general body member, but her commitment increased as she went from external affairs chair, to vice president, to her current position as president of the organization.

Sciaska emphasizes the impact MAPS can have by offering minority students a great support system while they're pursuing their studies in challenging STEM fields.

“I really ensure that we have this community to help students be successful for their four year journey," she says.

"So I make sure they have adequate resources, give them great tips about what professors to take, what not to take, what combination of classes to take. I feel as though it's been helpful, for sure.”

One of her activities stands out from the rest. At first glance, Sciaska’s work for The WALK Magazine may seem unrelated to everything she does. However, it allows her to explore one of her passions: makeup. She says that she joined the magazine because it gave her the opportunity to practice looks on a diverse group of people. “[The WALK] was one of my favorite experiences when it was happening in person, just because I got to add a creative outlet that I never really got to express in my STEM classes,” she says.

Sciaska's even been able to connect her love for makeup with her passion for medicine. She posts makeup looks and relates them to health topics on her Instagram page, @beatbyskeet. For example, she posted an eyeshadow look with hot pink flames and wrote tips to prevent academic burnout in the caption.

Her campus involvement—along with her summer work at the Penn Center for Women’s Behavioral Wellness and the Penn Program for Public Service—led Sciaska to receive the Women of Color at Penn Award.

This award recognizes women of color at Penn who have worked towards “[promoting] education, cultural diversity, and positive change on campus and in the world.”

Sciaska didn't know she was nominated until she won the award. “I was just surprised because—I said it in my speech—but the work that I do, I don't do it to be recognized. I do it because this is just who I am," she says. "To know that people have been watching me and people are proud of my work added a different layer and made me

Illustration by Alice Heyeh feel really appreciated. It was a very heartwarming experience. Just being able to be in that ceremony with other Black women celebrating Black women—it was a great afternoon.”

Now, as her time at Penn comes to an end, Sciaska wants to promote these ideas of education, diversity, and positive change through her work in the medical field.

After graduation, she plans to move to Boston to do research for two years at the Brigham and Women's Hospital through Harvard Medical School.

“I'm working on racial disparities and implicit bias interventions among physicians at certain Harvard hospitals. I'm really excited about that because I've always been focused on racial disparities,” she says.

In a couple of years, Sciaska hopes to go to medical school and eventually become an obstetrician–gynecologist. She also wants to give back to her community, whether by returning to her hometown to practice medicine or moving to a town that is predominantly Black and Hispanic.

Sciaska has an additional ambition: to get her MBA while in medical school. She hopes to use her medical degree and MBA to eventually open a Black–owned hospital.

“That's my biggest goal—to have my own Black– owned hospital. That is very far down the line. But just to say ... 'Yes—you. You're welcome here. You should feel safe here. And we'll take care of you the way you're supposed to be being taken care of.’ I think that would change a lot of people's lives.”

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Meet Chris Cherian, Co–Founder of Video Conferencing Platform Gatherly This Wharton student is working to make virtual events more intimate with his Forbes– featured startup. | SARANYA DAS SHARMA

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hristopher Cherian (W ’21) describes himself as an “accidental entrepreneur.” The management and finance student never envisioned himself as a startup founder. But after realizing how deficient existing video meeting platforms are for larger events, he left the well–beaten consulting path and began working on his Forbes–featured startup, Gatherly.

With an early April birthday, Chris had to forego a traditional 21st birthday celebration in 2020 because of the COVID–19 pandemic. He instead opted for a ‘new normal’ birthday party on Zoom. It was a 50–person party with friends from Penn and his hometown of Atlanta.

However, Chris describes it as “extremely awkward” and lasting all of ten minutes.

“I would talk to one of my Penn friends, and everybody from Atlanta would be like, 'I have no idea what's going on.' And then I'd be like, 'Alright, this is super awkward.'

[Then I'd talk to] my Atlanta friends, and all my Penn friends would be [confused about our] high school jokes,” he recalls with a laugh. However, this flop turned out to be a blessing in disguise.

Chris realized that existing platforms like Zoom, Microsoft Teams, and BlueJeans were good for small meetings, but not for larger gatherings like business conferences, networking opportunities, and parties. “I wanted something that kept the big group but also had a personalized feel,” he says. Chris began talking to friends from home who attend Georgia Tech, and they were also interested in working on the venture. Thus, Gatherly was born.

Gatherly's main mission is to simulate the feeling of a real conference virtually. Every Gatherly call has a colorful virtual map, which allows you to ‘walk around’ the space and join conversations with people and groups that you stand next to in the room. You can move rooms by going to the ‘elevators.’ You can also easily have one– on–one conversations with other people on the map and even lock the room during them. There’s a directory of everyone in the conference, which allows you to message other attendees, as well as a ‘group chat’ function,

Illustration by Isabel Liang which you can use to message the people in the group you’re currently talking to. The platform is completely customizable with logos and images, and new features are constantly being added.

The pandemic was crucial for Gatherly’s development and success. Like many other college students, Chris’s summer internship was canceled. In hindsight, he says it was the "perfect opportunity" to create the platform.

The pandemic also made Gatherly an office space for the startup team. They started using it for every meeting and were constantly forced to fine–tune the product.

Currently, Gatherly has hundreds of users and hosts about 100–200 events per week. Past clients have included MIT, Yale, Capgemini, and General Electric.

“It was like eating your own dog food [to test it out].

That's what we ended up doing. And that ended up being really, really valuable for the product,” Chris says.

Currently, Gatherly has hundreds of users and hosts

about 100–200 events per week. Past clients have included MIT, Yale, Capgemini, and General Electric.

The current company team is 11 people and one intern, and they are hiring four to five more people, which Chris describes as his “main priority.” The team is also in the process of raising capital. They’ve worked with mentors like Wharton professor Tyler Wry and former Wharton assistant professor and startup CEO Anoop Menon.

Chris and his co–founders are all working on the startup full–time after they graduate, and they hope to scale it up and add more features with time. He’s not sure where he’ll be based since the company has a fully remote workforce, with employees across the country and world.

Right now, Chris is considering Atlanta, New York, and Boston as some of his primary options.

When he’s not taking investor calls or talking to his team on Slack, Chris is enjoying the second semester of his senior year. He loves playing poker and listening to show tunes, a hobby he’s picked up recently. Reflecting on his experience with Gatherly, he says that working on the project has been some of the most fun he’s ever had because it’s allowed him to wear so many different hats.

But despite being an incredibly motivated worker, Chris also prioritizes something that's too often overlooked in grind culture: mental health. “There's always an additional call or additional sales material [we] could be putting out, but mental health is really important," he says. "Being able to balance [it all] is super critical.”

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VRAJ SHROFF HOMETOWN: Chicago, Ill. MAJOR: Double major in computer science and economics, with an accelerated master’s in systems engineering ACTIVITES: Magic Connects, Wharton Undergraduate Healthcare Club, Wharton Global Health Volunteers, Virtual Event

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Meet the senior who used his background in the Engineering School, the College, and Wharton to create a new social network. | FERNANDA BRIZUELA 34TH STREET MAGAZINE: You're doing an accelerated

master's on top of your undergraduate studies. Why did you choose to pursue this program?

VRAJ SHROFF: When I came in, I was an economics and computer science major. And [these programs] focused a lot on the technical side, how to make things given we have all the details about [them]. So for example, if you ask me how to make Facebook, the computer science program will help make that happen. But I really wanted to focus on creating systems from a higher level. So focusing more on, "How do I design a system that doesn't exist? What are the things that I need to focus on?" That played a role in my career, as well as my internships. I really wanted to focus on that, to get some practical and class experience on how to understand the systems and how to create them myself.

STREET: You're pursuing dual degrees in Engineering and the College, as well as a minor in

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Wharton. Is there a reason why you chose to study in each of these schools?

VS: Yeah, definitely. I think it allowed me access to different resources and helped me meet new people from all the schools. It was very important for me to work in a team of very diverse experience as a [technical program manager at Facebook last summer]. A lot of my work would be working in groups, leading and collaborating with teams that focus on different aspects. So I really wanted to get that experience in college as well. I have Engineering friends who are really focused on technical things and helped me enhance my skill set there, and it's complemented really well by my Wharton and College friends.

STREET: You're the chair of entrepreneurship in the Wharton Undergraduate Healthcare Club.

How do your interests align with healthcare and entrepreneurship?

VS: Actually, I came in as a pre–med when I

joined Penn. Almost all of my cousins are doctors.

It seemed like the only natural step for me, but I soon realized that there are some other interests I have that I would like to explore, namely computer science. But I was still very interested in healthcare.

I'm taking MBA classes in healthcare right now, just to expand the network and learn more from Wharton professors. With that, I really wanted some hands–on experience. I think this [health care club] seemed like a really nice step, but it was really missing a very important aspect. A lot of club events are, you bring in a speaker, they give a lecture, and people go home. I wanted to make it more interactive, and that's why I started the entrepreneurship branch. Wharton Undergraduate Healthcare is the largest health care club on campus, and my committee is the largest committee focusing on that. So I was really excited to help 100 plus students every semester, meet with executives—we brought in the vice president of Johnson & Johnson—and just

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LIGHTNING ROUND STREET: Last song you listened to?

VS: It's probably a Bollywood song, not going to lie. I don't even remember the name. I've been going back to a lot of Bollywood songs recently.

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

VS: I think it would be Towne, the Engineering building. People go there a lot—especially [first-years] when they’re taking CIS 161 or 121.

STREET: Who do you look up to?

VS: I think the big tech CEOs. They're my favorite people. Sundar Pichai, Mark Zuckerberg—they're two of my role models.

STREET: What's your favorite sunny day activity in Philly?

VS: Going out with my friends and taking a walk. Crossing the river and going to Center City—just having some time with friends.

STREET: There are two types of people at Penn…

VS: I have one for CIS students. Those who love professor Rajiv Gandhi, and those who delay graduation to avoid him.

STREET: And you are?

VS: Oh, he’s definitely one of my favorite professors at Penn.

create a really entrepreneurial–focused environment for everyone in health care.

STREET: You created a platform for Wharton Global Health Volunteers. Tell us a little bit about that.

VS: I partner with a lot of Wharton MBAs and a lot of computer science students from Engineering. And I was able to lead this initiative where I was making a platform with a hospital in India. The goal was to find out what things are important for people when they're trying to volunteer, or they want to donate, and find the right places for community service. So I was working with Sarah Mayner (WG '21)—she's a Wharton MBA, amazing person. She was finding out what things are important to [volunteers], and I was leading the tech side of it. How do we make that vision happen? What's our shared vision that we want to implement that will help people do the right things

and help the community? So that was the platform.

We’re still working on it and making it better.

STREET: What is Magic Connects? And why did you decide to develop it?

VS: Last semester, I was in Philadelphia for a few months, and I happened to just run into a [first year] Penn student. I just asked her, “Hey, have you been to Center City this semester?” And she said, “I really want to, but I don't have anyone to go with.” That really stuck to me. There is this whole new class of people at Penn, and they never had the same New Student Orientation experience and the same opportunities to meet new people like we did. I thought I could make a platform that would help students connect with each other. It's based on common interests, like sci–fi, health care, and computer science. It will find people who like similar things as me and connect me with

them. I think students from 65 schools and from 40 different countries have started using [it]. I'm glad it's helping people connect with other students.

STREET: What are you hoping for the future of Magic Connects once everything is 'back to normal'?

VS: I think there was always a need for this, even before the pandemic. It was really hard to just go to class and be like, “Hey, let's be friends.” So I think it takes that away, because it's an opt–in mechanism.

People who are here are looking for new friends. It makes it less awkward for everyone involved, and it also doesn't limit you to where you live. You can meet people from Drexel, from Temple, from other colleges near you, or other schools where you can find similar people as you—Harvard, Yale, Stanford, all these people that you can't really [meet] without an online platform. So I'm really excited for this platform, even after the pandemic.

STREET: If you could impart one lesson on the Penn community, what would it be?

VS: [Have] a really nice community of people. By community I mean that a really nice friend circle is extremely important. I often joke with [my friends], "If I become a billionaire, I'll split it with all of you." It's really because they have been supporting me so much. Just things like helping me proofread my resume, helping me draft my cover letters, connecting me with the networks to find internships, and helping me get into their clubs.

Also going out on Friday night, and just relaxing, and getting away from the Penn pre–professional world. It's really important—not just for your growth, but even for your mental health—to have a really nice friend group that you can hang out with, watch a movie with, and have fun with. It doesn't matter if you get an A or an A+ in MATH 104. I think people should spend much more time making this happen.

STREET: What's next for you after Penn?

VS: I'll be in New York working for Facebook as a technical program manager (TPM). For my internships, I was a TPM intern at Google. Last summer, I was a TPM intern at Facebook. So I really love the role. I'm really excited to go there and finally live in New York without a pandemic.

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MUSIC

The Paper Kites Wax Poetic on New Album Roses The band's latest studio effort is an exercise in low–key dreamy indie–folk. | ALLISON STILLMAN

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ince the release of their hit single “Bloom” in 2010, The Paper Kites have developed a distinctive sound that provides a serene escape from the typical feel of pop music today. The indie– folk band, originating from Australia, boasts a discography of five studio albums and four EPs. Lead singer and guitarist Sam Bentley describes their sound as “whatever we released on the last record.” Roses, The Paper Kites' fifth studio album, does not drastically diverge from their classic “last record” indie–folk sound. Instead, the ten–track album synthesizes this characteristic frame and expounds on it, featuring an international female vocalist on every song.

The mellow tones and delicate compositions interwoven in Roses follow in the footsteps of The Paper Kites’ previous releases. The nostalgic overtones and sleepy vocals that each track renders are mirrored in albums like 2015’s twelvefour—which Bentley created between the hours of midnight and 4 a.m. in a lethargic daze—and 2013’s EP Woodland—featuring the hit “Bloom.” Roses emphasizes the themes of love, relationships, and heartbreak, parallel to the typical storylines of The Paper Kites’ music.

Each track on Roses is born out of a cohesive mold: soft guitar picks, sweet melodic vocals, and a mellow drum beat silhouetting each song. However, when delving into the purposeful choice of featured artists and the lyrical meaning, the beauty within each respective song takes flight. The most incredible aspect of Roses lies in its distinctive spotlight on an array of international female artists, enriching the album with glimmers of equality and strength.

The opening track of the album, “Walk Above the Town,” highlights the unique sound of Portuguese multi–instrumentalist MARO. This beautiful composition is a perfect opener for the album; it is soft, imaginative, and romantic. Bentley’s voice is a sweet breeze, his guitar feels like meandering barefoot through a silent forest, and MARO's instrumental features—an electric guitar and muted drums—provide an elusive yet strong foundation. The lyrics are equally wonderful and poetic in nature: “Cars are underneath us now / The stars are underneath us now / We walk above the city / You and I.” Following a smooth transition into “Climb on Your Tears,” Bentley shatters a crestfallen tale of 8

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Photo by The Paper Kites fighting back against heartbreak. American artist Aoife O’Donovan joins Bentley on this track, adding a comforting bluegrass feel. Its music video encapsulates the emotion that Bentley poured into the lyrics, along with the reiteration of the sentimental lyric: “Climb on your tears / Wash all your fears away.” The backbone of “Climb on Your Tears” is brimming with unconcealed despair and heartache, providing support for grieving. The track is raw with the sorrow that colors a breakup or lost love.

Other highlights on the album include “Dearest,” a love song that surpasses romance and delves into caring for one’s family. This track, featuring Lydia Cole, is backed by a finger–style acoustic guitar that gives the whole piece a delicate and dreamy aura.

Cole is also featured on “For All You Give,” which serves as competition against “Dearest” for the most wholeheartedly emotional song on the album. The two unite through harmonious vocals and authentic, heart–swelling lyrics. Cole and Bentley’s tone match perfectly in this euphonic song about being wildly in love: “Like a road runs straight and true / For all you give / I’ll give it back to you.” This track is tattooed with impressive harmonies and warm, romantic lyrics, displaying the true artistry of both

singers.

Although Roses is characterized by sedated, poetic tracks in the band’s typical fashion, “Steal My Heart Away” diverges from the rest of the album. It's a bit more like a classic rock ballad against a dreamy rock beat, synths, and a lively chorus. Australian artist Ainslie Wills brings an incredible spirit to this song, breaking into a melodic duet that weaves together a love story. In a sonorous voice, Bentley opens “Without Your Love” against a lone guitar, exploding into an indie song that features another Australian singer–songwriter, Julia Stone. These romantic tracks keep with the theme of Roses—ultimately boosting the album into one beautiful love story.

Roses is not ostentatious in its production: It is simple, clean, and strikingly romantic. The Paper Kites, taking on a team of nine featured female artists, utilize poetic lyrics and gentle acoustics to outline the dreamy sound that they paint. While the album is somewhat ponderous, each track is a must–listen for those who appreciate sweet and pensive music. The Paper Kites continue to surpass the norms of typical pop music, showcasing their ethereal sound against a dreamy canvas and a whimsical feel.

MUSIC

Ilustration by Alice Heyeh

Stay–at–Home on the Range Why country music about travel is the perfect balm for a time when we are stuck in place. | WALDEN GREEN

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his month, we reached the anniversary of COVID–19 officially being declared a pandemic by the World Health Organization. In the intervening year, music helped us cope with physical confinement and limited social interaction. Some turned to club bangers, while others embraced the softer sounds of ambient tunes. For me, there was no genre that provided greater escape from the quarantine doldrums than Americana. Left–of–center country music proved to be the perfect soundtrack for my 2020, especially with much of my early quarantine spent learning how to drive. The sentiments expressed by these artists—a yearning for escape and a desire for companionship—have felt more resonant than ever this year. Here are six songs that have felt like mirrors to my own emotions during the pandemic, and that may do the same for you.

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MUSIC

Ilustration by Alice Heyeh Ohia FAREWELL TRANSMISSION The Magnolia Electric Co. remains the best record released under any moniker by alt–country icon Jason Molina, and its opening track, “Farewell Transmission,” is the enduring centerpiece of his entire oeuvre. This searching epic exceeds the seven–minute mark, a necessary duration to make room for the expansive journey that Molina undertakes over Steve Albini–produced gothic Americana. “Farewell Transmission” commences with a power outage, highlighting the fragility of the modern human world—which has, without a doubt, been highlighted by the ongoing pandemic. At the same time, Molina reckons with his own self–inquiry. Emerging from his endless psychological desert, the song manages to glean something resonant and widely applicable: “Real truth about it is, no one gets it right / Real truth about it is, we're all supposed to try.”

Miranda Lambert HIGHWAY VAGABOND Miranda Lambert may not come to mind right away when we think of country music auteurs, but her 2016 record The Weight of These Wings is a rough– hewn diamond in her discography. That album stripped away the radio gloss of her earlier hits to deconstruct her high–profile divorce, but it still managed to keep Lambert’s gift for catchy hooks intact.

“Highway Vagabond” captures one form of coping by escape. It's not about going somewhere so much as just going, as “the wheels go round and round and round.” Socially distanced travel proved for many— my family included—to be the antidote to our first (and hopefully last) summer spent in lockdown.

“Highway Vagabond” manages to encapsulate and perfectly soundtrack at once the rhythm of “moving right along to the next big city.”

John Prine ANGEL FROM MONTGOMERY The narrator of “Angel from Montgomery” is trapped and incapacitated, a condition more understood now than one year ago. John Prine’s lyricism,

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even on his 1971 debut, masterfully toes the line between poetic and direct. Right from the song’s outset, he strikes a universal chord: “If dreams were lightning, thunder were desire / This old house would have burnt down a long time ago.” Later, he laments that “I ain't done nothing since I woke up today,” a lament that, in this era, needs no explaining. “Angel from Montgomery” is an outlier on this list, since it reckons with stagnation, not motion. That said, there is a value in seeing our emotions reflected in the music we consume. The deliverance Prine seeks is an escape all its own.

Lucinda Williams CAR WHEELS ON A GRAVEL ROAD The title track from Lucinda Williams’ 1998 breakthrough, Car Wheels On A Gravel Road, wrings her own poetry out of the quotidian. The song’s lyrics depict the sensations of Williams’ childhood: “Loretta's singing on the radio / Smell of coffee, eggs, and bacon.” They recapture a rhythm of the everyday that has often felt unattainable as of late. The momentum in Williams’ words is insuppressible as she sings about “the telephone poles, trees, and wires [flying] on by.” The entire record serves as a roadmap of the American South, from “Lake Charles” to “Greenville.” During last summer’s road trip, I experienced inordinate excitement passing through some of the album’s name– checked locales. Williams’ empathetic portrait of her region feels essential as COVID–19 solidifies partisan boundaries across the United States.

Jason Isbell TRAVELING ALONE Jason Isbell would probably have some choice words for anyone who has taken up drinking as a COVID–19 pastime. His heartbreaking Southeastern was recorded in the wake of his struggles with alcoholism. It’s appropriate that “Traveling Alone,” from that album, opens with the somber creak of his wife Amanda Shires’ fiddle. After all, it was Shires who led the charge on Isbell’s intervention.

She also appears to be the clear subject of this song.

As the chorus’ lyrics make evident, this is no ode

to solo life. Rather, the country singer is “tired of traveling alone.” This instrumental palette is sparse enough to draw out the harrowed quality of Isbell’s voice. When we are drawn to reclusion, he reminds us to reach out for human contact and support, because “what good does knowing do / with no one to show it to?”

Waxahatchee FIRE Talking about Waxahatchee’s Saint Cloud requires that I speak personally, because no album, either released during the pandemic or otherwise, has meant more to me over the course of this past year. Fiona Apple’s Fetch the Bolt Cutters topped album of the year lists left and right in 2020, but in my eyes there was no better record released last year, nor a more liberated one, than Katie Crutchfield’s fifth studio album. These songs hold a cleansing quality, perhaps because they were written after Crutchfield got sober for the first time in years. Or it could be the record’s production, which feels airy, spacious, and awash in light, not unlike the album cover. Saint Cloud invites a gentle kind of a catharsis, and nowhere is this more apparent than on “Fire.”

In keeping with the rest of this list, “Fire” takes place in a car. In an interview with Pitchfork, referring to the song’s opening non sequitur, Crutchfield said that “It’s about getting to a more grounded, centered, self–assured place.”

This is an act of self–reflection that has been forced by the coronavirus, but songs like “Fire” can take that trip with you in moments of change, and even lead the way. Listening to music released during the pandemic has often been difficult, as so much of it has felt hampered by context. This has never been a problem for Waxahatchee. That’s because the lyrics and melodies of “Fire” feel timeless, like they could be pulled from the catalogs of Prine, Williams, or even Dylan. Despite its recent release, I am confident that “Fire” will have an impact just as long–lasting as any other great Americana song.

FILM & TV

Netf lix's Bad Trip Packs a Whole Lot of Chaos into 90 Minutes This hidden–camera prank comedy will have you at the edge of your seat—and then falling off of it from laughter. | ARIELLE STANGER

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atch one episode of The Eric Andre Show, and you’ll see just how much comedic chaos one man can bring into the world. A master of jokes and pranks, Eric Andre spends his screen time interviewing celebrities and celebrity impersonators, shocking innocent civilians, partaking in what producers describe as “deranged” man–on–the–street segments, and wreaking havoc in the studio.

Bad Trip, a recent Netflix release starring Andre, as well as actors and comics Lil Rel Howery, Michaela Conlin, and Tiffany Haddish, challenged Andre to produce and stick to a narrative storyline—rather than just unrelated jokes. The film follows best friends Chris Carey, played by Andre, and Bud Malone, played by Howery, as they travel from Florida to New York in order to meet up with Carey’s high school crush Maria Li, played by Conlin. Along the way, hidden cameras capture increasingly absurd pranks the cast plays on the public. The result is an adrenaline–inducing, entirely unpredictable comedy.

In line with his on–screen persona, which likely reflects his real–life demeanor, Andre is known to be anything but cooperative in real–life interviews. However, Street had the opportunity to interview him, Howery, and Conlin in a Zoom roundtable event, where he provided some insight into what happened behind the scenes. In true Andre fashion, he still brought some mischief to the event: At one point he changed his Zoom background to a screenshot of another interviewer, and later to a photo of Carole Baskin.

Andre cited Johnny Knoxville, Jeff Tremaine, and Sacha Baron Cohen as his “comedy forefathers,” with some of these comics even helping brainstorm on set. His own brand of absurd humor differentiates him from his inspirations, however. Andre stated that he's excited that Bad Trip is the first hidden–camera prank movie with a cast that consists entirely of people of color—making it a significant milestone in the comedy world.

Andre also touched on the process of getting comfortable doing hidden–camera pranks. “My organs used to sweat from nerves,” he says.

However, Andre’s been doing this kind of thing for years. He spoke on how Howery and Conlin were the ones truly “thrown into the fire pit,” quite literally going “from zero to a hundred."

According to the cast, Howery’s first hidden camera prank was a scene involving a Chinese finger trap. Let’s just say that fingers were not the objects stuck in the bamboo tube. He and Andre entered a barbershop to ask for help, and the shop owner pulled a knife on them.

“He almost got murdered on his first day,” Andre says while chuckling.

As for Conlin, Andre and his fellow producers dragged her to a mall for her audition. They had her pretend to beat up director Kitao Sakurai in front of several clothing store clerks. Conlin and Andre cracked up while reminiscing. They didn’t even film said audition—they just wanted her to see what it felt like. She did so well that she got the part immediately.

Producing Bad Trip further pushed Andre to expand his skills beyond his usual comfort zone of off–the–cuff comedy. In order to understand and utilize storytelling principles for the first time, he had to go back to school: He and his writers attended Robert McKee seminars and read Blake Snyder’s Save the Cat!, as well as Syd Field’s Screenplay.

With the narrative underway, it was time to focus on the main event—the pranks. When asked about balanc-

Photo from Netflix ing shock factor with the morality of pranking unsuspecting bystanders, Andre pinpointed the fine line between “good bad taste” and “bad bad taste.” Of course you want to be provocative, but dancing on the edge can often lead to being unethical.

“Comedy is a game of millimeters,” he says, “so you’re always checking in with your barometer—but there’s never malicious intent.” Conlin chimed in to say that the prankees were typically kind and helpful, both during and after the pranks. Giggling, she shared that one woman whispered calmly in her ear that “everything will be okay.”

Even more hilariously, a diner scene that made it into the final cut depicts Andre and Howery sitting at a table and chatting up their waitress. She ends up giving them

relationship advice, saying that she’s “slept with all different genders and genres,” and essentially recounting her entire sexual history.

Though the majority of the prankees you see in the movie are randomly selected, unsuspecting strangers, there were a few willing participants on set. Conlin, Andre, and Howery made it very clear that in a scene where Conlin’s character, Maria, beats up a blind man, he’s not actually blind.

“He was a very strange stuntman who was blessed with his own special set of skills," Andre says.

If this famous cast was constantly interacting with new people, how did they not get recognized? Howery says it was rarely an issue, especially since Andre tends to pick the right parks. He avoided his demographic of college kids and skateboarders, and instead opted for “40–and–up moms who had a long day.” He also mentioned that they changed their looks, which helped a lot. Howery’s “mustache and civil–rights–attorney hair” as his character, Bud Malone, strayed far from his everyday drip.

Even when they did get recognized, the cast played it cool. Howery shared that during a prank at the zoo, a woman approached him to say that he looked a bit like Lil Rel Howery. “Yeah, I get that all the time,” he replied.

“Anyway, what’s going on with that gorilla?” It totally worked.

Staying in character is absolutely crucial for these kinds of pranks. If you waver for even a second, the prank fails, because you’re relying on the prankees to be utterly shocked. If they suspect that something is up, their reactions won’t be raw.

Andre says that the sheer pressure forced him and the cast to commit to the act, and they hyped one another up throughout filming. Without giving too much away, there’s a scene wherein a gorilla does unspeakable things to Andre’s character. According to Andre, Howery stood with the onlookers, saying things like “Oh my god—my friend’s in peril! Please help him!” The two would “ping pong emotions back and forth” to really convince the audience.

As with any comedy, the funniest scenes are the bloopers; the closing credits showcase several of them. Because the crew did have to stick to a storyline, some of the pranks just didn’t fit into the narrative. Fortunately, they plan to release some of these extra scenes later on, giving us even more to look forward to. As a bit of a spoiler, Howery explained his favorite scene that didn't make the final cut: Andre’s character pretended to be possessed by the devil, and they brought in a real priest to exorcise the demon out of him. Howery kept cursing every time the priest gave him Bible verses to say, and the priest grew increasingly frustrated with him. Howery says, “It was insane.

The guy really thought he was doing it. He probably saw it on T.V. and said, ‘I’m gonna become a priest.’”

Bad Trip was released on Netflix March 26, so be sure to catch a glimpse of the hysterically out–of–control journey.

Buckle your seat belts and hold on tight, because it’s going to be a wild ride.

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LIFE IN A DEMOCRATIC BLACKOUT

BY A A K RU T I G A N E S H A N

B U R M E S E S T U D E N TS R E F L ECT O N T H E M I L I TA RY C O U P T H AT I S F U N D A M E N TA L LY C H A N G I N G T H E I R C O U N T RY A N D T H E I R L I V E S .

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ywe Aung* (C ’24) begins his mornings by opening the Canvas website. If the page is available, Kywe downloads all the content he can get his hands on, extracting coding assignments and projects so they’ll be available to him offline. At around 3 p.m., he goes for a jog, running laps around the yard outside his home.

He continues to work on projects and homework until around midnight.

Before he goes to bed, Kywe secures the doors, ensuring that his dogs are roaming around in the vicinity near his house.

“I’m a very light sleeper. It’s not often, but around two times a week, I’ll wake up at 3 or 4 in the morning to check outside,” he says. “When I hear the dogs bark, that’s when I go outside. Just to make sure everything’s fine.”

Kywe’s daily routine—unlike those of other Penn students whose days also consist of Canvas, homework, and exercise—is marred by the ongoing threat of the violence proliferating outside his childhood bedroom.

On Feb. 1, 2021, the military leadership in Burma refused to accept the results of the democratic election, arresting the de facto leader Aung San Suu Kyi and several other members of the National League for Democracy. Under the command of General Min Aung Hlaing, the military declared a state of emergency and established a ruling junta called the State Administration Council. Since then, both police and military forces have launched a systemic crackdown on any form of dissent, shooting peaceful protesters and arbitrarily detaining journalists, government officials, and other civilians. These actions have resulted in widespread international condemnation: The United Nations Human Rights Council called for a release of arbitrarily held detainees and a suspension of the state of emergency.

The day before the coup, Kywe describes seeing Facebook photos of armored vehicles driving around the city.

“I was discussing it with my startup group while we were working for a competition,” he says. “It came up offhandedly, like, ‘Oh, there are tanks rolling around in the middle of the city downtown.’ Most of us dismissed it as a show of force.”

Kywe woke up the next morning at 7 a.m. to find out that the “show of force” had turned into severe demonstrations of violence.

May Win Phyu* (C ’24) was born and raised in Burma. She moved to Philadelphia on Jan. 14, leaving behind her siblings and parents who currently reside in the country. May became aware of the coup six minutes after BBC News posted the news online.

“I was freaking out. I was phoning some of my friends, who are some of my family’s friends from Myanmar in the United States, [and] who were able to contact my family from back home.”

“What first occurred was the internet connection cutting off,” she recalls, her voice wavering. “I was really freaking out.”

Before I begin my conversations with Kywe and May, I ask them if they’d prefer for me to refer to their

homeland as Burma or Myanmar. Kywe says he doesn’t mind either way, while May says she’d prefer Burma.

This question is the tip of a large iceberg, crystallized in a tenuous political history, ethno–majoritarianism, and bloodshed.

“One of the strong indicators of conflict in any place in the world is a disagreement over the appropriate name for the state,” says Brendan O’Leary, a Lauder professor of Political Science who specializes in conflict research. “The very fact that we’re having this discussion is a signal of intense conflict.”

The country was originally called Burma, after the dominant Burman ethnic group. In 1989, following the then–ruling junta suppressing pro–democracy groups, military leaders changed the name to Myanmar in an attempt to “foster ethnic unity” and gain international legitimacy. Some entities—like the United Nations, France, and Japan—recognized this change. Others, like the United States, did not. Today, the Burmese verbally refer to their country as Burma, but use Myanmar in official documents.

T H E R E A R E DA I LY I N T E R N E T B L AC KO U T S F RO M 1 A . M . TO 9 A.M. ALMOST ALL M Y [ S Y N C H RO N O U S ] C L A S S E S A R E L AT E AT N I G H T, S O T H AT ’ S A B I G I M P E D I M E N T. —K Y WE AUNG

“Burma has multiple difficulties to resolve,” says O’Leary. He categorizes these issues into three major strands. For one, since its independence from colonial rule in 1948, Burma has mostly been under military dictatorship. “This generates, as we might expect in the contemporary world, a democratic movement and a series of democratic movements to oppose military governments,” he says.

In 2010, military rule was replaced by a military– backed civilian government. And with the appointment of Nobel Peace Prize winner Aung San Suu Kyi to state counselor in 2016, the changes signaled a new era in Burma’s history.

Unfortunately, these changes wouldn’t last.

Aside from conflicts over democracy, Burma also faces serious issues with equality among its different ethnic groups. Historically, armed ethnic minority groups have turned to violence to secure better treatment. As of 2015, eight of these groups have signed a ceasefire with the government. Others have refused to do so out of dissatisfaction with the process and ongoing distrust of the government and military.

The third strand of conflict, which likely receives the most attention in the West, is Burma’s persecution of the Rohingya people.

“There has been periodic ethnic expulsion,” says O’Leary. “Some would say, I think with good evidence, [that there have been] genocidal assaults on the

Rohingya population.”

Aung San Suu Kyi positions herself as a champion of human rights. Her complicity in the military’s genocide against the Rohingya, however, says otherwise.

The current coup seems to be a painstaking example of history repeating itself. There’s a risk that the conflict will exacerbate existing tensions with ethnic minority groups and worsen conditions for the Rohingya. Now that democratic icon Aung San Suu Kyi has been knocked off her pedestal, there’s no clear understanding of if a ‘return’ to democracy can exist.

Beyond broad political implications, the coup has affected the daily lives of Burmese citizens, including through internet censorship and blackouts. For Kywe, these military–ordered shutdowns limit his capacity as a student.

“There are daily internet blackouts from 1 a.m. to 9 a.m.,” he says. “Almost all my [synchronous] classes are late at night, so that’s a big impediment.”

Kywe’s current internship as a digital strategist has also been affected. “Part of my job is to take care of [the company’s] Facebook page. And Facebook is blocked.

So how do I do that?”

Kywe’s answers are punctuated by constant barking from his dogs, a necessary alert given the threat of conflict looming outside. Military violence, especially in Yangon, the country’s economic capital, has been the norm as of late. In a statement given to the Human Rights Council, United Nations Special Rapporteur Tom Andrews said, “There is video of soldiers and police systematically moving through neighborhoods, destroying property, looting shops, arbitrarily arresting protestors and passerby, and firing indiscriminately into people’s homes.”

“There are unknown actors out there at night who are committing arson and harming people,” Kywe says.

“That has been worrying.”

When asked if he feels safe in his home, Kywe pauses before answering. “In the daytime, yes, but in the nighttime, I would say not quite,” he says. “In my part of the township, it is relatively safer compared to other townships, which are out of the city.”

He hesitates before continuing: “It’s kind of hard.

Relatively, compared to everyone else? Yes. But as an absolute term? Not really.” As he speaks, sirens blare in the background.

May phones her parents twice a day. “I have to cope with the internet cutoff time to contact them,” she says.

She can only reach them early in the morning or late at night, with radio silence in the middle.

“They keep telling me not to worry,” she says. Her voice trembles as she glances at the ceiling of her dorm room. She takes a deep breath, composing herself as she finishes her answer.

“I'm the youngest in my family, so they care a lot about me. And they will always say soothing words.

[They will tell me] not to worry. But I know that’s not true.”

In comparison to her family and friends who are on the ground in Burma, May feels relatively powerless. “I could only give them emotional support,” she says. “I feel like I can’t do anything. I’m trying my best to do

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what I can. But it’s limited.” The conflict has taken a toll on her mental health.

“It’s taking away all of my energy.”

As for her personal opinions on the political situation, May is resolute in her convictions.

“The military is doing violent things to suppress the voice of the people,” she says. “[There is] an extraordinary willingness on the part of large numbers of civilians to continue to protest against military dominance, despite the very high likelihood of being on the receiving end of crushing brutality,” says O’Leary. “So the question is, absent any kind of external intervention, who will prevail?”

External intervention in Burma is fraught with diplomatic tension. While countries in the West, like the United Kingdom, have openly condemned the coup and imposed sanctions, other countries remain ambivalent.

Economists agree that if the European Union and the United States both tightened restrictions on Burma, the economic repercussions could be significant.

However, Asian countries, like China and Singapore, are still Burma’s biggest investors.

China in particular previously defended the military dictatorship, which makes its condemnation of the current coup less likely.

“In principle, there should be an opportunity here for some kind of international mediation,” says O’Leary. But the United Nations is relatively limited in its capacities. Most bodies of the United Nations don’t have enforcement power—other than the Security Council, of which China is a permanent member.

“If the matter went to the Security Council, the question is, how will China behave? It would likely use a veto,” he says.

Kywe is part Chinese, a factor that he says plays into other people’s perceptions of his role in the protest. According to a 2012 study, there has been an observable negative attitude among the people of Burma against the Chinese, for a number of reasons ranging from cultural “intrusion” to disdain of the Chinese government’s support of the military.

“Since we’re Chinese, [there’s a question of] who do we support … It’s a bit harder to dodge around those questions,” he says.

A large number of protests have occurred in downtown Yangon, where his family’s offices are located. Kywe’s family is not political at all. Still, “it is starting to get hard to stay neutral,” he says.

As to whether these protests can bring down the regime, O’Leary says this is still an open question.

“In 2011, many people predicted that the Syrian regime would fall quickly, partly because there was so much popular protest against it,” he says. “But the Syrian regime proved willing to wade through oceans of blood to stay in power. We don't yet know whether that's true of the Myanmar military.”

Towards the end of the interview, I ask May and Kywe if there’s anything they’d want to share with those unaware of the situation.

“Nonviolent protests should be treated as [nonviolently] as possible. And that’s not the case in Myanmar,” says Kywe.

May takes a second to collect her thoughts.

“There’s a lot of things I want to say,” she says, resting her face in her hands. When she speaks, she seems to be addressing more than her audience of one.

“It’s the violent things the military [is] doing to the people. I think that’s something that people should be aware of.”

Later that day, May sends me a social media post she saw describing the death toll in Burma as a result of the protests. Dated Feb. 28, it says there were 23 deaths as of 4:40 p.m. that day.

As of March 26, that number is estimated to be more than 300.

There is no easy solution. Based on his general experience in conflict regions, O’Leary says that military regimes often don’t want to govern. “They're usually in government because they think that the civilian leaders will do something catastrophic, something dangerous,” he says.

If an agreement is reached, these leaders will

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likely want a guarantee that there won’t be any criminal repercussions against them.

“That's a very, very difficult bargain for the opposition to agree upon,” he says. “But if you put yourself in the shoes of the military, that's probably their minimum price.”

The opposition will likely want a more

ALICE HEYEH

concrete form of justice. “[They will want to] jail leaders who are responsible for multiple human rights violations,” he says. “Many will want—in particular, those who care about the Rohingya—to hold [the relevant military leadership] culpable for genocidal atrocities.”

Burma is highly multilingual and multiethnic, even though there is a Burman majority. According to O’Leary, there needs to be a shift towards “patterns of coexistence and tolerance, rather than dominance.”

As with most human rights issues, awareness and advocacy are crucial in reaching this point.

“I think there are limited but important things that individuals can do,” says O’Leary.

“One is to raise the military extermination of democracy as an issue of principle with all democratic governments—not [just] those in the neighborhood.”

Another key strategy is to support grassroots organizations within Burma that provide an alternative account of events. “[This is so] the military doesn't get the ability to lock down evidence of continuing dissent,” he says.

At the 30–minute mark of my conversation with Kywe, the internet blackouts begin to roll in again. He already warned me about the volatility of his connection at the very beginning of the call. I’m just about to ask him whether he has any last thoughts, if he has any questions for me, or if he’d like to expand upon any of his earlier statements.

Instead, the line goes silent. *Names have been changed for anonymity.

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THE EMPTINESS OF WALL STREET'S

Feminism is more than breaking through the glass ceiling. | JEAN PAIK

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n 2017, investment management company State Street Global Advisors (SSGA) placed the prominent Fearless Girl statue in New York's Financial District. With her hands on her hips and chin raised high, the Fearless Girl squarely faces the Charging Bull, another famous Wall Street statue that represents the supposed pinnacle of corporate grit and success: the American Dream. When the Fearless Girl was first installed the night before International Women’s Day, it was quickly lauded on social media as the symbol of modern–day feminism. Now, four years later, the statue has once again been remodeled to mark the international holiday.

The Fearless Girl has since been moved in front of the New York Stock Exchange, where she's surrounded by shards of broken glass to symbolize the “many glass ceilings women have shattered.” For SSGA, the installation of the Fearless Girl was ultimately an act of self–promotion under the guise of a political message. In 2017, they utilized the statue to market their exchange–traded fund called SHE, an index fund that invests in companies with gender–diverse leadership. Ironically, SSGA later faced backlash for the lack of diversity on their own leadership boards and their settlement of a lawsuit that showed signs of the company systematically underpaying their female and Black employees.

Apart from these discrepancies, the Fearless Girl ultimately represents the hollowness of the feminism it promotes. The statue serves as a visualization of how

women 'breaking the glass ceiling' is perceived as inherently feminist. Climbing up the corporate ladder, attaining high positions of leadership in finance companies, and being your own boss is viewed as the epitome of female empowerment. While having women in positions of power is important, who does it come at the expense of? Does it 'trickle down' to all those who are victims of misogyny and the patriarchy?

Which groups are excluded from the conversation of mainstream feminism and its goals that only seek to benefit the most privileged?

Akin to the lukewarm messaging of SSGA’s own gender diversity initiatives, glass–ceiling feminism is seen as more acceptable because it doesn’t seek to dismantle what feminist writer bell hooks describes as the “imperialist, white–supremacist, capitalist patriarchy.”

At its core, glass–ceiling feminism doesn’t challenge the status quo—it sustains it. In the name of equality, women are told to merely “lean in" to the capitalist patriarchy to achieve individualistic financial success.

Excluded from the conversation is any analysis of race, class, gender, sexuality, and other forms of marginalization. This phenomenon, however, is unfortunately not new in white feminist discourse. The racism of notable suffragists such as Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton illustrates how white supremacy permeates political movements, even ones that tout equality. Despite companies and celebrities often leveraging feminist language, they can also be complicit in harming and marginalizing other wom-

Illustration by Isabel Liang

FEARLESS GIRL STATUE

en.

For example, Miki Agrawal, co–founder of the period underwear company THINX, worked against the very feminist values that her company claimed to support. Reports were filed against her for the exploitation of workers with low pay and substandard benefits, antagonism towards salary negotiations, toxic workplace culture, and multiple reports of sexual harassment. The long list of Agrawal’s heinous behavior was disclosed by dozens of her own employees— mostly women.

All of this underscores the necessity of intersectionality, a term coined by lawyer and civil rights advocate Kimberlé Crenshaw. Crenshaw describes intersectionality as “a lens, a prism, for seeing the way in which various forms of inequality often operate together and exacerbate each other.”

Glass–ceiling feminism ultimately fails to account for the privileges that make it possible to break through the glass ceiling of corporate America. Companies' calls for diversity and inclusion are hollow if there are no efforts to dismantle the societal structures that exclude and marginalize these groups in the first place. Feminism means actively rejecting misogyny and patriarchy, and listening to and centering the experiences of BIPOC women, trans women, disabled women, and other marginalized communities in the feminist movement. More than just shattering the glass ceiling, feminism is a movement towards gender equity and our collective liberation.

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Netflix's Drive to Survive Refuses to Reckon with Racism Racial justice is a glaring omission in a documentary about the 2020 Formula One season with unprecedented access. | KATHRYN XU

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he new season of Netflix’s Formula 1 documentary, Drive to Survive, is out, and along with its narratives—first race winners, death–defying struggles, corporate intrigue—comes one particularly glaring omission.

Before the restart of the 2020 Formula 1 World Championship season, Formula 1 launched its #WeRaceAsOne initiative. The purpose of the campaign is to pivot off the beginning of a delayed season in order to “fight challenges of COVID–19 and global inequality”—the first step was the Austrian Grand Prix, where at the bequest of the grid’s only Black driver, Lewis Hamilton, and suggested by Grand Prix Drivers' Association leaders, the 20 drivers tried to show a unified front of support for Black Lives Matter, wearing ‘End Racism’ T–shirts.

Fourteen drivers knelt before the anthem played. Six stood.

For the first few races, the pre–race display of anti–racism remained just as disjointed. Drivers were late. The anthem played and interrupted the ceremony.

Reporter Ted Kravitz criticized the mess, saying it was in “shambles.” Hamilton expressed frustration with drivers who believed that the action only needed to be done once and no further. Later on, it went somewhat more smoothly.

The Formula 1 organization created a black–and–white "End Racism" video that slotted in with the playing of the national anthem as a stab at activism.

In Drive to Survive, this is barely seen.

Drive to Survive is in a peculiar position. Documentaries like it, no matter how dramatic and over–the–top their narratives may seem, are not reality TV shows where what happens next is a mystery to the viewer—what is depicted in each episode has already happened.

The creators have to balance two audiences: people who know nothing about Formula 1 and people who kept up with every detail of the Formula 1 season. For both groups, Drive to Survive thrives on a certain dramatic irony between the viewer and the actors—drivers, owners,

team principals—placed in front of the camera.

The irony is highlighted in the first episode, taking place in March when the severity of COVID–19 has not yet sunk in. Renault driver Daniel Ricciardo jokes to his mom that drinking Corona beer helps to develop a resistance against the virus. In Australia, four days before the scheduled start of the Grand Prix, Formula 1 still intends to go on with the season. While the viewer knows that there is no possibility of a continued season, the people on screen do not.

Fans who watched the 2020 season as it happened can still have their own fun with Drive to Survive. Half of the joy comes from seeing which forced narratives don’t necessarily align with the perceived real life narratives. Some inclusions are amusing in retrospect.

When Red Bull Racing team boss Christian Horner says that Mercedes can be beaten, there is some sentiment of "Oh, you poor, sick bastard," from fans who know that Mercedes will (spoiler alert) run away with the championship.

Fans who watched the 2020 season as it happened can still have their own fun with Drive to Survive. Half of the joy comes from seeing which forced narratives don’t necessarily align with the perceived real life narratives. Some inclusions are amusing in retrospect.

When Red Bull Racing team boss Christian Horner says that Mercedes can be beaten, there is some sentiment of "Oh, you poor, sick bastard," from fans who know that Mercedes will (spoiler alert) run away with the championship.

For the first nine out of ten episodes in the show, no mention is made of anti–racism 'activism,' but its traces can be found lurking in corners everywhere.

In the sixth episode, Red Bull driver Alexander Albon is shown wearing the pre–race "End Racism" T–shirt. It goes unexplained, as though it's casual wear that Albon chooses to don over his racing suit before the race begins. In the eighth episode, "End Racism" is visible

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in the onboard video of McLaren driver Carlos Sainz, printed clearly on the back of the steering wheel. It creates a different irony for viewers: an omission of the intense discussion of racism and struggle needed to create even a facile anti–racism platform in Formula 1.

Finally, in the dying moments of the show, Lewis Hamilton speaks. He has just won the seventh championship of his Formula 1 career, tying Michael Schumacher for the holder of most–ever championships. Oddly enough, it’s the only screen time he really gets, past the third episode where he’s portrayed as a complaining antagonist who’s unaware of the rules.

His final speech serves as a curious microcosm of what Netflix, or perhaps Formula 1, is willing to platform. He talks about what it’s like to be Black in motorsports, about the police killing of George Floyd, with Netflix bizarrely including graphic footage of Floyd’s death. Netflix finally shows shots of the drivers kneeling, and of Hamilton wearing a shirt reading "Arrest the Cops Who Killed Breonna Taylor" onto the podium.

The acknowledgement of the anti– racism struggle and protest is meant to feel good, almost triumphant, in a moment when Hamilton has overcome racism to be a world champion, even if the documentary paints him as an antagonist. But Hamilton has been champion for the past three years in a row. What's changed?

Sports are compelling because they are escapist realities where miracles are permitted to happen. Romain Grosjean leaps from a fireball after his car splits in two when everyone thinks he might be dead. Pierre Gasly wins the 2020 Italian Grand Prix after being dropped unceremoniously from his previous team. Each of these stories are true and can be told in a single 40–minute–long episode.

The omissions that Netflix makes in regards to race serve to preserve the sports narrative as a realm where good things happen in an easily contained arc. When

Lewis Hamilton becomes world champion and gets his moment to talk about racism, it is just that: a moment, relegating a long struggle to five minutes at the end of the show. For similar reasons, it's far easier to recount stories of breaking color barriers than the slow, steady fight that extends decades into today.

It is an uneasy experience to sit through the first nine episodes of Drive to Survive without seeing a single mention of the conversations and actions that had been taking place since the beginning of the season. But for the purposes of the show, the omission is necessary. Race is not an easily compartmentalized story. If it is mentioned, it cannot be ignored. Injustices seep into every single facet of life, including things consumed to escape it—sports, music, art, pop culture—and the intrusion is often an unpleasant one.

To remark on the battles that Hamilton fought through is to call into question Drive to Survive itself—what does it mean that other main characters failed to support the only Black driver on the grid?

When Netflix shows Hamilton’s T– shirt saying that we need to say the name of Taylor, it does not say that Formula 1 began an investigation into Hamilton and later banned drivers from wearing non–team clothing on the podium.

What does that mean when we watch a show about an organization that purports to be anti–racist but censors activism? You cannot think about the anti–racist fight in Formula 1 without thinking about the drivers who didn’t kneel or the ethics of the sport at large.

Activism, in this case, is an interruption to easily consumable narratives, becoming a story that’s best allotted for one singular moment at the end when it can’t hang over the rest of the show. For fans of Formula 1 who care, the postponement of the discussion is uncomfortable.

For those who don't, or would perhaps just rather not think about it for the 400 minutes of Drive to Survive, the omission might be a relief.

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WHAT THE SWITCH TO REMOTE LEARNING MEANS FOR STUDENTS WITH A DISABILITY Lessons on allyship and inclusivity from Disability Advocacy at Penn | ARIA VYAS

Illustration by Isabel Liang

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ne year ago, Penn students and faculty emerged from an atypical spring break to an almost dystopian new normal. In an astounding few weeks, students were asked to navigate housing relocations and total overhauls to their existing learning structures. Every student was impacted greatly. But for students with disabilities, examining these impacts opens the path to create better learning spaces. The one–year anniversary of the COVID–19 pandemic is an opportunity to think about what is working, what isn’t, and what accessibility for students with disabilities can look like at Penn as we rebuild the post–COVID–19 academic world.

Elizabeth Kim (C ’21) was a College junior when she started Disability Advocacy @ Penn alongside College students Emma Ronzetti (C ’21), Kruti Desai (C ’23), and Malik Griffin (C ’20). Elizabeth was born deaf and has cochlear implants. When asked about her experience as a deaf student at Penn, she notes having felt isolated in the quest to find a sense of belonging, saying, “It wasn’t until I learned ASL and became involved with a deaf community that I realized my disability wasn’t a burden.”

Disability, according to federal law, is defined as the presence of "any impairment that substantially limits one or more major life activities." For students, this means people with certain mental or physical differences may require additional support to study or attend class, balance classes with extracurriculars, or simply get around campus. At Penn, learning accommodations are overseen

by the Office of Student Disabilities Services (SDS), and addressed by the Weingarten Learning Resources Center.

Among students with disabilities, there is diversity in lived experiences and challenges. Students with visible disabilities, such as physical impairments, have different needs and require different services than students with learning difficulties. Nationally, it is estimated that 19.5% of college students have a disability, with about 4% of those students being deaf. For students with disabilities, distance learning poses the risk for extra disruptions in work environments, loss of external structure, and barriers to optimal learning comprehension from having to operate behind screens.

The switch to remote learning in the past year has accelerated tools for online learning, Elizabeth says. Google Chrome released a live captioning tool that provides increasingly accurate automatic transcription with appropriate capitalization, which helps hearing comprehension. She credits SDS, empathetic professors, and remote learning advancements for helping her through the changes of virtual learning. Emma, her co–founder at D@P adds that to increase inclusivity for those with physical disabilities, it would be “hugely beneficial for Penn’s disability community for more meetings and classes to be recorded or via Zoom, even when we don’t necessarily have to do so.”

Emma, like Elizabeth, felt alone in her experience at Penn with a hearing disability. She has central auditory

processing disorder, which means she processes the spoken word differently and can face difficulty understanding speech. It wasn’t until her SDS advisor recommended Lime Connect, a community of college students with disabilities learning to navigate the career search, that she realized how critical it is to bring that sense of belonging to Penn’s campus. “When I returned to campus from that program, I felt disappointed that I and other students did not have that same experience and peer support system at Penn,” Emma says.

At Penn, resources and accommodations to meet the needs of students with disabilities are often provided by the university at the individual level.

This is essential to develop an appropriate learning plan and to provide need– based logistical support to students whether it be in–person or virtually.

However, without the coordination of a community, it can be hard for students with disabilities to advocate for an inclusive academic experience. “Even though there was structural support, there was no organized community or specific event for incoming students with disability,” Elizabeth says while recalling her experience navigating her first years at Penn. She notes that accommodations that are needed for individuals with disabilities vary and that there is room for improvement to make sure these needs are being met, not just logistically but holistically.

There are several ways that the Penn administration and community can create a more inclusive environment

both academically and culturally. These include allyship efforts such as talking and listening to members of the disability community directly about their experiences, as well as pushing for administrative change. Initiatives such as diversity training for professors on how to discuss accommodations with students with disabilities, adding a program about disability resources during New Student Orientation, and increasing representation of the disability community in campus speakers or in class curriculums can help create a more inclusive campus.

“Overall, I hope that Penn as a whole learned to be more understanding and more flexible once we reopen.

The COVID–19 pandemic has been a hard time for all of us, and I think people really learned to accommodate and support each other. But, we can’t stop that momentum or give up on that collective feeling. As we transition back to a more normal college experience, it is vital that people are just as understanding with each other as they were at the start of the pandemic, and I believe this mentality would really support the Penn disability community in our efforts to be better recognized and understood by the Penn community.” says Emma.

As we’re imagining what learning will look like this fall, we have the opportunity to deliberately create spaces for those with different abilities and needs and to improve the ways that Penn is adequately inclusive towards students with disabilities.

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Eating out Again?

Rethink What You’re Paying For. Tipping has drained the restaurant industry for decades.

These restaurants have a better solution. | ANGELA SHEN

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

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alk into Fitz and Starts—a restaurant, bakery, and bar on South 4th Street—and take a look at its menu.

Don’t panic when you see the prices.

A cheeseburger, which would barely cost $2 at the McDonald’s on 40th and Walnut, is $17 at Fitz and Starts. Fresh, higher–quality ingredients make up one part of the story around the major price difference. The other part? The service, the experience, and the relationship that Fitz and Starts wants to build with its staff and its community.

Fitz and Starts owner and head baker Pat O’Malley is one of several Philadelphia restaurant owners who have eliminated tipping and implemented a 20% service fee on all purchases. Other restaurants instituting a 20% service charge are Martha, a cozy neighborhood bar in Kensington, and all seven CookNSolo restaurants (20% for sit– down dining, 10% for takeout)—including popular on–campus destination Goldie.

Money from the additional service fees goes towards supporting fair hourly wages for hospitality workers. That means the price of a burger and fries at Fitz and Starts isn’t just how much each ingredient costs—it’s the price of sourcing local, high–quality ingredients and having each dish made fresh daily. It's also the price of reasonable wages and health benefits for the people who prepare and bring you the meal, who wipe the tables and clean the bathrooms before and after you leave, and who spend hours working in a high–risk environment during the pandemic.

O’Malley likes to explain the service fees to curious customers with an analogy.

“If you go to a mechanic or a doctor, you're paying for someone to do 15

minutes of work because you can't do it to yourself. Customers claim, ‘[I] could just make this hamburger [myself ].’ But you didn't do that! You came in, you had somebody else do it, so you have to pay for it. If you randomly asked someone, ‘How much would I have to pay you to stop what you’re doing right now and go make me a grilled cheese?’ They probably wouldn’t say less than $20.”

Indeed, choosing to adopt a visible, upfront service fee rather than silently raising menu prices allows restaurant owners like O'Malley to combat false narratives about the restaurant industry and re–educate the public about the cost of a meal.

For instance, Martha in Kensington has a page on its website dedicated to explaining its transition to a service charge. In it, the bar details the many drawbacks of tipping—including its deep roots in institutional racism.

The practice of tipping rose in popularity after the Civil War, when companies sought ways to avoid paying their formerly enslaved workers. Instead of being paid a stable salary, former slaves were forced to please their white customers and employers in order to earn money.

These unfair power dynamics continue to exist in the restaurant industry today. A study from Cornell University found that customers consistently tip more to white servers than black servers. Hospitality workers are also at high risk of facing verbal abuse and harassment from customers. As many as 90% of female hospitality workers report experiencing sexual harassment. The accommodation and food service industry accounts for more sexual harassment filings with the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission than any other

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industry.

Tipping perpetuates both social and economic inequality. Typically, front– of–the–house restaurant workers like servers, bartenders, and bussers are paid a “tipped wage” far below state minimum wage. In Philadelphia, this minimum tipped wage is $2.83 per hour. If tipped employees make less than Philadelphia's standard minimum wage—$7.25 per hour—by the end of the night, their employer is required to supplement the difference. In one eight–hour shift, these Philly servers are paid about $23 by their employer and make the rest of their income in tips. Cooks, dishwashers, and other back–of–the–house workers only make $7.25. For undocumented immigrants working in kitchens, that number is even lower.

With this pattern of underpayment, it almost comes as no surprise that the poverty rate in the restaurant industry is triple that of the total workforce.

One in six hospitality workers lives below the poverty line; this rate is highest for female workers and workers of color.

As Martha explains in the letter on the bar's website, “The practice of tipping has certainly evolved over the years, but many modern employers continue to see tipping as an opportunity to avoid paying workers real wages by relying on customers to tip their workers instead.”

O’Malley agrees that restaurant owners need to recognize their responsibility in valuing and properly compensating their employees.

The pastry chef, who was a 2018 semi–finalist for the prestigious James Beard food award, says, “I've had my own personal revelations about the

challenges of the industry—just going through it myself, and having employees that have had really hard life situations, and having to layoff people that have been with me for a while or just genuinely did their best because we have to just keep limping along.”

"Limping along" is the right way to describe it.

More than 110,000 restaurants in the United States closed over the course of 2020. That number climbed to greater heights over the winter months, when outdoor seating became less desirable.

Overall, the restaurant industry has lost more revenue and jobs than any other industry during the COVID–19 pandemic. To make matters worse, the field already suffers from astronomical turnover rates, lack of sick leave and health insurance, and great financial uncertainty.

The pandemic underscores the need for a service fee. It also presents restaurants with the chance to positively transform their finances, operations, and culture in a way that would normally be nearly impossible due to the fast–paced and competitive nature of the industry.

As CookNSolo co–owner Steve Cook explained in a December interview with The Philadelphia Inquirer, “I’ll never have another opportunity to remake our business in the way we have during the pandemic. There's more sensitivity now (among the public) to what the cost of a meal is.”

At the end of the day, it’s up to consumers to recognize the value of the food and service that restaurant workers provide them. Service fees and the education that comes with them are one important step towards bringing dignity and fair pay to workers in an industry that has long devalued them.

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Uncovering Penn’s Hidden Histories Through the Augmented Reality App The Penn & Slavery Project’s educational, critical, and accessible new app is available for download. | JESSA GLASSMAN

Illustration by Isabel Liang

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hat does it look like to attempt to decolonize design for an app?” Malkia Okech (C '19) asks. “What does it mean to create an immersive digital experience about slavery when that is just such a traumatizing history?”

The Penn & Slavery Project, an undergraduate–founded collective dedicated to researching the University’s relationship to Black histories, took these questions and many more into account when creating the Augmented Reality App. As a Student Designer, Malkia worked with peers and faculty members to cultivate an immersive experience that educates users on Penn’s deeply rooted ties to slavery, race science, and anti–Blackness.

Malkia often refers to the free app as “an admissions tour turned upside down.” With six stops across campus including at the Penn Museum and the Quad, users can embark on a digital and critical exploration of Penn from anywhere in the world. Each location has been intentionally chosen and transformed using augmented reality to parse through Penn’s connections to slavery. The tour's goal is to explain how the University’s history has impacted the campus we know today, the Philadelphia community, and the country at large.

For example, at the Class of 1949 Generational Bridge, the history of Breanna Moore’s family across five generations is told using her grandmother’s quilt. “There’s so much symbolism about how quilts hold generations of stories.

It tells the story of her own family in relation to the violence at Penn,” says VanJessica Gladney, who is an original Student Researcher and Fellow for the Project as well as a second–year history Ph.D. candidate. The virtual location of the legacy–filled quilt underscores the importance of shallow historical recognition. It forces app users to think critically by juxtaposing Breanna's family against wealthy alumni donors.

Founded around the time that many universities were considering renaming buildings due to their namesakes’ ties to slavery, the Penn & Slavery Project hoped to encourage Penn to hop on the bandwagon of taking ownership for the past. Despite this, Penn formally denied any connection to slavery in 2016, motivating the Penn & Slavery Project to dive deeper into research to expose how inaccurate this recounting of history was.

To ensure the information had a wide– reaching impact, one of the team’s most critical concerns when constructing the app was to make sure it was accessible, approachable, and understandable. By choosing to make the app remotely operable rather than using touch–points on campus that must be scanned through the app, the Penn & Slavery Project made the tour accessible to all individuals no matter their location.

Including closed captions and trigger warnings were other methods that the team employed to keep the app safe and educational.

The app format itself is more conducive to an encouraging learning experience, VanJes-

sica believes, as it doesn’t presume background knowledge, and allows users to learn at their own pace in a format much more approachable than an academic paper.

Alongside raising awareness in an educational and accessible fashion, the Penn & Slavery Project has another hope for the app’s impact: “I think our overall goal is that this will help encourage Penn to start taking reparative actions,” VanJessica says. The Project believes that Penn should consider giving Black community members monetary reparations, and hopes that the app will put pressure on the ad-

"Our overall goal is that this will help encourage Penn to start taking reparative actions,” - VanJessica Gladney ministration to do so.

When designing the app, many discussions about aesthetics and their associated meanings took place. In order to avoid playing into common western hegemonic design tropes, student designers spent time reading, learning, and researching alternate approaches. “I did some research on designers who were combatting racism, or were just telling people they need to breach the colonial mindset that tells us we

should be afraid of color,” Malkia said. “I encouraged the team to think outside of that and look at African patterns and tapestry, and think about how we could make the look and feel of the app a little more inviting to contrast the information.”

At the beginning of the app design process, early frames involved a very limited and dull color palette of grey and tan that cast the app in historically grave light. Malkia pointed out that this tendency to portray the past in such a subdued manner is a result of domineering design narratives that have shut out the vibrant hues and eccentric patterns traditional to African design. The team made a conscious effort to flip this script through its design choices.

The Penn & Slavery Project’s Augmented Reality App is an interactive example of interdisciplinary collaboration. With students pursuing degrees in everything from Computer Science to English, the Project’s emphasis on Digital History unites their respective academic communities. Digital History is an emerging field that capitalizes on the “moldable, fluid, and dynamic” nature of technology to understand the past, attracting students from a variety of academic backgrounds. Despite having vastly different educational pursuits, the team is united by their passion for exposing buried truths about the University’s history, seeking justice for modern–day Black communities, and educating the masses in an approachable yet innovative way.

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We Need To Let Go of Vaccine Envy Jab judgement has gone too far. | AIDAH QURESHI Illustration by Alice Choi

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hile vaccines against COVID–19 represent one of the peaks of human ingenuity and achievement, they also present an issue of vaccination etiquette: How are we supposed to act in the global scramble for a shot?

With many people jumping the queue and getting vaccinated despite technically not being eligible, are we supposed to condemn them or admire their boldness and ask for tips? How can we stop ourselves from feeling resentful instead of happy when a friend or relative is ahead of us in the queue? Is yearning for vaccines a legitimate response to the pandemic, or just a symptom of FOMO? These and many other questions have arisen throughout the past few weeks as more and more people, and specifically Penn students, are getting vaccinated. Scrolling through social media, it seems like every other post is a selfie of someone with a huge smile and bandage on their arm, holding a little slip of paper confirming their vaccinated status. This sudden onslaught of vaccination can create what is known as ‘vaccine envy’ for those still waiting.

On the surface, vaccine envy makes complete sense. In the year since the pandemic began, millions of people have lost loved ones, jobs, health insurance, and more. Living through that kind of collective trauma, a mass emotional response was inevitable. Rates of depression, anxiety, and loneliness have all risen tremendously over the pandemic, so it’s natural that these feelings would manifest themselves as envy.

Of course, some are better at dealing with this kind of jealousy than others. The worst most of us have done is complained a bit, but that doesn’t come anywhere close to claiming that you “deserve some preferential treatment” for vaccination because you pay higher taxes, like Charles Barkley did, or tweeting that obese people should not receive vaccine priority like the now–suspended Fox 5 News anchor Blake McCoy. Clearly, vaccine envy is real.

I received the vaccine last week, through what is called a “dumpster dose,” meaning that after calling multiple pharmacies and waiting for hours, I was lucky enough to receive a leftover vaccine that

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would otherwise have been thrown away. However, apart from my immediate family and close friends, I was hesitant to broadcast this to everyone I knew, and opted out of posting my vaccination slip on my story like I had seen so many others do. Part of the anxiety stemmed from the small, seemingly offhanded comments and posts that I had seen all over social media about who deserves the vaccine versus who doesn’t.

Judgement has been one of the constants of the pandemic, so it’s no surprise that jab judgement came alongside the vaccination effort. But shaming people more often than not has the opposite effect than the one intended. Griping about people who skip the line or advertise doing so on social media is so common, in part because it’s easier than figuring out how to fix a broken system that let thousands of people die. However, it also is a way of separating ourselves from those around us when, more than ever, we need to band together.

The pandemic has also highlighted how selfish certain individuals can be, which would turn anyone into a pandemic scold. It’s hard not to feel frustrated when you hear news of the wealthy Hollywood elite taking vaccines intended for the Black and Latinx residents of Los Angeles, who have been disproportionately affected by this pandemic. But it is possible to feel justified anger in instances such as these without being consumed by outrage and letting it embolden us to judge everyone in our periphery who has received the vaccine.

If there’s anything that the last year should have taught the world, it’s empathy. As more and more people around us become vaccine–eligible or, like myself, manage to get a dumpster dose in the coming months, I genuinely hope that we can all pause our knee–jerk reactions and judgements. We all need to make an effort to separate our internalized notions about health, morality, and worth from the COVID–19 response. After all, we all have the same goals: to stay safe and hopefully get everything back to normal.

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Where to Buy Houseplants in Philly Three local plant shops are expanding their goals of greenifying Philadelphia—and their businesses. | MATTHEW SHEELER

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

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hiladelphia is no stranger to greenery. Whether you're strolling through Rittenhouse Square over the weekend or picking up flowers from the Saturday farmers' market, Philly is the perfect city for those with green thumbs—especially considering the city's abundance of plant shops. With COVID–19 limiting opportunities for business, many houseplant hobbyists feared our favorite stores would be on the brink of closure. But three local plant shops have experienced quite the opposite outcome as they expand their businesses into larger spaces.

URBAN JUNGLE Urban Jungle, or as the workers call themselves, "the plant people of South Philly," is a vibrant green oasis in the middle of its neighborhood. The shop offers houseplants, a wide selection of arrangements at the dried flower bar, gardening tools, and more. The current location also has an upstairs greenhouse full of luscious tropical foliage.

Urban Jungle President Curt Alexander opened the shop in 2009. The vineyards of his home state, California, inspired his interest in horticulture. But when he moved to Philadelphia, he found that the city looked "stark" in comparison. "For his taste, it lacked life and greenery—so he did something about it," the shop's website reads.

He began his mission of greenifying spaces within Philly in his own home, installing window boxes and hanging baskets at every corner. Eventually, he caught the attention of neighbors and friends, and soon a business plan was underway. Alexander opened his first storefront in South Philly not long after. The shop, which has been open for over a decade, is now growing: Urban Jungle recently revealed plans to use its second location on Water Street as an outdoor nursery open to the public. The Water Street location is currently home to Urban Jungle's landscape branch, which specializes in the "design, installation, and maintenance" of large–scale landscaping projects.

Urban Jungle was named "2019 Best Place for City Plants" by Philadelphia Magazine. With the expansion, it looks like the shop will continue to live up to the title.

LOCATION: 1526 E. Passyunk Ave.

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ILLEXOTICS ILLExotics is a family–owned shop that sells reptiles, amphibians, houseplants, and pet supplies.

The retail shop in South Philly can be described as a living art installation: tropical plants cover the walls from floor to ceiling, and exotic creatures inhabit grand display terrariums. Owners Chris Urban and Franco Franchina "have over 10 years experience and education in horticulture and herpetology, specializing in growing tropical plants from aroids to orchids and raising fauna ranging from chameleons to dart frogs."

The shop also notes that any reptiles and amphibians sold are bred in captivity, rather than captured from the wild. Similarly, all of the exotic plants you can find in the shop are grown from the ILLExotics Center City "Greenhaus," where all plants are acclimated to the city environment before finding a home. ILLExotics has found success in working with members of the tropical plant community to provide sustainably sourced plants to Philly customers. This allows the store to offer some rarer, more expensive specimens, like a $2,999.99 Monstera adansonii variegata, which lives up to its unique name. That being said, you can still find common plants, such as the Golden Pothos, for as little as $8.

The shop's passion is growing: ILLExotics recently announced that it's moving from its small space at 1704–06 E. Passyunk Ave. to a larger location nine doors down the block. Starting in early April, visit this exotic shop's new place to take a break from online classes and the city landscape.

LOCATION: 1704–06 E. Passyunk Ave.

CULTIVAIRE PLANT STORE Cultivaire Plant Store is a small business catering to all kinds of plant enthusiasts, whether they're a first–time buyer or hardcore hobbyist. Owners MaryAnne McClay and Justin Kenyon opened the store with the goal of creating a go–to spot for more affordable plants. "We first thought about opening a plant store because of what seemed like excessive plant pricing at other locations throughout the city," the website reads. "[W]e figured there had to be a better way." At Cultivaire, you can purchase a plant like String of Hearts for as little as $6.

Due to the Cultivaire's immense success since its opening, the shop is expanding to a larger space a block away from its current location, the owners announced on Instagram on March 1.

"When we opened our doors in November 2019, we never envisioned we’d outgrow the space so quickly, and we certainly didn’t think this could happen during a global pandemic," the post reads.

"Well we were wrong, as the past year has been a whirlwind with houseplants being more popular than ever."

"It's been more of a pleasure than I ever expected to have this business, and meet these neighbors, and make these friends," wrote McClay after hanging the store's sign at the new location. "New beginnings are around the corner, and we can't wait to make great things happen."

LOCATION: 2732 W. Girard Ave.

As we enter the growing season, consider supporting these businesses that are committed to making Philadelphia a little greener. Whether you're looking to buy your very first plant or starting an outdoor garden, Philadelphia's plant shop scene can guide you in the right direction.

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Where Gen Z and Millenials Clash When the two most tech–savvy generations collide, online conflicts ensue. | PHUONG NGO

Illustration by Alice Heyeh

G

en Z has been evolving. Many members are finally reaching adulthood, and these new young adults are contributing to society in whatever sense they see fit.

The generation that currently ranges between about six and 24 years old has been growing such that their style and identity have grown noticeably far from the preceding Generation Y, more commonly known as Millennials.

The result is conflict over social media, a digital battlefield with lots of troops on both sides.

Gen Z has not been quiet about their criticism of Millennial style. Mostly through TikTok, the younger generation has loudly expressed its disdain for skinny jeans and side–parted hair. Instead, they popularized straight–leg jeans and middle parts, while simultaneously condemning Millennial lingo such as ‘doggo’ and the smiley face emoji. However, as shocking as the boldness of Gen Z might seem, this clash between generations isn't unprecedented.

How did a generation that should be closely related to its predecessor perpetuate an “intergenerational war," as labeled by Fox News?

Dr. Jessa Lingel, a professor of Communication at Penn’s Annenberg School for Communication, discusses

the developing relationship between Gen Z and Millennials through social media and attempts to answer that question.

The overall increase in social media use across various age groups makes their overlap on platforms like Tiktok—and, thus, clashes between them—inevitable. Take the “OK Boomer” meme, for example. Millennials dismissed Baby Boomers for being out of touch with the current times and failing to recognize issues that Millennials claimed were caused by the older generation. As a result, Boomers called the younger group entitled and argued that they 'need to get a a job.'

“The generational differences are kind of overblown,” Lingel says. “Every generation pushes back on the generation before.” This is especially true through social media, Lingel adds, for other generations. Facebook amplified Millennial voices during the Occupy Wall Street and Arab Spring movements, and the internet helped Gen X organize for the 1999 Seattle World Trade Organization demonstration.

Gen Z has aged, and its members are old enough to not only gather a better understanding of the events around them, but to also partake in activism that fits the ideals that they have shaped for themselves. The social

“Every generation pushes back on the generation before.”

- Dr. Jessa Lingel media apps dominated by Gen Z, such as TikTok and Twitch, largely reflect their values, especially during the recent presidential election, the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement, and activism against anti–Asian American violence. Gen Z has been able to consolidate their values and articulate them using social media.

As Gen Z grew fonder of Billie Eilish–inspired fashion, baggy clothing and mom jeans replaced skinny jeans as the dominant trend. This transition has left Millennials, who were in the epicenter of the 2010 skinny jeans trend, confused and even angry.

But shifts in trend are nothing new. The only difference, Lingel says, is that “the trends come a lot more quickly. As with anything digital, the circulation happens faster.”

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