THE NOSTALGIA ISSUE
AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION 2 fall 2020 nostalgia AFFECTION AFFECTIONvolume AFFECTION EDITORS IN CHIEF Eloisa De Farias AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Julia Smith AFFECTIONCREATIVE AFFECTION AFFECTION TEAM Ileana Hinchcliff Lauren Dillow AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION SENIOR WRITING EDITOR Taina Millsap AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION WRITERS Ashley Alaia Nadia Borg AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Olivia Cigliano Lauren DillowAFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Ella Guinan Sophia Krigel AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Gabriela Portugal Talia Smith AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Copyeditors Head Catalina Carret Agüero AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION Head Videographer Julija Garunkstis Toby Lichtenwalter AFFECTIONVideographers AFFECTION AFFECTION Felicia Varlotto AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION AFFECTION
Nostalgia is more than a wistful affection for the past. It’s in the sepia-toned pictures of the extended family you’ve never met. When you pick up a candle at Bath & Body Works and it smells like a memory you forgot you had. You wonder how lemongrass and lavender could evoke the same feelings you felt that one time you went to the zoo with your family. Nostalgia has meddled with the things we wear: the bright butterfly clips and low rise jeans that many despise for making a comeback. We breathe nostalgia, we embody it, and, most importantly, we create it every day just by being. This issue of Affection Magazine is the issue we spent our whole lives making. Undeniably, we create the things we miss the most without knowing it. The making of this issue is something we will be nostalgic for in the next years to follow. As a team, we have had the opportunity to delve into the past, into what things bring up the bittersweet feeling of nostalgia within each of us. From cooking traditional meals with family members to yearning for a time period you missed by a decade to the movies that live in the confines of your mind. This issue encapsulates the often hard-to-place sentiments that marry a teardrop to a smile. Nostalgia is a human experience that shapes the way we react in the present. With that in mind, this issue is a picture-book full of borrowed memories and stories. The pandemic has forced us all to be in touch with the things that we might have forgotten amid the chaos that consumes everyday life. In these moments, we have discovered cracks and dents in our childhood rooms we might have missed before. We have reread cheesy romantic novels that shaped our ideals for relationships growing up. And we have explored who we were through the lenses of who we are. Nostalgia isn’t always bittersweet; at times it is simply bitter. Sometimes you wish you could erase good memories because they are tinted with people who eventually hurt you. Sometimes it is difficult to hold onto a memory that is impossible to relive. And sometimes the now seems significantly worse than the past, when a scraped knee was the worst of your worries. We hope that this issue helps you embrace the present with an understanding of the past, in all of its twists and turns. Learn to let go, to remember, and to appreciate the things that create affection. With Affection,
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AFFECTION MAGAZINE Eyes•of a Creative, Directed by Julia Smith. M
Eloisa de Farias. Photographed by Julia Smit
Modeled by Michael Hanano. Assisted•by AFFECTION MAGAZINE th.
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eyes of a creator
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Written by Olivia Cigliano
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rowing up, I always had an affinity for fashion, but I didn’t realize my style peaked at a time I can barely remember. Looking back at old pictures of outfits (that I didn’t pick out myself), I’m humored by how trendy they are now— these are the exact styles I search for when I go thrifting. Over 15 years later, I’m seeing a style from a past era get recycled once again. Early 2000s trends are finally back, and I’m loving it. I was born in the year 2000, so my memories of the decade are rooted in television, movies, toys, and computer games. However I also remember being excited by the kitschy hyperfeminine butterfly clips, plastic heels, and, of course, everything pink. I remember playing dress-up all the time and choosing new Barbies and Bratz based on the outfits they were wearing. I styled my dolls before I even dressed myself. I had an infatuation with cheetah print, which was definetly influenced by The Cheetah Girls, but I hadn’t touched the trend since childhood, until it started coming back a few years ago. Now my closet is full of an assortment of obnoxious animal prints. My love for fashion was born in an experimental, fun, and femine style period, and I remember feeling empowered by it. As children, we’re not even aware of our own passions, and that’s when it becomes a part of you for the rest of your life. All the Y2K trends of the past few years make me miss childhood. Looking back at my cheap accessories, printed overalls, and juvenile butterfly designs, I’ve come to the conclusion that I was a style icon back in 2000 before I even hit double digits. Here’s a collection of my favorite outfits from the early 2000s that I would wear today— if they could fit me. .
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Starting off with one of my favorites, here I am in layered stripes and pink and purple, looking like the chill indie girl I was destined to become.
Here I am on the first day of grade, I was the first to arrive in the classroom. Note the pink camoflauge rolling backpack and pink cheetah print lunch box. I miss the unapologetically tacky prints of the 2000s. The ‘fit speaks for itself.
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Since finding this photo a few years ago, everytime I thrift I look for a coat similar to this. It’s my life’s mission.
My sneaker game was really strong back in the day. Here, I’m sporting Dora sneaks— I was apparently really into shoes with characters on them. In photo 2 I’m wearing Brats sneakers.
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And I’m pictured here, glamping, in Strawberry shortcake velcro sneakers and a shirt I’ve seen a million times on Depop.
This is my sister and I and this incredible blue cardigan and embroidered dress. This is also a shout out to pigtails, my favorite way to wear my hair growing up (which was very much influenced by Boo from Monsters Inc). In fact, as I’m writing this, my hair sits in pigtails. I’m trying to bring them back, but in a Lorelei Gilmore kind of way.
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I served my best cottagecore every Easter until my head grew too big for this hat.
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Last but not least, a Y2K queen on a family trip to NYC. Pretty sure I saw Bella Hadid wearing this outfit on Instagram.
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Tied down to the physical, Directed by Julia Smith. Modeled by Soleil Fitzgerald. Assisted by Eloisa de Farias, Taina Millsap, Ileana Hinchcliff. Photographed by Julia Smith.
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Located at
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on the Big Island of
Hawaii
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Coloring Book, Photographed by Julia Smith
Roi-Rewind
My styling career started when I was 6 written and styled by Lauren Dillow
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oday I put on a new sweater, that I just bought and then accessorized my outfit with necklaces out of my six-year-old self ’s jewelry box. Nostalgia is a word that I tend to overuse, but a lot of my job as a fashion stylist involves looking back at who I was throughout the seasons of my childhood, and noticing which pieces from those eras are reappearing in modern trends.
photo by Davante Jackson
most recent ones, and it turns out that my creative vision remains quite similar all these years later.
Dress-up games are a digital alternative to the paper dolls that were popular decades before the world went online. Right now, late 90s and early 2000s fashion is all the rage. It makes sense that the fashion in these games, created in the early 2000s, is similar to what currently In stressful times, I like to take myself back to the makes up people’s Instagram feeds. I find it fascinating origins of my passion for fashion styling: online that the designers featured in the games are those that dress-up games. Many will remember the MyScene are popular now, such as Dior, Prada and Vivienne or Barbie games from the iconic EverythingGirl.com. Westwood. My earliest memories of loving the fashion industry Considering their origin in South Korea, naturally are of printing out dozens of screenshots from dress- much of the content featured in the games is reflecup game sites, stapling them together, scribbling all tive not only of the decade, but of the street style in over them and calling the result a fashion maga- Asia during that time. The clothing seen in the Roizine. Actually, my elementary school friends and I world games mimics designs from cult brands like named it Teen Scene Magazine, and we thought it Hysteric Glamour, Angel Blue and Anna Sui. These was top competition for Teen Vogue and Seventeen. games are capsules of the subcultures of Japanese and Korean alternative fashion featured in publications I probably played every dress-up game available such as FRUiTS and KERA Magazine, or the manin cyberspace. But none of them, not even the ga of Ai Yazawa. They gave my six-year-old self acmost popular content from Girls Go Games, has had cess to subcultures of Japanese alternative fashion the longtime influence on my personal style that the like punk, Harajuku, Gyaru, Decora, Fairy Kei and Roiworld games do. Originally from a South Korean the many different styles of Lolita that have had a long game website created by RoiLife LLC, the Roiworld lasting presence in what informs my styling choices. I games were my initiation into the realm of Japanese thought as a child that my Japanese fashion influencand Korean street style— the most prominent in- es and my “scene kid” style were entirely unrelated, fluence in my wardrobe today. I spent hours putting but they really emerge from the same source. looks together on the hundreds of games from this site that involve dressing up models, creating hair and So, right here, in Affection Magazine, I am piecing tomakeup combos and arranging interior designs. Ev- gether looks from my Roiworld archive of online styling ery now and then, I like to return to these games, and appreciating the fact that over a decade later, as an still hosted by Y8.com, and create new looks on adult, I am still true to the fashion sense of my inner child. those same games that I first discovered back in I’m very thankful that what’s currently on trend evokes 2007. I like comparing my old style choices to my the nostalgia of my childhood dreams and aspirations.
© RoiLife LLC and Lifetime Studios
Affection Magazine Fall 2020 What do you hold affection for? Affection starts here!
The of
ennifer
Written by Ella Guinan
evin Art by Julija Garunkstis
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t’s a Monday night in 1986— around 10pm, let’s say. You and your friends plan to hit your regular spot, Dorrian’s Red Hand on the Upper East Side. You’re young, freshly eighteen, and completely ready to take on everything the city’s elite crowd has to offer. With your cashmere sweater laid gently over your shoulders and your mini Tommy Hilfiger bag in hand, the evening starts off like any other weeknight outing. The girls get their regular booth, and eventually it seems like everyone in the bar has made their way over to said booth at least once. After all, these are the “it girls,” the subjects of everyone’s envy. You know, the ones who live off their great-great-grandparents’ fortunes and have no concept of class privilege? Fast-forward to half past four on Tuesday morning. One of your friends, Jennifer, just left Dorrian’s with everyone’s favorite party animal, Robert Chambers. You turn to another friend and exclaim you think there might be a romantic spark starting up between those two. You sit there for a minute with a smile on your face as the two leave the bar and head out into the humid early morning. This is the last time you ever see Jennifer Levin. This scenario is one I imagined that Jessica Doyle experienced the night of August 25, 1986, only a few hours before her best friend Jennifer was found in Central Park. Jennifer had bruises and cuts all over her body, she was covered in bite marks, and her neck was chafed in multiple places, indicating to the medical examiner that she had been brutally choked various times. Her clothes were tattered, all her jewelry was missing, and her skirt was hiked up to reveal she was wearing no underwear. Police started working on Jennifer’s case immediately— a typical response by law enforcement when it comes to white, upper-class victims— and quickly discovered her friend Robert was
the last person who saw her. They decided to talk to him in hopes of mapping out her morning. When officers arrived at Robert’s home, the first thing they noticed was his physical appearance. His face was covered in fresh, bloody scratches and both his hands were swollen and bruised. The detectives didn’t buy Robert’s story that the scratches came from his cat. Apparently, his story was suspicious enough to justify bringing him to the Central Park Precinct for questioning. While being questioned, Robert’s story changed on more than a few occasions. At first he claimed he and Jennifer parted ways outside Dorrian’s that morning, only to eventually reveal that he had in fact been with Jennifer early
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that morning. Here’s what he told poli
“I was sitting there explaining...that I w going away and I don’t want to be both up, knelt in front of me and she just sc I didn’t notice them until this morning
He later added to his story that Jenni night and subsequently molested him a he must have accidentally killed her w
Now for a little background on Robe
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who know unimaginable wealth, Robert came from a middle-class family. Numerous sources close to the Chambers family attested to the fact that Robert often felt ostracized from his friends because of his financial background. Despite his comparative lack of wealth, he still managed to enjoy the title and privilege that came along with his social status. Ultimately, this privilege is what allowed him to walk out of the courtroom in 1988 with only five to fifteen years for manslaughter and a nearly unscathed reputation. It was no secret among his friends that Robert had quite the history of petty theft and burglary. But in the past, Jessica Doyle has spoken about how many of the friends she and Robert shared saw his theft as insignificant, and even harmless. It was just a means to an end for Robert, that end being cocaine. After all, he was such a great guy! Everyone loved him! He was so friendly and charming, not to mention handsome! How could such a dashing guy with so many friends do something like this? It just wasn’t in the realm of possibility. And Robert’s defense team saw to it that the rest of the country shared these views as well. Jack Litman, Robert’s attorney, took the idea of framing his client as a perfect, altar boy type and ran with it. Litman did everything within his power to make Jennifer out to be a “sex-crazed lunatic” who took advantage of “sweet, innocent” Robert. The tabloids and media followed suit. What’s more, Robert’s mother used to be a nurse for John F. Kennedy Jr. and, as a result, had friends with immeasurable power. One of those friends was the Archbishop of Newark, otherwise known as Robert’s godfather, Theodore McCarrick. If that name sounds familiar to you it’s probably because you’ve heard of the child sex abuse accusations brought against him. But thirty-two years prior to his public disgrace, McCarrick was a powerful player in New York politics. Thanks to a letter McCarrick wrote to the presiding judge, Robert was released on bond. If that doesn’t scream racial and class privilege, I don’t know what does.
ice:
want to see other people and that [she was] hered and she freaked out and she just got cratched my face. And I have these marks. g.”
ifer had been looking for “rough sex” all after they spoke about splitting up. He said while fending off her suspected advances.
ert. Although he ran with a group of kids
While Robert was out on bond, his team of attorneys worked tirelessly to ensure that Robert’s public image as a law-abiding, God-fearing family man was air-tight. They went so far as to send Robert to stay with a monsignor who offered to house him in his church while he awaited trial. By the time the trial began, Robert Chambers’ public image was flawless. Everyone saw him as a good, clean, Catholic boy who was preyed on by a wicked sultress. As for Jennifer, the media successfully turned her legacy into that of a “freak” who kept a “sex diary” and forced an innocent boy into “rough sex.” I could go on for pages and pages detailing everything reprehensible and utterly devoid of humanity in the defense’s argument. The legal and social legacy that Jack Litman created in his use of “victim-blaming” is unmatched and despicable. But that’s for us to unpack another day. Today, let’s talk more about institutionalized racism.
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Fast-forward to a year after Robert’s sentencing, when five young teenage boys were accused of the rape and attempted murder of a white woman in Central Park. The accusations against these boys came from pure conjecture. Initially, they were suspects because they happened to be walking around Central Park close to where Trisha Meili was raped and left for dead. The NYPD believed the boys being in the park around that time was sufficient evidence to charge Kevin Richardson, Raymond Santana, Antron McCray, Yusef Salaam, and Korey Wise with aggravated assault and rape. All five of these teens were from Harlem, a borough so economically removed from the Upper East Side it almost seemed like a completely different country. Crime rates were at an all time high in New York City in the late 1980s, but so was lack of access to vital resources such as grocery stores, health clinics and adequate education. Depravity and poverty breed crime, and the vast majority of those living in poverty in New York City at the time were Black and Latino people. It’s easy to pin a heinous crime on someone who has no way of defending themselves, especially when the public wants answers and your suspect has been subject to oppression their entire life. So that’s exactly what the prosecution and NY Police Department did. It’s Thursday night in 1989, around eight or nine. You and your buddies are just leaving the arcade when you pass by some older kids. They call out to you and encourage you all to join them. In the back of your mind you hear your mom’s voice reminding you about your trumpet audition tomorrow morning. But being fourteen, it’s easy to want to go along with and follow behind the cool, older kids. You and the others decide you’ll go for just a little while so you can make it back before ten. But not much time passes before you and your friends start getting uncomfortable being with the older kids. They start berating some bikers and getting in other pedestrians’ faces. You collectively decide it’s time to leave. No sooner is this decision made than blue flashing lights flood every crevice of the park. This scenario is one that I imagined Kevin Richardson
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experienced the night of April 20, 1989. That night, Kevin was one of ten young boys of color the police brought to the precinct for questioning. Many of the boys were unaccompanied minors. Due to the severity of the case, the officers of the NYPD interrogated the boys using divisive, polarizing tactics in ways that manipulated the boys into confessing to a crime none of them committed. Detectives and prosecutors on the case blatantly failed to acknowledge the evidence that exonerated the five, instead deciding to come up with ways their inconclusive assumptions would fit the crime’s narrative. None of the five boys was placed anywhere near the crime scene at the time of the attack. None of the
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jobs, they would have discovered that Mr. McCray had since made drastic changes in his life and raised his son with an exceptional moral code. This short list only touches the surface of evidence that should have exonerated the five boys of this crime in 1989. At this point, you might be wondering how Robert Chambers’ case relates to this one. The two may seem very removed from one another, but upon brief analysis, their connection becomes clear. Chambers was very obviously connected to Levin’s death. He was the last person to see her, he was covered in fresh bloody scratches the morning after, he had an extensive history of aggression and petty crime, and he had just broken things off with Levin, giving the prosecution a motive to work with. But thanks to Chambers’ powerful connections, his existence as a fairly well-off white man in a white-dominated society, and the media’s love for him, he was able to get off serving far less time than his crime should’ve required.
boys’ stories lined up with the others’ accounts. None of the boys except two even knew of the others before he got to the precinct. Every single person who was asked about the boys’ respective characters had nothing but glowing reviews. Korey Wise, the sixteenyear-old who spent the most time in prison of the five, wasn’t even originally brought in for questioning. Rather, he chose to come as a courtesy to his frightened fourteen-year-old friend, Yusef. The detectives used a bruise on Kevin’s face as evidence of Trisha’s resistance when in reality, an arresting officer was the cause of that bruise. The police went so far as to use Antron’s father’s criminal history against the boys. Had the police properly done their
As for the five boys from Harlem, the only thing that linked them to Trisha Meili’s rape was their false confessions. Neither Kevin, Yusef, Korey, Antron nor Raymond had anything questionable on their records. But because they were poor, non-white boys living in a society dominated by whiteness, their existences were immediately vilified and criminalized by the media. Headlines read “Teen Gang Rapes Jogger” and “Wolf Pack’s Prey” leading up to the trial, effectively instilling false notions of the boys’ characters in the public’s mind, and, perhaps more importantly, the jury’s collective mind. The trial of the “Central Park Five” came only a year after Robert’s trial. The juxtaposition was a daunting reminder that institutionalized racism was (and still is) alive and thriving in the United States. A group of young Black and Latino boys were in the wrong place at the wrong time, in a criminal justice system that perpetuates the criminalization of Black skin and repeatedly finds excuses for those with white skin.
*Some details were speculated for the purpose of storytelling
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Slide, Directed by Joliet Morrill and Ella Spurr. Modeled by Elle Spurr. Photographed by Joliet Morrill.
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Written by Gabriela Portugal
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Art by Kaitlyn Hurley
ostalgia takes many forms. This is the form my family and I know best. Sharing love, care, and memories through the meals passed down through my generations. Generations so far back, we forget their names and faces. But we never forget their love.
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Las Empanadas 1 pound of ground beef 1 medium-size/small white onion 2 pinches of salt 2 twists of black pepper
1 packet of powdered chicken bouillon 2 hard boiled eggs ¼ cup of Spanish olives ¼ cup of raisins 15 empanada discs
Instructions: Preheat the oven to 400° Fahrenheit. Mince the onion and cook it in a large skillet until translucent. Add the ground beef to the skillet and cook with the onion. Before the ground beef is fully cooked, add the salt, pepper, and chicken bouillon powder. After the ground beef is cooked all the way through, let it cool for a few minutes, then mix in the chopped-up hard boiled eggs, chopped-up Spanish olives, and the raisins. Then place the filling in a large bowl and refrigerate for an hour, until the filling is fully cooled. Take out the empanada discs (which should have been resting in the fridge), the filling, and a small bowl of water. For each disc, place about a tablespoon to a tablespoon and a half in the center of the disc. Dip your finger in the water and lightly trace the water on the edge of the disc. Fold the disc in half and make kneaded creases on the edge to close up the empanada. Cook the empanadas in the heated oven for 20-25 minutes.
Panic quickly set in when Abuelita forgot to preheat the oven. “Te dije que encendieras el horno,” said Abuelito. I told you to turn on the oven. “Psh,” she shooed him away. With oiled, seasoned hands, she hastily set the oven before more chaos ensued. Abuelito walked into the living room with the warm, savory scent of our dinner trailing closely behind. Mamá crouched in front of the tele, the kind with a big box behind the screen. She was demanding that my brother and I pose in front of the fake Christmas tree meticulously decorated with glass ornaments. “Jose, get in there,” she said to her brother— mi tio. Tio loomed behind us stretching taller than the fake Christmas tree in the back. He was a mountain. Meanwhile, papá sat on the couch watching a rerun of a soccer game over the top of mamá’s mane. “Abuelito, ven acá,” said Abuelita from her seemingly permanent spot in the kitchen. Come here. Abuelito waddled back into the boiling lair to do the one job he was allowed to have in the kitchen. He folded the empanadas. Though it’s a simple task, it is sacred. The edges can’t be slapped together in haste. It takes skill. It takes delicacy. After a while, brother and I were done stiffly modeling
for mamá’s Facebook photos. With my black stockings covering my little feet, I skated across Abuelita’s glossy wooden floors into the small, steamy kitchen. Eyes barely peeking over the granite countertop, I wordlessly watched as Abuelito folded and stitched each empanada shut. “¿Quieres aprender?” asked Abuelito. Want to learn? I glided around to the side of the counter where only cooks were allowed. Again, I wordlessly observed how Abuelito artfully kneaded even, neat stitches on the side of the sacred empanadas. Abuelito handed me the next one expectantly. No pressure. With heaps of concentration and a pinch of anxiety, I slowly mirrored Abuelito’s motions, only to get a lumpy and clumsy-looking patty. “No, fold like this,” Abuelito said in his accented English. Again, I watched. I mirrored. I failed. “No worries, keep practicing,” Abuelito patted my shoulder. Now, ten years later, we’re all ten years older, ten years wiser, ten years more weathered. Signs of aging show in all of us. Wrinkled skin, sunspots, aches, pains, wheezing breaths. Abuelito included. But when it comes time to fold the empanadas, Abuelito shuffles to his spot in the kitchen. With shaky breath and fluttering hands, he still makes the most perfect empanadas.
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Maté
Bombilla (straw for maté) Maté (the gourd or cup) Yerba White sugar Instructions: Boil a cup of water in a kettle. Put the bombilla in the maté cup. Put three or four scoops of yerba tea into the maté gourd and pour the hot water in until it covers the tea. Let the yerba steep for about five minutes. Then either drink the water that’s been steeping or, if it’s too bitter, spit it out. If you want to add a sweetener— such as sugar— add your desired amount. Then add more hot water to the maté; make sure the cup is filled to the brim. If drinking alone, you can use the same tea leaves for about 10 drinks; this depends on how strong or diluted you like your maté. If drinking with a group, everyone drinks from the same maté. In addition, you must finish your cup before it is refilled with hot water and passed to the next person. Change out or add more yerba when necessary.
When I was growing up, my parents loved to remind me of how shy I was by constantly retelling the story of my third birthday. They threw a huge party with all my preschool friends at some jungle-gym kind of place, The Gymboree. Though I don’t remember this birthday, there are plenty of photo prints from CVS to prove my shyness. There isn’t a single picture where I am not clinging onto mamá or papá’s leg, arm, neck— you name it. In fact, when I was standing behind my absurdly large orange birthday cake as everyone sang “Happy Birthday,” papá held me in his arms while I buried my face in his blue polo shirt. Not much has changed, to my parents’s dismay. Even with family, I was flustered. I was awkward. I got shy. One day, though, I changed. It was the first time I had maté. The Argentinian way. Thanksgiving arrived and so did some cousins on mamá’s side of the family. Ones I’ve never met. “That’s Justin, Jaden, Brianna, Giselle, Cynthia, Will, other Will, and Laura— don’t be shy, they’re your family,” said mamá as she gently pushed me over to them. With a soft-spoken greeting and half-hearted wave, I failed to really break the shell I felt comfortable in. “Vamos, chicos. Let’s have some maté,” said mamá. “That means you, too,” she said in her stern, don’t-disappoint-me voice.
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I came into the kitchen, where everyone had already circled. and Abuelita was pouring the first round of maté. I always drank maté on my own or with mamá and papá, but this was different. Drinking maté is an intimate experience. You’re not just sharing the same tea and straw. You’re sharing your memories, laughter, grief, and love. I grudgingly scooted my way to the outside of the circle and sat, twiddling my thumbs, until it was my turn to drink. “Gabita. Aquí está,” said Abuelita. So I took the maté and sat in my little corner outside the circle that bubbled with gossip, funny stories, and laughter. After sipping the maté until the yerba was dry, I passed it onto the next participant. “Hey, do you want to sit next to me?” Brianna, or Cynthia, or Laura said to me. I couldn’t remember who was who. Obliging them, I took up the space in between two of the strangers and instantly felt their warmth of friendliness. Although I only really listened to their banter and gossip and silly stories, I felt a part of it all. With round after round of maté, I slowly felt my shoulders relax. My hands stopped sweating. I stopped thinking. I just learned to be present with what was in front of me.
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AFFECTION MAGAZINE • THE REVIEW
A Review of
The Umbrella Academy (Spoiler Alert!) Written by Nadia Borg
Art by Nadia Borg
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epending on where you are in the world, your forecast could warn of anything from blissful sun to a need for five layers just to avoid hypothermia. But only in the Netflix original show, The Umbrella Academy, do you get clear skies with a chance of earth-destroying asteroids brought on by daddy issues. The show’s main characters are seven siblings, each of whom possesses a special ability— super heroes… but I hesitate to call them heroes, because in their typical bumbling around they tend to create more chaos and harm than they prevent. I mean, hear me out, siblings can be a blessing or a curse, but when you add superpowers and a traumatic upbringing to the mix, disaster is bound to occur. It all makes for a captivating show with nonstop drama. The story is cleverly written, the music is groovy and well placed, and, most importantly, I found myself falling in love with all (or at least most) of the characters. As you journey with the Hargreeves siblings through their sorry endeavors to stop apocalypses, failed attempts at time travel, uniting only to fall apart, and messing up every chance to make amends with one another, you can’t help becoming invested in each one’s story:
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Number One What Luther Hargreeves lacks in brain cells, he makes up for with muscle mass. Seriously, though, the size of the dude’s biceps is matched only by the number of hotdogs he can consume. Luther is constantly trying to prove himself to his siblings, his father, the world— anyone! He may look tough, but he is definitely the biggest softie in the entire show. He often indulges in self-pity parties, which causes him to abandon the others when he is most needed. But then again, the man really was sent on a pointless mission to monkey around on the moon for four years. To conclude, Luther is an oaf with good intentions, but an oaf nonetheless.
Number Two To quote the show itself, “Imagine Batman, then aim lower.” Yep, that’s Diego Hargreeves for you. From black jumpsuits and knives to an obsession with saving John F. Kennedy, Diego has something which I would call a hero complex. He insists on being a lone wolf, but rarely finds himself alone. Diego’s insecurities come out in the form of pride and comparison, and he can seem bitter, but when the moment comes, he always puts his family first. He has some of the most heart-felt moments in the show, including many sweet scenes of his relationship to the family’s mother, Grace.
Number Three Allison Hargreeves is guilt-ridden: she has used her abilities to manipulate people with lies in order to build herself a seemingly perfect life. But who doesn’t know that lies always crumble and fall apart at some point? And when the web Allison has spun starts to unravel, it leaves her in a collapsing world, and she vows never to use her ability again. But times are tough, and demand action one way or another, so when Allison is dropped into 1960s Texas, where she faces prejudice against her darker skin, she strives to choose dignity and honor over violence. Allison wants to be a good sister, but is also involved in things that are outside of the sibling circle, which often leaves her to make hard choices of what she should hold on to and what she should let go of.
Number Four Guys wearing skirts are back in style, and Klaus Hargreeves will lead the charge! It’s breezier on the…you know where that’s going. Where do I even begin?! Klaus is the biggest cinnamon roll on this side of the moon. He’s sweet, compassionate, funny, has a cult that won’t leave him alone, and he can talk to the dead. Oh, and he’s gay (sorry ladies). Scarred from haunting experiences beyond the realm of the living, Klaus likes to keep numb by abusing any substance that he can scrounge enough money to buy off a back street. He sees the best in everyone and is always willing to help, but is often unable to due to his intoxicated state. Nevertheless, he experiences some major character growth throughout the series, as he attempts to clean up his life at the prompting of people who love him. Klaus is chaos in bodily form and is unfazed by any peril, always charming as a kitten high on catnip.
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Number Five You know how little dogs are usually so much more hostile than big ones? Well, that would make Five Hargreeves the littlest dog on the block. He’s a calculated assassin that teleports through time and space to do whatever needs to be done. He does about 99% of saving the world, while the other siblings squabble around with the remaining 1%. It’s highly likely that he suffers from high blood pressure, if not from the innate problem of being a Hargreeves, from the lavish amounts of black coffee he can’t seem to go a scene without. But then again, he is a 58 year old man stuck in an adolescent’s body. So is he going through a midlife crisis or puberty? Who knows? By Five’s words and dramatic facial expressions, you’d think he hates his siblings; but his actions prove otherwise.
Number Six Ben Hargreeves is understanding and a great listener. He doesn’t make much trouble and the others leave him alone. Maybe that’s because he’s dead. The show doesn’t make clear how Ben was brought into his ghostly state, but it’s better to have him as a ghost than not at all. Seeing as he’s a ghost, only Klaus is able to interact with him. Ben spends the majority of his time trying to keep Klaus alive and out of any more trouble. All of the siblings seem to have fond memories of Ben, but that also could be that absence makes the heart grow fonder. No, but really, Ben is a solid dude— not physically , but characteristically he’s up there. Which leaves us all reeling from the cliffhanger at the end of the second season: is Ben still Ben?
Number Seven What do Vanya Hargreeves and a flounder have in common? They’re both grey, cold, and tasteless. Or at least that’s how Vanya starts out. Growing up feeling like you’re not special is never fun, but for most of us, it’s just a lie we tell ourselves. For Vanya, it’s more than that. She’s literally been brainwashed by her own sister to believe that she is nothing special. So detached and feeling like the black sheep of her siblings, Vanya leaves and attempts to create a normal, boring life. And her normal, boring life is going pretty swell, until she falls in love with an all-too-perfect dude, and we all know that all-too-perfectness is just a mask to hide what’s underneath; in this case, a serial killer. Anyway, when her toxic boyfriend pushes her to the limit, she discovers that she’s had powers all along: really powerful powers, powerful enough that, when everything comes crashing down on her
frayed mind, she brings about the end of the planet. Poor Vanya. Try as she might to have a normal life and stay out of trouble, her siblings aren’t going to let her miss out on any of the action. The Hargreeves are dysfunctional, but as they learn to navigate their messes and face their demons, they also learn that they don’t have to do it alone. That’s what family is for— they are the people that will always love and accept you. They’re the ones you fight the most with but love most deeply, the ones that misunderstand you and say the wrong things at the wrong time but you love nonetheless. I came to appreciate how incredible sibling relationships truly are through watching this show and I highly recommend it to anyone who enjoys your not-so-typical superhero sibling drama.
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je t’attendrai, Directed by Taina Millsap. Modeled by Joelle Fernande Photographed by Taina Millsap. Assisted by Eloisa de Farias, Elena d REVIEW AFFECTION MAGAZINE • THE
ez and Rocky Flood. de Farias and JuliaTHE Smith.REVIEW • AFFECTION MAGAZINE
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Wr i tt e n by Ta l i a Sm i t h
Pho t o s b y Fr a nk Fi e b e r
Ma k e u p b y S i m m i
Ha i r by @ k e i l z p o ni e z
Kali Claire : Redefining R&B, ALICIA, And More
K
ali Claire is a bubbly, nineteen-year-old British singer/songwriter working and living out of the United Kingdom. In addition to conveying a unique, cross-genre-rooted style and sound, Claire’s music has helped to redefine London’s R&B scene. From creative freestyle work to breaking through genre barriers, Claire’s ability to create intersectional music has helped bolster what is an arguably rapidly developing career. With an EP entitled Symptoms Of A Teen, four singles, and a recent album release Songs By The Pool, her official Spotify page is home to nearly 62,000 monthly listeners and over one million streams.
from her home in London— a city she holds near to her heart— amid her quickly developing career. Claire gives much credit to her “original fans,” meaning those from her hometown who have supported her musical endeavors from the beginning. “Even though I don’t see those people from my hometown every day, they still have a special connection with my music,” she explains. “But the UK in general I think is very supportive of me… I feel like people want to hear R&B but not just R&B, like different types of music. And that’s what I’m trying to make.” She says that the evolving perception of R&B music as a genre makes it easier for her to experiment with both conventional and creative sounds, pinning her Aside from writing daily, collaborating with various UK as a stand-out artist. producers, and finishing up a supporting role as the opener on tour earlier this year, one of Claire’s biggest Claire describes her style as a “mix of everything, not just accomplishments so far has been writing “Wasted Ener- one particular genre or sound.” Often, she finds herself gy”— a song that was recently adapted and featured on pulling inspiration from various rappers, hip-hop artists, Alicia Keys’ self-titled album, ALICIA. blues and jazz musicians, and soulful beats. Growing up Since the beginning of this year, Claire has been working with a musical theater background helped her to develop
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this cross-genre sub-sound. “I don’t really see myself as an ‘artist,’” Claire says, “I kind of just see myself. And that makes me feel like I don’t really have to be stuck in one box— like I have to be one thing and stick to it. I have more freedom that way.”
process has been slightly inhibited by being confined inside, but working remotely has given her the ability to connect with different producers and artists around the world. “If I’m inside for too long, I feel like I get a bit, I don’t know, boxed in.” Claire says.
Claire first began writing songs at the age of eleven but doesn’t feel super confident about most of what she wrote before turning seventeen. “I’ve always been singing, but I started writing music properly at that age... and I’d write a song every day,” she explains. Claire says that, at this point, she has written well over a thousand songs. Although most of them haven’t been released, she takes pride in the content she currently has out on various streaming platforms.
For Claire, songwriting is like “craving a piece of chocolate— when it’s time, it’s time,” she says. As far as cultivating new ideas for songs, she believes that everything she’s ever written and will go on to write is “already inside of the mind and body.” She believes that all of her song and album ideas are somehow already in her, as if they’re manifesting from past experiences and memories that she holds close.
For her songwriting process, Claire tries not to confine herself to one systematic method. She says that quarantining during the COVID-19 pandemic this year has been a mixture of the good and the bad— her creative
Pre-pandemic, Claire had been hired as the opener for Spanish-Swedish singer and songwriter, Mabel, on a tour throughout regions of the UK and Europe. Claire recounted their performances in Spain, Belgium, and Germany, emphasizing the importance that her Man-
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chester set brought to her performing career. “I did two Ariana Grande covers in my set— One Last Time was one, and it was super emotional for everyone, the crowd and myself included” she explained. Following the 2017 bombing incident at Ariana Grande’s Manchester show during her Dangerous Woman Tour, these performances resonated with Claire for obvious reasons. “I just felt the energy in that room,” she explained. “It was a bit overwhelming, and I’m a crier, so it was a lot to handle. But still very memorable.” As well as being inspired by mainstream artists such as Grande or Beyoncé, Claire was given the chance to work with another one of her biggest inspirations to date— Alicia Keys. Not only was Keys’ As I Am tour Claire’s first concert, but Keys was also the first major artist to pick up one of Claire’s original songs. Claire wrote the song “Wasted Energy” at a writing camp early last year. It made its way through multiple producers and eventually to Alicia’s production team, where it was picked up and implemented in her newest album release. Claire says that when she got the call from her manager, telling her that Alicia wanted to feature the song on her newest album, she was “genuinely, utterly shocked.” She went on to explain that Alicia’s choice to use her song actually helped to restore her faith in following the “energy of the world.” “I did a cover of Alicia’s song You Don’t Know My Name almost every day for two months while I was on tour with Mabel. And then for the news to pop up that she wanted my song... it was just so crazy,” she says. Keys added Tanzanian recording artist Diamond Platnumz on the track, another inspirational artist to Claire and her career. She’s incredibly happy with Alicia’s choice to use her work, and says that any kind of collaboration is fun for her. “I can put my best ideas forward,” she says, “and they can put their best ideas forward too. Then we create something so unique, together.” Claire continually reminds herself to not overwork her craft. “I feel like I can’t hold on to things for too long, because then I become a perfectionist about it,” she explains. As she continues to write daily, record her favorite productions, and bolster her presence in the Alternative R&B scene, she keeps a collective, open, goal-oriented mindset that encourages her to continue advancing her career. “I’m kind of in an optimistic mindset right now, and just making the best songs possible,” she says. “Just gotta keep those creative juices flowing, then the songs will just naturally follow through.”
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Although this wasn’t one of our conventional Affection Q&A Interviews, as we do with all our interviewees, we asked Kali Claire what she holds Affection for in her life. She said:
“
Mini eggs. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried them, and I know it probably sounds weird. They’re only sold at like, Easter time, but they’re the best thing ever. Or honestly just chocolate in general. And obviously, I’d say music. I literally live, breathe, eat, and sleep music, and sometimes I kind of forget how much I actually love it.
”
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Eternal Summer, Directed by Bea Oyster. Modeled by Zoe Clarke and Kassidy Bates. Photographed by Bea Oyster.
An Honest Retelling of M Written by B.
Art by Taina Millsap
I
don’t remember the exact moment when I realized ending up with a woman was allowed. I don’t quite remember the day I realized not only that it was allowed, but that I was allowed. I do remember the day that I was five and I walked past a pride parade with my mother and grandma, and I saw two men kissing. I said, “Ew, Mom, I’m traumatized.” They laughed. I laughed. I had a happy childhood. I really did. Supportive family, loving friends. I loved reading. I used to stop at my local bookstore every Friday with my grandma. It didn’t matter the genre, as long as it had romance. And all of the books I bought had romance. Specifically straight romance. In reality, looking back on it, I loved it. I loved gossiping with my friends about the couples in books. My friends and I would bookmark pages we deemed
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steamy and bring them to school. We would sit during lunch and talk about them. I always wanted that. The romance. I just never realized it could be with a girl. In the sixth grade, I got a computer. It was all mine: no parent account or history logs. It was mine. How I ended up googling “girls kissing,” I can’t tell you. But I do remember how it made me feel. I didn’t know that was something people could just do, much less that I could do. In high school there was this girl. We were friends. I never questioned my second intentions. Looking back on it, I definitely had second intentions. It never went anywhere except my mind. Fast forward to sitting at my desk job, around eight years later. My freshman year of college, I had a panic attack because I realized— well, I liked this girl. I met her in a class my freshman year. She sat next to me. She was friendly. She had blue eyes. One day I looked
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My Love Life
(and how I fell in love with women)
at her and asked myself, “Wait, is she flirting with me?” At home I told my roommate. At first it was a fun joke, until it turned into a panic attack and an identity crisis a couple months later. I spent my years in high school being a strong LGBTQ+ ally. I spent days upon days explaining and making my mom understand the community, which she did. She has always been supportive of others. But when it came to me, it felt different.
to which she just said, “Yeah, that’s what I thought: you’ve always been boy crazy.” She had (and still has) all the best intentions. When I told her, I cried. A lot. And she hugged me, said everything was fine, said she loved me. But a couple months later, when I mentioned having a crush on a girl, she acted strange, uncomfortable. Meanwhile, during my best attempts at dating a nice boy, she was ecstatic.
While explaining to my mother that I identified as bisexual, she asked if I could picture myself marrying a girl, and maybe I wasn’t quite ready to admit to myself the possibility of it all, but I said, “I guess... no.”
I guess the issue is this: her excitement toward me dating men versus me dating women hurts my feelings. But is it not justifiable? I even felt that way at the beginning of my journey.
I tried to explain to her that, deep down, there wasn’t much of a difference, and I probably didn’t see it because of society and internalized homophobia,
In the year following my first crush on and kiss with a girl, I had three crushes on boys and one boyfriend. I told a couple friends and my mom. I talked about
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girls almost exclusively with my best friend, because I knew she understood. When I started dating my boyfriend, I thought, “This is it.” I have had such high standards and gotten bored of every boy I’ve ever dated within the month, but this one was different. He was cute. He dressed well. He was funny. Truly the perfect person to date— on paper. I often found myself dreading the fact that I would have to kiss him. I didn’t want to see him sometimes. And I couldn’t explain why. I started to tell myself, “I’m picky. I’m independent. I’m not a person that enjoys spending a lot of time with someone.” And when he wanted to kiss me every time he saw me, I thought, “Well, I just want to get to know him before we do that.” That was all simply not true.
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When I broke up with him, I felt nothing. Not once did I cry. Not once did I have a second thought about it. Not once have I ever had a second thought about ending something with a boy I actually went out with. All of my crazy days crying over love infatuations were with boys I never actually spent time with, which gave me full freedom to draw up exactly how I wanted it to go— and yet every time it happened, it just didn’t live up to my expectations. The first time I kissed a boy, I got home and told my mom it was gross. The second person I kissed was a girl, and I remember very little of it, because it all kind of just went dark. It was quick— barely anything, one could say. After that, I kissed five boys. Then I kissed another girl, and everything changed. Now, this isn’t about her, but about the fact that, in
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the least cheesy way possible, it all just made sense. It wasn’t about me finding love, but about me finding myself. For the first time, kissing felt like what I always thought it was supposed to feel like: blurry. Like a high. Every kiss I’ve ever had with a boy felt calculated. I was so aware of what I was doing. I would wonder, “When this is going to end?” Not that I wasn’t enjoying it. But I just felt so aware of it all. Kissing a girl was different. I just let go. I felt like I was on fifteen different drugs all at once. I had never kissed a boy first: they always did it for me, so I attributed it to being shy. I attributed it to wanting him to make the first move. When I was with her, I kissed her first.
I didn’t want to kiss my ex-boyfriend. But when I saw her, all I wanted to do was kiss her. Immediately afterwards, I started to realize. This was different. Imagine, if feelings were involved, how much better it would feel. You might be thinking to yourself, “So? Is she gay?” No, not exactly. But I know this: I’m tired of feeling like I have to tell you what word I want you to call me. Boys are still attractive, and I am most likely still bisexual, but does that really matter? This is where I have nothing else to say. These last events just happened, quite literally, and you’ve reached the point where you would ask me, “OK, now what? What does the future hold?” The truth is, I can’t tell you that. I’m not sure either. This is actually barely the beginning.
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Trader Joe’s Run Written by Sophia Kriegel
I
am walking to Trader Joe’s alone for the third time in two weeks. I’ve stopped lying to my mother when she asks who I’m with. Instead, I tell her the truth. Nobody. Five years ago, one year ago, or even one month ago I would have told you that I’d sooner starve than spend that 0.9 mile walk (each way!) by myself. And perhaps this solo journey to pick up a particular brand of cacio e pepe that I saw on Tik Tok is merely a symptom of adulthood. But, mostly, I have no choice other than to learn to spend time with myself. I can’t remember the last time I was really, truly alone. Even in the womb, I shared a cell with my identical twin sister, who enjoyed two brief minutes of singularity when she kicked me out of my mother— only to follow soon after, feet first and forever linked to me.
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Art by Eloisa de Farias
In high school, I often switched friend groups. Freshman year, I clung to my softball teammates. When I quit the team sophomore year, I transitioned to the popular crowd, where I spent a summer or two trading gossip and braiding hair. When I grew tired of pool parties and stealing my parents’s vodka, I began to mingle with the artsy kids, who taught me to hate the government and love music that nobody had ever heard of (small indie bands that scream loudly into a microphone and name their songs after some Manic Pixie Dream Girl). No matter in which group I immersed myself, I did so wholly and obsessively. I spent hours with friends, and when I was not with them physically, I was on the phone with them. I talked about them to my father. I wrote about them in poems. That way, they would never leave me, I thought. But each friendship would spark and fade like clockwork, and then I would find new humans to latch onto.
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I consciously committed to surrounding myself with people at all times. Freshman year of college only fueled this passionate (possibly toxic) cycle of relationships I had grown so used to. We were all alone. We all missed our siblings and pets and queen-size beds. I had a roommate and a life-size cutout of Timothée Chalamet. I was never left alone with myself and I liked it that way. I made friends with a group of girls and began to spend every minute with them— as these things go. Breakfast with Grace. Class with Caroline. A walk in the Boston Common with Sam. Dinner with Lulu. It felt safe. I felt happy. It is a year later. Post-global-pandemic (or mid-global-pandemic— who knows?). All but one of my friends chose to come back to campus, and Grace, who lives a floor above me and whom I love dearly, rejected my invitation to Trader Joe’s. I don’t know how to do this. What is a walk down Boylston without someone to gossip with? What is a grocery store aisle without Grace?
Here, I am a child again. I’m reaching for my mother’s fingers to pull me up and hold my palms while I wobble and walk and wonder what the world looks like up there. The only difference between then and now is— I had a choice then. When I threw a tantrum and refused to move, my mother would scoop me into her arms and carry me away. Here, it’s either walk alone or not at all. There is no other option. And my pride won’t let me use some sort of grocery-delivery app in protest of the service fee so I’m stuck accepting the singularity of the situation. I’m a child without a choice, which is maybe just an adult who understands life a little bit more than they used to. I’m alone. After the second rejection a week later, I stopped asking. I realized that I would have to get used to being around no one. I cried. I called my mother, I asked her how much a one-way ticket back to Santa Clarita costs, and I cursed the universe for making me so damn dependent. And when I was finished, I hung up the phone. I picked out a tote bag from my vast collection and started walking. I listened to music. I discovered that I don’t like listening to music while walking. And that I’m going to be okay. I’m alone and I’m going to be okay.
Without anyone?
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I got dumped... by my therapist Wrtitten by Anomynous
A
Art by Elizabeth Apple
fter years of telling myself I should probably go to therapy, I finally got off my lazy ass and scheduled an appointment. To be clear, I never saw therapy as “scary” or as something reserved for “people with problems.” My inability to schedule an appointment was solely due to my terrible organization and time management skills. To put it plainly, I tend to procrastinate. The truth is everyone should go to therapy. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with talking to an individual who might be able to give you some insight on your life.
that I like therapy! Therapy is cool! And my therapist, somehow— even though I barely spoke— understood me!
My first session went a lot like a first date. It was really awkward. We just stared at each other, and I nervously picked at my fingernails. She kept asking, “So, is there anything else you want to talk about?” to which I would shrug my shoulders. I thought there were going to be preliminary get-to-know-you questions! Of course, there were millions of thoughts zipping around my brain, trying to form themselves into complete sentences in order to make their way out of my mouth. By the end of the session, I had barely spoken. But many people told me it might take a while to warm up to my therapist, so I held on to hope.
“Maybe you should consider seeing other people.” Said my therapist.
My second session went a lot like what I expect marriage to feel like. My therapist diagnosed me with several disorders and said I might want to consider taking medication. It’s a strange sensation when all your dysfunctional characteristics finally get identified. You always knew they were there, but now they have a name. It might sound weird, but this allowed me to validate many of the feelings I previously tried to disguise. It also made me realize
This being my first serious breakup, I realized, as with many other aspects of life, you have to put in a little extra effort. Yes, I know it’s therapy; it shouldn’t be stressful. But this is your mental health we’re talking about! Do the homework, the activities, the deep breathing, all of it! Even if it sounds stupid. And the human you’re talking to is a trained professional. Don’t be shy, because you might end up getting dumped, and you don’t want to end up like me.
By my third session, my therapist began to question whether any of the activities and coping mechanisms she had given me were working. I myself didn’t know if they were — and, to be completely honest, I wasn’t really going through with any of them. Finally, my fourth session went a lot like a breakup.
See other people? I mean, I know I don’t talk that much, but maybe it just takes some time? She gave me the numbers of some colleagues, and decided that we would schedule another appointment within four weeks. Between the four weeks, my assignment was to see if I was able to connect with any of these new therapists.
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Written by Ashley Alaia
Art by Elena de Farias
T
oday I walked by your apartment in Berlin. The one you told me about a few years ago. The one you sent me a postcard from back when I was still in high school. It was from the first time you were fucking someone else and I pretended not know. I walked by your apartment in Berlin; the one you said we’d stay at when you visited me this fall. I knew it wouldn’t end up happening but you know how I am with promises.
I hate Berlin but I could never hate you (although I’m trying).
I don’t know why I decided to come on this trip. I thought I would like it here but all I can think about is how we don’t speak anymore and how much I want the fucking rain to stop. While I’m in good company, I can’t help but think how I’d rather be in yours.
I’ve been going to the same cafe next door in the mornings. They have oat milk lattes and, even more appealing to me, iced drinks. Why didn’t you tell me iced drink were so hard to find in Europe? I don’t miss home but I miss ice (and you).
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I’ve been listening to Leonard Cohen because if you’re not here to make me horny and sad, “I’m Your Man” will do. Sometimes I think I relish in my pain too much.
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I wonder what it would have been like if you came to visit. We could’ve been like one of those couples in a French New Wave film. Gross, I know, but it would’ve all been so lovely, and you could have held me like I so desperately always need. We weren’t like that though, and we were never like that. You did not like to be close to me, no matter how much I asked. Yet, you always asked me to stay, and I never understood why. The summer away from you was good for me in the long run. I think the sun was the best distraction I could have had. Not talking gave me something I
never had before. I was able to think about myself. I had time to get over it a bit, but it still wasn’t my choice and it wasn’t even yours. Now there is no sun and the days are getting so cold and there is the realization that I’m even further away. You are just where I left you with all the places and things I’ll probably never see again. Your shitty apartment. Your dog. Your parents. The old firehouse someone converted into an apartment on your street. But I guess I’m seeing better things— I mean, I’m in Europe. You are not here and I am fine, I suppose. Anxiety
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has traded shifts with depression, but who isn’t depressed these days? It’s not as bad as it could be, or even as it was. All that time spent worrying about what it would be like not to have you in my life was senseless. I am the one who left, after all. Even now, though, I know missing you has no sense to it...but I still do.
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I can separate myself from you. I used to not be able to do that. But no matter how many new people I find myself under, no matter how many miles away from Boston I am, I can’t separate you from how sad and small I feel.
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I came to the city you’re from without you. I passed by your apartment, the one with the green door, but I don’t think I’m ever going to tell you.
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little brothers •pine trees • the vegetable garden • the Merce • colorful candles • ivy plants • salon scissors • free shipping • lavender • ballet slippers • the subway • libraries • strawberrie oreo mcflurries • cappuccinos • cotton candy skies • yerba mate olate • sunrises • mom jeans • cheesy potatoes • rain • kids lau cameras • kombucha • little bags • soy candles • old spice fiji de • party city ballons • eucalyptus • ticket stubs • sprite • purple with places i haven’t heard of • wind-up toys • hidden memories nected to any lines but are still useful • sweater vests • purple s • cookie cutters • socks • shaggy haircuts • cabbage patch kid • irridescent sun catchers • blue tattoos • you • the b0oks i have been meaning to read WHAT D costco’s award winning tire center • 3-D deI love • community • dippin dots ice cream HO bag doritos • skateboarding • my mom • AFFECTI good music • the local orchestra • cinemalook • fantasy novels • Tim Burton films • of a peaceful future • freedom to make art • their cat softly on the head • swimming • patience • black and for years but forget who they are and how you met them • orange necklaces • knit sweaters • tarot cards • transparent texture pa colors and sounds of new oreleans • soul music •old family pho night walks in the summer when it’s hot • forsythia • a crisp cold club • innocence of childhood • scented lotion • soup • spices • • wet doggy noses • macnut milk • splashing in the ocean • antiq drinks • uncontrollable laughter • jazz music • dressing up • i 108your mask off (in AFFECTION taking the rightMAGAZINE context)••WELLBEING lip balm •shiny cho
edes • Ramón • retsina • my kitten • raspberries • the ocean • sputnik • eggs • butterflies • the color orange • baguettes • es • glitter glue • disposable cameras • carebears • my puppy • e • round sunglasses • b&w negatives • city skylines • hot chocughing • smell of apple cider • unexpected friends • thrift story eoderant • day old takeout • peanut butter and jelly sandwiches e envelopes • old tvs • sharing secrets with cats • vintage t-shirts s that are unlocked by a familar smell • phones that are not constick elmer’s glue • notebooks • 3 for 7$ tacos • empty streets ds • fluffy bucket hats • the number 3 • iphone mobile games strangers who wil go out of your way to help but just sit on my shelf • breakfast at night • DO YOU signers • being lucky enough to pursue what • famichiki from family mart • the purple OLD people who give a shit • good chocolate • ION FOR? tography • photos that make you stop and pine trees • art-deco • bunnies • the idea the final image • hugging pillows • kissing white tattoo flashes • instagram mutals you’ve connected with chocolate • cassettes • body pillows • black ankle socks • pearl acks • picnic baskets •tie dye • swing sets • photography • the oto • tall beach rocks you can climb • saving scraps of paper • d seltzer • apples • clay eyes • forgotten childhood toys • fight • vitamins • reading a new book •smell of cow poop • reunions ques • touching • soft animals • twerking • garlic • carbonated indivisuality • take out • goldfish • hair dye • new piercings • WELLBEING • AFFECTION MAGAZINE ocolate wrappers • rough sex • the movie Spirit • girls go 109 games
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