A note to our readers from The Editor in Chief & Creative Director
Hello readers,
Welcome to Atlas Magazine, the Reclamation Issue. Gratitude is not a strong enough word to describe what a pleasure and privilege it is to work with such an incredible group of people every semester. As a unit, our team collaborates on a vision until it is put out for print and our product becomes a reality. Here at Atlas, we recognize that not everyone has the privilege of having the creative freedom and ability to do what we do. Collectively, we have mourned the loss of human life worldwide along with schools and creative spaces that have been destroyed this past year and throughout history.
Born from the weight of our collective grief, we settled on the theme of reclamation. What does it mean to reclaim what was lost? How does one retrieve what was stolen from them? This is not just a national topic worth questioning, but also a campus wide one too. We hope that in reading this issue, you will feel prompted to take back what once yours and aid those around you who are on that same journey.
Forever in Solidarity, Arushi & Erin
Arts
PHOTOGRAPHER .....ILANA GROLLMAN
MODEL ...........ERIN NORTON
DESIGN ..........ANNABELLE KUMP
Lost inTranslation: Why American Remakes of Asian Films Fall Short,
and the Importance of Watching the
American cinema has gained a reputation for remaking foreign films, with Asian cinema often serving as a primary source of inspiration. Whether it’s the gripping tension of a South Korean thriller or the profound spirituality of a Japanese drama, Hollywood sees potential to adapt these films for Western audiences. The experimental and rebellious nature commonly portrayed in Asian cinema is reminiscent of arthouse films that have recently gained popularity in the U.S. due to studios like A24. However, more often than not, these remakes fail to capture the essence that made the original films so compelling. This leads to inferior
In the process of localization, which is the adaptation of a movie to appeal to certain audiences through changing culture and language, what made the original film unique is oftendilutedordistorted.
products that lack the emotional depth and culturalspecificityoftheirAsiancounterparts.
By Audrey DeMurias
One of the most glaring examples of this phenomenon is “The Ring” (2002), an American remake of the Japanese horror classic “Ringu” (1998), directed by Hideo Nakata. “Ringu” was groundbreaking for its minimalist approach to horror, relying on an eerie atmosphere, slow pacing, and Japanese folklore to build suspense. Nakata used subtlety to invoke a sense of dread, focusing on psychological terror rather than jump scares. However, when Hollywood remade “Ringu” as “The Ring,” directed by Gore Verbinski, the cultural nuances of the original were overshadowed by a more formulaic, loud, and stylized approach to horror, one that prioritizedshockingvisualsoverpsychological
depth. While “The Ring” was commercially successful, it lacked the haunting subtlety that hadmadeNakata’soriginalsuchamasterpiece.
Another example of this trend is Spike Lee’s remake of “Oldboy” (2013), originally directed by South Korean auteur Park Chanwook.The2003versionof“Oldboy”isagritty, violent tale of vengeance, steeped in themes of fate, redemption, and moral ambiguity. Park Chan-wook’s film was critically acclaimed not only for its complex storyline but its bold direction and striking visuals. Spike Lee’s version, however, stripped the film of its emotional intensity and cultural context. It instead focused on the violence and action, which is reflective of the type of movies that Hollywood believes audiences in the U.S. are inclined to enjoy, tying back to the rising popularity of arthouse and experimental films. While Park’s film explores deep philosophical questions grounded in South
Korea’s unique socio-political landscape, Lee’s “Oldboy” merely amplifies the violence and brutality, without paying proper homage to the intricacy of the plot or the torment of its characters. The remake feels disconnected from the moral complexity that made the original so thought-provoking, reducing a nuanced narrative into a superficial spectacle.
What’s lost in these remakes is more than just the artistic flair or thematic richness—it’s the cultural context that gives these films their power.Asiancinema,especiallyfromcountries like Japan, South Korea, and China, often reflects specific social, historical, and cultural struggles of its people. When filmmakers like Hideo Nakata or Park Chan-wook tell a story, it’s not a universal narrative but one deeply rooted in their respective cultures. The horror in “Ringu” is tied to Japanese beliefs about spirits and the afterlife, while the complex ethical dilemmas in “Oldboy”
resonate deeply when understood within the context of South Korea’s post-war trauma and rapid modernization. These elements cannot simply be translated or substituted with Western equivalents without losing their impact. Asian cinema is more than just the spectacle of experimentation. The deeprooted culture and extensive outside-of-thebox thinking distinguish it from the remakes attemptedbyAmericanfilmmakers.Theytake pride in political and societal commentary, as well as relating to civilians through the narratives. This element of personality, relatability, and relevance to historical and currenteventsarewhatmakethefilmsunique.
Moreover, the filmmakers themselves bring a distinct vision to their works that is often irreproducible.
Directors like Wong Kar-wai (In the Mood for Love) and Hirokazu Kore-eda (Shoplifters) are not just storytellers; they are auteurs whose unique style, pacing, and philosophical musings cannot be replicated by another director with a different cultural background.
Wong Kar-wai’s slow, poetic take on love and memory, for instance, is deeply connected to Hong Kong’s cultural identity and history. Attempting to remake “In the Mood for Love” in an American setting would not only be misguided but impossible, as the film’s melancholic nostalgia is inextricable from the era and place in which it is set.
There is also a growing sense that Hollywood often underestimates its audience, assuming that Western viewers are either unwilling or unable to appreciate foreign films. This notion is quickly proving to be outdated as films like “Parasite” (2019) by Bong Joon-ho
and “Rashomon” (1950) by Akira Kurosawa have found international acclaim, proving that audiences are hungry for authentic, original stories—regardless of language or cultural origin. When “Parasite” won the Academy Award for Best Picture, it sent a clear message to the industry that subtitles and foreign contexts are no longer barriers to enjoying compelling narratives.
By watching the original films, viewers are not only exposed to a different cinematic experience but are also given the opportunity to engage with the culture, history, and philosophy that shaped those films. Instead of beingfilteredthroughanAmericanlens,these stories retain their authenticity and power
Audiences are encouraged to step out of their comfort zones, embrace different perspectives, and realize that the emotional truths in these films are universal, even if the cultural specifics arenot.
when experienced in their original form.
Remakes may offer a convenient introduction to a film’s concept, but they rarely capture the magic of the original. As cinema becomes increasingly globalized, viewers need to seek out and appreciate the authentic voices behind these films, rather than settling for diluted remakes. By doing so, we not only honor the artistic vision of filmmakers like Hideo Nakata, Park Chan-wook, and Bong Joon-ho, but we also expand our understandingoftheworld,onefilmatatime.
“B” is for “Books”
By Ian Rossin
Since probably around middle school— definitely throughout high school–there was a part of me that knew I liked boys. Being as naïve as I was, I didn’t fully acknowledge it or embrace it at the time. However, there were occasions when I’d be strolling around a Barnes and Noble, and an unidentifiable force made me buy a book about a boy who liked a boy. Aside from those experiences, though, I never felt the need to confront my personal truths.
Fast forward to December 2023: I had been living in Fort Myers, Florida for a couple months after relocating in late October. I was working as the resident stage manager at a dinner theater in the area, but my experience hadn’t been particularly positive. I’d become increasingly bored and lonely, despite my efforts to befriend some of the actors I was charged with supervising. By the time New Year’s had rolled around, I’d begun to accept my fate of being forever a hermit. That is, until I read “They Both Die at the End” by Adam Silvera. Without revealing too much, the book sparked a desire in me to pursue a relationship—forcingmetocometotermswith my identity and sexuality—while inspiring me to start a collection of books featuring MLM (men loving men) bi-boy characters.
When I realized what I wanted to see in literature, I began following LGBTQ+ Bookstagram accounts. These are a type of Instagram account dedicated to book
recommendations, usually centering on specific genres. I wanted to see what they’d have to recommend. To my surprise, a majority of the covers I’d see on the posts gave me the impression that they mostly centered on female bisexual characters in female/female (F/F) or male/female (M/F) relationships or male bisexual characters in M/F relationships. There was usually one girl, two girls, or a boy and girl on the covers. These graphics can potentially enforce harmful stereotypes like ones that claim if a bisexual girl is in an M/F relationship, she’s faking bisexuality for attention. Or if a bisexual boy is in a M/F relationship, he’s forcing down the “gay side” of his sexuality.
In addition to the challenge of finding book recs with the representation I wanted,
Bookstores these days have a trend of possessing one small LGBTQ+ section, and in that section,havingthesameLGBTQ+ books as every other bookstore in the country. What does that say about the accessibility (or lack thereof) of books that represent 7.6% of the United Statespopulation?
when I did find a book I was interested in, I wouldn’t be able to find it on the shelf. Bisexuals make up 3/5 of LGBTQ+ adults.
Why aren’t bookstores making more of an effort to invest in diverse reads?
Though e-books do exist, and yes, I could have ordered the respective books to my apartment online, nothing beats reading a physical book. Whether by the poolside or taking in that fresh, new book smell while browsing the shelves of an actual bookstore.
Despite the trials and tribulations faced in my quest to find books featuring maleidentifying bisexual characters in MLM relationships, I did end up amassing a small collection of books that fit my criteria.
“They Both Die at the End” by Adam Silvera has had a large impact on me, as mentioned. Thepremiseisthatonthedaytheyreceivethe calls telling them they’re fated to die, Mateo Torrez and Rufus Emeterio come together thanks to a “Last Friend” app. They help each other live their last day to the fullest, becoming friends (and more) in the process. Rufus Emeterio is the bi-boy representation, but other LGBTQ+ representation includes Mateo Torrez, who identifies as gay. This story made me realize that, in order to boost my quality of life, I need someone to push me and help me outside of my comfort zone.
I’d spent years before reading this book not thinking or caring about pursuing a relationship because I didn’t think it was worththedrama,but“TheyBoth DieattheEnd”forcedmetolook past my initial, negative views ondatingandallowedmetofeel comfortable enough to find My Person.
The “Heartstopper” series is an incredibly heartfelt coming-of-age story following Charlie Spring and Nick Nelson, two British schoolboys who first meet when they’re assigned to the same homeroom. Together they navigate issues regarding identity, relationships, mental health, and more. Nick Nelson is the bi-boy representation in the series, other LGBTQ+ representation include Charlie Spring (gay), Tara Jones (lesbian), Darcy Olsson (lesbian), Elle Argent (transgender), and Tori Spring (asexual). I didn’t get into the “Heartstopper” series until after the television adaptation became popular, but I’m glad I gave it a chance. The relationship between Charlie and Nick is so
pureandwholesome,andalltheissuestouched uponarehandledwithextremesensitivityand care. It contributed to the image I created in myheadofwhatIwantmyfuturetolooklike.
Despitethename,“Icarus”byK.Ancrumisnot about Greek mythology. Icarus is a boy who, employedbyhisfather,istaskedwithbreaking into the house across the street and switching valuable paintings with near-perfect replicas. One night, when completing a job, Icarus encounters a surprise: the man who usually occupies the house no longer lives by himself. His son has come back to the house. Once the boys discover each other, a connection formsthatcan’tbebroken.Icarusisthebi-boy representation, while Helios Black, the love interest, is gay. Other representations include that of disability (Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome) and intersex representation. This book didn’t have as much of a personal impact on me as a person like the others detailed did, but it has an extremely unique premise and was a very captivating read. If memory serves correctly, Icarus never explicitly says he’s bisexual, but his bisexuality is displayed through the way he navigates his feelings for his future lover, Helios, and his friend, Celestina. The way Icarus’s bisexuality isn’t the center of the story or the main focus is a
refreshing change of pace compared to other LGBTQ+ stories.
Having any of the three stories mentioned above would increase the quality of your bookshelf as well as open your eyes to new perspectives and realities as they did for me.
If you want to see yourself and your identity represented in modern literature, put in the worktofindthosestories.Don’t let your voice go silent just because modern bookstores won’t further their efforts to diversifytheircatalogs.
Once you find your story, you’ll find yourself in the end.
Glitter is the Real Gold
By Jaydn Cicerchia
Amy Oung, my long-time nail technician, sits across from me in her studio, the same way she has for the past five years when she works on my nails. Her gold locket rests on her chest, adorned with gems of all colors of the rainbow, turning something classic into something fun, a visual representation of her spirit.
Atage42,Oungisproudofthelifeshehasbuilt. Havingsoldthesalonsheownedfor8yearsin 2019, Oung now works alone out of a small, slightly cluttered office room in Rhode Island. Even though owning a salon is what many in the industry consider to be the ultimate goal, Oung says, “I began to lose myself in the management of it, and I am lucky enough now to be able to focus solely on my creativity, while making even more money than before.” Herclientsweresoloyalthattheyfollowedher out of the salon world, and she has so many permanent customers that she has not been taking any new ones since I met her. However, becoming more private didn’t exclude her frombeingwell-knowninthebeautyspace,as she was recently featured in InStyle magazine to speak about her innovative techniques. She is now known for her ability to shake up the industry to make room for her creativity.
Oung was no stranger to the beauty industry growing up in Boston, but it was not the career path she had originally considered following. “My parents are Vietnamese immigrants, and if you weren’t aware already, these are the people who run a majority of the American nail industry,” says Oung. It was a way for women to take care of their families when they emigrated during the Vietnam War. “I always thought what my parents did was awesome, they were the owners of the first ever Vietnamese walk-in salon chain in Boston, T&J Salons,” she says. “But, you know, the public opinion of careers in the arts isn’t always positive, people looked down on my
family for it.” There is a stereotype that art is a profession done by those who are not smart enough for what some would consider to be a “real job.” This judgment is made even worse when combined with the racist stereotype that immigrants, such as Amy’s parents, are only capable of working service jobs, or what is seen as menial labor because they are somehow inferior to Americans. So, she worked hard in school and went off to college to earn a degree in political science.
“I desperately missed being creative,” says Oung. “I began to work at my parent’s salon part-time while I was in college, and it was then that I realized what a high demand there was for nails,” Oung says. “But it was still all very standard back then, french tips or a plain color.” Since her main artistic interest was drawing, painting, and sketching, she found herself bored. She says that nail art was not completely unheard of, but it was typically considered unprofessional or childish. “I actually just started to make stuff up,” she says. “People were in the chair for around an hour, and I would talk to them about how certain designs were in style, and they began to just trust me to draw it on them.”
A roadblock she had to conquer was the use of acrylic, one of the most common practices in the nail world. It involves gluing a plastic nail tip to the natural nail for length, then covering everything in a mix of acrylic powderandacetone,creatingahardenednaillike substance. “The chemicals that we used to form nails were extremely harsh,” Oung says. “I remember seeing my parents come home nauseousfromfumes.”Shesaysthatitwasalso notgreatfortheclient,asitwoulddamagetheir nailsovertime,andthenailswouldbreakmore easily due to acrylic being a harder substance.
Oung says she always wanted to be one step ahead, and while watching for new
products she came across a gel that was made for nail building. Similar application, but a different substance. This is not to be confused with the popular GelX, a nail tip made out of cured gel. Amy’s method does not include any tip extensions, as she builds the nail entirely out of the gel builder.
“The people I worked for dismissed it when I brought it up,” says Oung. “I get it, it was weird, and new, and seemed hard to work with.” But she was determined, showing up to a class that was teaching about the new product. Not only was it a much safer option, but it also offered a more natural finish, allowing for more bend in the nail. With her interest piqued, she spoke with the educator after class and received the offer to shadow them, “After about three classes she said I had a unique way of understanding people and then shocked me even more by asking if I wanted to take over the class,” says Oung. After that, she quit her political science track.
People within the industry began to notice Oung due to her unique teaching style, and as
herpopularitygrewshebegantoreceivesome offers from brands. At first, she was mainly invitedtotradeshows,whichareget-togethers of different brands in the industry where they can showcase and demonstrate new products.
“I prided myself on being able to find a way to teach anyone how to use a certain product, which was the sort of thing these companies were looking for at the shows,” says Oung.
Outside of brands, Oung believes that she was able to cultivate her clientele due to her use of both gel and hand-drawn artwork. Most people in the industry use stamps or stickers for nail designs, as they are the quicker and easier option. Oung completely refuses to use them. “Due to my art background, I can promote myself as someone who hand draws 100% of their designs,” she says. Oung combined her love of drawing and nails. Customers come to her with inspiration from theinternet,andshedrawswhattheywant,“It also allows me to form genuine connections with a lot of people,” she says, “Sometimes they are in my chair for up to three hours.”
Oung also likes to show off her artistry at nail competitions, her biggest award being third placeattheUSInvitational,whichallowedher to go on to the World Cup. She says, “That is howIgottointeractwithinternationalbrands.”
JustthisyearshehasbeentoKuwait,Malaysia, Egypt, and the Philippines. As I am speaking with her, she has just gotten back from Dubai.
Even with all this success, Oung is never one to shy away from a challenge. With both her childrenawayatcollege,Oungdecidedtostart
She has worked mainly for the large nail brand, Orly, for the past few years, and as a brand educator known internationally, shegetstotravelalot.Shesays, “Artislikeauniversallanguage.”
anothereducation.Sheiscurrentlystartingher firstyearofworkingtowardsabusinessdegree after receiving a full ride at Brown University. She hopes that a better understanding of business will aid in her work with brands.
As someone with a fear of the unknown and failure, I am not sure if I will ever be able to fully adopt Amy’s free spirit. But as I watch her continuously succeed at whatever the hell she wants to do, regardless of confusion from others, I become less embarrassed by the pitying stares I receive when I tell someone I am majoring in writing and publishing.
“I always tell people that you can do whatever the hell you want with some passion and originality,” she says. It’s the same thing she told me when I cried over not knowing what I wantedtodowithmylifeduring my senior year of high school whileshepaintedafloweronmy pinky.
and that we will always need people working in the arts, whether or not outsiders deem it to be unstable or frivolous.
We often talk about opening a store together one day. We giggle over the idea of her doing people’snailswhileIsellbooks.Ileaveherstudio, shaking my head at the ridiculousness of it all,
I am reminded that what I want to be truly is not a question that needs to be answered anytime soon,orevenatall-
declaring the idea impossible. But somewhere in the back of my brain, our store remains. BecausewithAmyOung,anythingispossible.
Marina’s Mosaic: Abramović ieces Together Art and Self at the Stedelijk
By Vara Giannakopoulos
What is the “self” if not a collection of consciousness, creations, and connections? This year, the five-month residency retrospective exhibit of Serbian performance artist Marina Abramović at the Stedelijk Museum in Amsterdam, Netherlands, redefined reclamation at its highest form: identity.
Spanning from March through July, the exhibitionboastedover60displaysofhervital works, spanning five decades. I was fortunate enough to be in the Netherlands on the last day of the exhibit. I forced everyone I was withtocomewithme,eventhoughnonewere familiar with her or her work. As I stepped into the vast halls of the Stedelijk, I was immediately struck by the palpable energy of Abramović’s presence. While striking, it wasn’tsurprisingthat,asyouentertheexhibit,
Abramović, often hailed as the ‘grandmother of performance art,’hasconsistentlypushedthe boundariesofwhatartcanbeby using her body as both subject andmedium.
you are welcomed by an obtuse sign of her name in big red letters. This retrospective offered more than a mere chronological journey through her career. It became a
performance in itself—a meta-narrative of an artist taking control of her legacy.
Throughout the exhibition, I found myself continually challenged by how she redefines bodily autonomy in art. This theme reached its apex in the display of “Rhythm 0” (1974), a seminal piece in Abramović’s exploration of the limits of artist-audience interaction. Upon entering the exhibit, it is the first display you see, immediately engrossing and enveloping you in Marina’s world. In the original performance, Abramović stood passively for sixhourswhiletheaudiencewasinvitedtouse any of the 72 objects on the table in front of themonherbodyastheywished.Theseobjects ranged from feathers and flowers to a loaded gun. Audience members started with gentle acts like offering her fruit and caressing her with feathers. As the performance progressed, however, the mood shifted dramatically. Emboldened by Abramović’s unwavering passivity, participants became increasingly aggressive. Her clothes were torn, her skin cut andbruised.Thesituationescalatedtoacritical point when one audience member aimed the loaded gun at Abramović’s head, only to be forcibly restrained by another participant. By surrendering control of her body to the audience, Abramović not only questioned the boundaries of artistic autonomy but also starkly illustrated the potential for both
tenderness and violence inherent in human nature.
Viewing this piece in 2024, in an era of heightened awareness around consent and bodily autonomy, “Rhythm 0” took on new dimensions. It prompted me to question: Where does the artist’s autonomy end and the audience’s begin? How has our understanding of consent in art evolved since the 1970s? The re-creation of this piece in the Stedelijk retrospective served as a powerful reminder of the ongoing negotiations between artist, artwork, and audience. As someone who frequently puts their work into the world, I’ve grappled with this boundary extensively. When I release my writing into the public sphere,Iunderstandthatreaderswillinterpret it through their lens of their own experiences, often finding meanings I never intended. Yet unlikeAbramović’sradicalsurrenderofcontrol
in “Rhythm 0,” I maintain certain boundaries around my work’s presentation and context. This tension between artistic intention and audience interpretation has become central to my practice, leading me to view my pieces as living documents that evolve through their interaction with viewers while still maintaining core elements that remain inviolable.
One of the most striking pieces was “Imponderabilia”(1977),originallyperformed by Marina and Ulay, her former partner and collaborator,nowrecreatedattheretrospective with new performers. As visitors squeezed through the narrow space between two nude performers to enter the next gallery, they were forced to confront their discomfort and becomeunwittingparticipantsintheartitself.
This piece, more than any other, exemplified Abramović’s genius in reclaiming human connection in our increasingly disconnected world. By creating a moment of intense, intimate proximity between strangers, she challenged our notions of personal space and social norms. The recreation of this piece in 2024, decades after its original performance, took on new significance in a postpandemic world where touch and closeness had become laden with anxiety and fear.
As I approached the performers, I found myself acutely aware of my own body, my breathing, and the choices I was making. Which way would I turn? How quickly would I pass through? The simple act of entering a room became a profound moment of self-reflection and human connection.
The anticipation of choosing sides left my friends noticeably on edge.
“Who are you going to face?” someone asked.
“Definitely the girl,” one replied.
“Yeah, agreed,” another said.
“I’m going to face the guy,” the original asker stated. This was met with shocked “Whats?” and “Whys?”
“I don’t want a dick touching my butt. I’d rather it in the front where I can put as much space between me and it as possible.”
The rest of us hadn’t thought of it that way.
Thishighlightedhowaseemingly simplephysicalactcouldbecome a mirror reflecting our deepest insecurities, social conditioning, andpersonalboundaries.
The visceral reactions to the piece revealed howdifferentlyweallnavigateintimatespaces and physical proximity. While some focused on practical concerns about physical contact, others approached it as a psychological challenge about vulnerability and trust.
The piece had
transformed a mere doorway into a profound meditation on human connection precisely because it forced us to confront these usually unspoken aspects of our social existence. It reminded me how the most meaningful human connections often arise from moments of shared vulnerability when we’re stripped of our usual armor. We watched and waited for our turn. I went first. It was my idea to come, after all. When I approached the actors in that narrow doorway, all thoughts and preplanned executions flew out the window. The immediacy of the moment overwhelmed my careful mental preparations—not from shock or intimidation exactly, but from the sudden realizationthatthiswasnolongeratheoretical exercise. The presence of two living, breathing humans transformed the intellectual concept into an intensely personal experience. My heartratequickened,andIfoundmyselfhyper aware of every breath. It was the difference between reading about skydiving and actually standingattheopendoorofanairplane.Iwent with my gut while trying not to lead with it, suckingitinasIsqueezedthrough.Ifacedthe woman and tried not to make eye contact, but by trying not to, I inadvertently assured that wedid.Shehadsoft,greeneyes.Myfriendwas right, the male performer’s dick did brush up against my backside, and I nearly fell, trying not to step on their very closely placed feet. It was messy and embarrassing and perfect.
This experience encapsulated the essence of Abramović’s retrospective: a reclamation not just of her narrative, but of the
visceral, embodied experiences that define our humanity. In an age where so much of our interaction is mediated through screens, “Imponderabilia” served as a powerful reminder of the irreplaceable nature of physical presence and human touch. But perhaps what struck me most about this retrospective was Abramović’s decision to showcase her collaborations with former partner Ulay. Works like “Relation in Time” (1977) and “Rest Energy” (1980) were presented not as relics of a past relationship but as vital, living artworks in their own right.
As I moved between these pieces with my friends, who were now fully engrossed in the exhibition, I was struck by how Abramović had managed to separate the personal from the professional, reclaiming these works as part of her artistic legacy rather than mere artifacts of a former partnership.
This curatorial choice offered a powerful message about the nature of collaboration in art. It suggested that the value of collaborative works transcends the personal relationships oftheartistsinvolved.Indoingso,Abramović provided a model for how artists can continue to celebrate and build upon their collaborative works, even after personal relationships have changed. Abramović’s approach to this retrospective—one that actively engages with and reframes her past work—offered a new model for how artists can curate their own legacies. By treating her oeuvre not as a static collection but as a living, breathing entity that continues to evolve, she challenges other artists to think more dynamically about their bodies of work.
The exhibition left me with a profound sense of art’s capacity to dissolve the boundaries between observer and participant, between the personalandtheuniversal.
As we left the Stedelijk, exhausted but exhilarated, I reflected on how Abramović’s influence extends far beyond her works. I felt both emptied and filled—emptied of preconceptions about what art could be and filled with new questions about human connectionandvulnerability.Thephysicaland emotional exhaustion seemed to have cleared away something stale in my perception, leaving room for fresh insights about the role of presence in both art and life. As my friends buzzed with a newfound appreciation for art and life and women, I pondered the lasting questions this exhibition raised: How does reclaiming one’s past work transform its meaning in the present? And ultimately, how does the conscious curation of our personal narratives blur the line between life and performance? These questions fundamentally shifted my approach to my own artistic practice. I began to see my work not as fixed artifacts but as evolving conversations with my audience. The realization that we’re all constantly performing our lives by selecting which moments to highlight and which to hide has made me more intentional about the authenticity I bring to both my art and my daily interactions. It’s taught me that perhaps the most honest performance is acknowledging the performance itself.
DESIGN ..........MCKENNA SMITH
These Things That Make
By Sophia Taylor
We all have traits that define us: sports we played, people we loved, favorite movies, and songs that have stuck with us for years. Despite how we feel about these things, despite how much we may love them, that isn’t always enough to hold on to them. Sometimes things get taken from us and we must conform ourselves to a different narrative. This is a collection of stories from various sources, re-told by me, talking about the things they loved, the things they lost, and the things they got back. The things that make us who we are.
One
I used to dress the way my parents wanted me to. My parents always wanted a girl, but I never felt like the right kind of
girl, and that bothered my parents. I never felt like myself when I wore traditionally feminine clothes.
Asanartist,expressionisahugepartofmyidentity,andthe craziertheoutfit,themorelikemyselfIfelt.Iworeloadsof jewelry, layers upon layers of bright-colored clothes, patterned baggy jeans, backward hats, and many other things that nearly drove my parents to their graves. At some point, I could feel the strain it had on my relationship with them and I decided to stop. At three am one night, I gathered all the “boyish” clothes my parents hated and threw them in a box in my closet. I was left only with the clothes my parents had bought in hopes I would wear them.
For a few months, in my junior year of high school, I completely switched who I was as a person. I wore leggings, simple crewnecks, sweaters, skirts with leggings, and leather clip shoes, and kept my jewelry simple and clean. I left my very artsy school and switched to a smaller, much simpler one. I said the things I knew my parents wanted to hear and could feel how our relationship started to heal. I had completely lost myself and it had brought my parents joy. They thought this “phase” of mine had ended and were ecstatic to be given back the daughter that was taken from them. But I was slowly starting to lose myself and I could tell my parents noticed. Despite their reluctance, they had to decide between not having the daughter they dreamed of or not having a daughter at all.
Now, I get to explore different clothing styles and see what works for me. My parents have become much more supportive and I am able to reconnect with that part of my identity. I’m very lucky to have found myself again. I know only some are able to.
Two
A few years ago I lost interest in dance. I lost life. I didn’t believe, as a man, that dance was a genuine consideration for me as a career. It wasn’tseriousenough,wasn’tmanlyenough, wasn’t secure enough. It just wasn’t enough. Though I had my reasons for quitting, it left abitofaholeinmychestanditcontinuedto call back to me. One day, I met the Dancing WiththeStarshostswhenIwenttoseealive dance show. I told them I used to dance and they asked me why I had quit. I told them and they gave me some words of encouragement:“Iknowit’shardtokeepgoing,justfocus. If it’s what you want, go after it.” When I began thinking about college majors and careers, I listened to them, took a chance, and moved back into it. I slowly started taking classes again and fell back in love. When I’m notdancing,Ifeelempty.AsmuchasIwant-
ed to move on to something more “manly,” dancingiswhatIlove.Itgivesmepurposeand it’sahugepartofwhoIam.MentallyIamway happierwhenIdance,andI’msogladIgained thecouragetogetbackintoit,despitetherisk.
Three
In high school, I started losing my love for sports.Ineverfullylostitbutmypassionforit startedslippingaway.Ihadanawfulcoachand he played a big part in taking away what I enjoyed about it. The pressure and competition were overwhelming and it honestly just wasn’t funanymore.Mycoachsucked;hewasanasshole.Becauseofthis,Ididn’tplaymysenioryear.
Thatsameyear,Ifoundasoccerleaguethatwas just for fun, and that was a better fit. I became a “buddy” for Top Soccer which was a team for players with disabilities. I found some real purpose there and was able to guide some of the kids to find the passion that I lost. Watch-
ing them play soccer and being a part of them finding their place was everything. The time I spent with them was a big reminder of the fun that sports can provide for people, especially the fun that it had once provided for me. It’s notaboutwinningandlosing,it’snotaboutthe pressure,it’saboutdoingwhatbroughtmejoy.
We do what we can to find out who we are. Sometimes it’s good to reflect on how lucky those of us are who can explore who we want tobefreelyandwithoutjudgmentorrisks.You will often lose parts of yourself, but know that it’s okay to find them again and reclaim them when the time is right and when you’re ready.
Thatsameyear,Ifoundasoccerleaguethatwas just for fun, and that was a better fit. I became a “buddy” for Top Soccer which was a team for players with disabilities. I found some real purpose there and was able to guide some of the kids to find the passion that I lost. Watching them play soccer and being a part of them finding their place was everything. The time I spent with them was a big reminder of the fun that sports can provide for people, especially the fun that it had once provided for me. It’s notaboutwinningandlosing,it’snotaboutthe pressure,it’saboutdoingwhatbroughtmejoy.
We do what we can to find out who we are. Sometimes it’s good to reflect on how lucky those of us are who can explore who we want tobefreelyandwithoutjudgmentorrisks.You will often lose parts of yourself, but know that it’s okay to find them again and reclaim them when the time is right and when you’re ready.
A Dr
By Paige Shepherd
If you search for drag in the Encyclopedia Britannica, the first (and only) relevant term that appears is “drag queen,” defined as “a man who dresses in women’s clothes and performs in front of an audience.” Last updated at the beginning of October 2024, this entry makes zero mention of women or nonbinary people who perform in drag or use it as a form of gender and self-expression. However, this phenomenon isn’t present only in the Encyclopedia Britannica. Both today and in the past, women and gender non-conforming people have often been excluded from drag spaces and performances. And the performances they do as queens, kings, or whatever they choose are often overlooked in favor of more “traditional” queens.
Drag has been around as a form of self-expression for centuries. From men playing female roles in Shakespeare, to performances at religious festivals, drag has appeared in cultures all over the world in a variety of forms. But even these early versions of drag were primarily performed by men. While it did offer the chance to cross gender boundaries, that opportunity was not typically extended to women. With the modern expansion of queer spaces, particularly with the rise of ballroom culture in the 1980s, the voices of trans women began to be uplifted, but queer women as a whole were still strikingly absent.
After ballroom culture grew, drag grew as an art form in underground clubs and bars. And slowly, drag culture became enjoyed by more and more people globally. However, drag going mainstream is still a relatively new occurrence. Until the early 2000s, drag certainly was not the type of entertainment that a large majority of people in the U.S. were frequently seeking. But with the rise of “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” more and more people have been engaging with drag. From an increase in the number of live drag shows around the country, to TV shows like “Pose,” and musicals like “Kinky Boots,” drag has been appearing in a variety of forms for wider audiences. I even took my grandmother, who is in her 60s, to Kinky Boots and she loved it – even though it was her first time seeing a drag queen in person! Simply being exposed to the drag community, even with people like my grandmother who might have been previously apprehensive, makes all the difference. Because at its root, drag is about joy—for everyone.
However, with the rise of drag in the mainstream, particularly on “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” comes conflict.Dragspacesweresupposedtobequeerspacesthatwelcomedanyone-butthosewhowere being exhibited in mainstream drag were largely white, thin, gay men. While it may have been a massivestepforwardforqueeridentityandacceptance,ithasleftoutverysignificantpartsofthe queercommunity.InthewordsofMarshaP.Johnson,afamousqueerrightsactivist,thereis“no prideforsomeofuswithoutliberationforallofus.”Forcisgenderandtransgenderwomen,being marginalizedandexcludedfromdragspacesisdisappointingandinoppositiontowhatdragisall about;celebratingandupliftingwhoyoureallyare.Itleavesonetowonderifthismarginalization could be connected to the historical marginalization of queer women throughout the decades.
Queer people being marginalized, and marginalization within the queer community itself, is nothing new. Lesbians were excluded from the Women’s Rights Movement in the 1970s, and
queer people of color were often forgotten in queer spaces. In the media, representation for trans people is few and far between, and often the representation that is present is not positive. Growing up as a queer woman myself, for so long I had no idea womenevencouldbequeerbecauseofthelackofrepresentation!
When I was a kid in the 2010s, debates were raging about the kind of content that was “acceptable” for children to see. And growing up in the suburbs of Chicago, I certainly did not know any out queer people. The only representation I ever saw of queer women was in the later seasons of “Glee” (which because of their content were not available to me until middle school). So, without ever seeing a queer woman on screen or in person, how was I supposed to know that it was even an option?
withouteverseeingaqueer woman on screen or in per- son, how was I supposed to know that it was even an option?
Drag, at its core, is about expressing, loving, accepting yourself. I decided to go straight to thesource:myfriendsinthequeercommunity who identify as female or gender nonconforming that do drag. I wanted to know why they do it. What kind of adversity have they faced? What is it about drag that makes you keep coming back? Gracie Rosenberg, a junior at Emerson, shared her experience in drag spaces as someone who uses she/they pronouns and is more feminine-presenting. They tend to perform less feminine drag, under the name “Bitch McConnell.” While they love performing, she said it’s not really about that. “It’s about confidence - being unafraid to put my real self out there. I hit a point where I realized that we made up rules about how people are supposed to exist. I can take on all these things the world hasn’t let me be.” Rory Higgs, a trans woman who uses she/her pronouns and performs more glitzy, glamorousdrag,saysthat“dragisthephysical manifestation of my self-love”. I wanted to know more about drag and gender, and Rory had an incredibly interesting perspective. “All elements that fall under drag relate to the experience of being human… it’s mistaken because it’s not about gender, it’s an art form.”
While neither Gracie nor Rory have experienced direct transgressions due to their gender identities in drag, they both say it really depends on the space you’re in. Gracie, who has primarily only done drag at events at Emerson says that here, on a very queer campus, “it’s really a non-thing how you present. When I’m in drag people think I’m hot and amazing and people are seeing me the way I see myself.” For Rory, however, the answer to the question of judgment seems like more of a “not yet.” “Most people here don’t know that I’m trans, and if anything I get treated better because I was prettier.” Five
years ago though, this might not have been the case. In drag spaces where five years ago cis women, nonbinary people, and trans womeneitherweren’trepresentedorwerenot out, judgment might have come as a result. But recently, with the appearances of trans women on shows like “Drag Race,” RuPaul’s backtracking on previous statements about trans women in drag, and the introduction of drag kings on “Dragula,” things have started to get better. Rory and Gracie mentioned that language changes within the drag community have been making headway. Queens are encouraged to no longer use the word “fishy,” a drag term that refers to looking feminine but is really a disparaging term about women. Similarly, “Drag Race” changed its classic quote “Gentlemen, start your engines, and may the best woman win” to “Racers, start your engines, and may the best drag queen win.” But, says Rory, while trans queens are starting to get booked in drag spaces, drag kings and nonbinary people still aren’t.
Drag is not about gender. It’s not about what you look like, or what other people say you should be. It’s about the freedom to be who youareontheinside,withnoapologies.Drag is about connection, self-love, humanity, play, and belonging. Existing in a society with a historyofcenturiesworthofgenderrulesisn’t easy. But drag is a way to break boundaries, to crush all those expectations that it feels that the world has set. Rory brought something very cool to my attention during her interview; the origin of the word drag itself is actually a misconception. “It’s not that Shakespeareanactorsdressedroughlyasagirl (d.r.a.g.), it stems from a performer wearing an outrageously exaggerated gown dragging on the floor. It’s not gender confined… it’s about the person wearing that garment.” It’s about the art. And art is about everyone.
ALonely Closet
By Lily Suckow Ziemer
“Do you have a shirt I can borrow?”
“Yeah, but it’ll probably be too big on you.”
It’s a conversation I’ve had a million times. Often it results in them turning to someone else to ask, but sometimes my warnings won’t stave them off. I remember a particular time an old friend asked to borrow a PJ shirt. It was an oversized firefighters t-shirt I’d thrifted, and I likedthewayitmademefeelalittlesmallerthanIwas.Ihandeditoverwithamillion,“it’sgonna be really big”s. She emerged from the bathroom a minute later, laughing. It was one of those smiles you can’t hide—not that she tried. Playing with the fabric that seemed to reach her knees and match her wingspan, she looked up at me like I’d made the funniest joke she’d ever heard.
Meandherarenotfriendsanymore,butthatimage,thatfeeling,stillhauntsme.Ibegrudgingly lentashirttomyfriendforadatelastyear.Tryingiton,shekeptcomplimentingme,askingwhy Ididn’twearitmore.IknewthatevenifItoldher,shewouldn’tunderstandthesensationofacrop top so tight the hem rolls up your stomach and gets caught at your underbust. I looked at her in theshirtI’dpulledandstretchedandwornsomanytimes,andthoughtabouthowmuchbetterit lookedonher.Itwasperfect,hangingrightabovethebellybutton,roomtosparewherethefabric touched her upper arms. It’sinmomentslikethisthatIremembermysize mostofall,whenmybodyishelduptoanother’sintheformoffabric.
I’ve always known I’m bigger. Since preschool I remember the sensation of my clothes fitting a little differently against my skin than my friends’. At the time it wasn’t a huge problem, but it grew quickly.
It was second grade when I mistakenly convinced myself and a friend that a particularFridaywasanon-uniformday.My school would occasionally have these days on Fridays. I misunderstood the dates and dragged my friend down with me. We were bothdepositedoncampusbythebus,acouple Justice shirts in a sea of polos and plaid. In a large closet I’d never seen before, the high school gym teacher held jumpers up in front of us as a form of measurement. But none of the jumpers or white collared shirts required to be worn by second graders would fit me. They just didn’t have my size. So I was given a similarly colored skirt that was supposed to be reserved for third and fourth graders, and a long, pee-yellow button up that they
sold at uniform sales but no one ever bought. We returned to the classroom, only now my friend was dressed like everyone else and I alone stood out. I joked with my classmates, confidently telling them I was a third grader. It worked but it didn’t distract me from the truth. All day, that starchy shirt rubbed up against me, a reminder that I was different.
Needless to say, I never made that mistake again. But growing was inevitable, and I startedtomournthelossofthegirls’sections at stores, having to accompany my mom to theadultaislestofindclothesthatfit.Evenin highschoolIshamefullybowedmyheadinto a Brandy Melville, embarrassed to explain to my friends that I couldn’t do anything but pocket the free stickers on the counter. I felt too big to even maneuver the cramped store, and imagined the employees’ eyes drilling intomewithquestionsof“whyareyouhere?”
By the time I was fully grown I felt as though I was living in a body unlike any of my family members. In high school, I was at the age where my parents’ clothes weren’t overly mature and my brother’s graphic t-shirts gathering dust could have been styled ironically. But when I tried on my favorite of my mom’s dresses, or a loose shirt emblazoned with a pun, they didn’t fit. I gave up on my mom’s clothes quickly when I heard the strain of fabric as I tried to fit my arms in. I’d raid my brother’s clothes over the years but all of them clung to my body rather than loosely hanging like they did on him. The only shared clothes that fit me were the ones kept downstairs, my dad’s from before he lost weight. I’d unearth sweaters from the 80s and slip them on to find a perfect fit.
It didn’t stop the embarrassment though. I look on in envy when I hear someone noting their oversized shirt is from a dad or brother. I mourn the bonding moment that could’ve been wearing a dress of my mom’s to homecoming. I’ve always loved going through family members’ unused things. Photo albums, jewelry, toys; I’d sit alone in the basement putting my fingerprints on each one. But no matter what, I just can’t make the clothing work.
What I have had to learn is to build a closet of my own. Each piece has been carefully selected, and says something about me as an individual. It’s lonely sometimes to only live in my own closet, but in a way, I’m proud I made my way to this collection of pieces I love from my will alone. It’d be easy to give up, but I’ll always keep pushing myself past my insecurities.
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Through the Looking Glass
By Ar
Like many children, I played imaginary games. Some days, I would be leading a battleorfightingasorcerer.Other days I would simply play house or pretend to be a cashier at a store.Throughmyimagination,I would create worlds where I was someone different, something more. I don’t remember every game I played, but I remember I would change my name every time. And my hair, my eyes, and my skin. One minute I was a little brown-skinned girl with a curly bob, and eyes so dark they were almost black. In the next, I was a fair, beautiful brunette with piercing blue eyes. I became something different, something more. I used to envy the girl
I was in these other worlds because she had everything. She had smooth, straight hair and all the right clothes. She spoke with an American accent and she ate lunchables. She had apleasing name and, most importantly, she had skin that fit just right. She was perfect.
I started playing these imaginary games around the age of four. I keep trying to determine the age I stopped playing them, but now I’m not sure I ever did. The game changed as I grew. In third grade, the boy I had a crush pointed out how brown my skin was. In sixth grade, I
started throwing away my lunches after one of the girls I sat with pointed out how smelly my food was. I kept throwing my lunch away until the end of middle school. In ninth grade, a boy on the bus told me that I had a thicker mustache than he did. That year I waxed my upper lip for the first time. My freshman year of college, my boyfriend made jokes about my facial hair and made razor sounds while pretending to shave my face. I had been threading my eyebrows and shaving my legs for years, but that wasn’t enough, so I started dermaplaning my face. In all of thesemoments,Ifeltasthough my identity and my femininity were being stripped from me.
Every brown girl I have spoken to has had similar experiences to mine. So I decided, in my most formative years, that every bad thing I had been told about being a brown girl must be true. I was never loud about my culture, I tried not to speak in Hindi around white people, and I tried hard not to slip into my Indian accent. With the exception of my looks, nothing about the way I presented myself to the world was Desi. I started looking down upon other brown girls who didn’t ‘maintain’ themselves the way I conditioned myself to. It wasn’t until very recentlythatIbecameawareofthesethoughts and behaviors, they were so subconscious.
I have spent most of my life shying away from wearing my cultural attire outside my home, and instead, I idolized Western wear. I used to dream of a white, Western wedding dress instead of a traditional Indian, red, embroideredsaree.I’venoticedthedifferences between the way brown women are treated whilewearingculturalclothingversusWestern attire. Sometimes, the difference is subtle and it comes in the form of weary glances, but most of the time people will comment on how exotic or ethnic you look. From a young age, I knew that wearing my cultural
clothing meant sticking out like a sore thumb.
I’ve come to realize that these expectations exist because brown and black women often feel the pressure of representing their entire race when facing society. If my curls weren’t maintained well one day or I had visible facial hair, I felt as though I was confirming the narrative around brown women. Wearing a lengha or saree in public made me feel like all eyes were on me. One wrong move and suddenly it’s “all brown girls smell bad, are ugly, etc.” In general, society allows white women to have their imperfections, without it serving as a reflection on the entire lot of them. We are not given such graciousness. Our flaws are not only picked at, but are weaponized against all brown and black women.
It wasn’t until I began college that I truly stepped out of the shell I was confined in and sought out a community. I never realized how importantitwastometosurroundmyselfwith peoplewholooklikemeuntilInolongerlived in an all Desi household. While there aren’t very many of us, and all the brown people I’ve met here are from different backgrounds, we all share and exist in the same space together. Startingalifeofmyownandhavingtheability to decide who I want to build relationships withhasgivenmethechancetostartlettinggo of those expectations and learn to live despite them. It is incredibly difficult to undo societal expectations on your own. In all likelihood, I will spend the rest of my life identifying and breaking down the thoughts and expectations of my subconscious, but now I know I am not alone, and that makes it all a bit less daunting.
City
PHOTOGRAPHER .....KERIA ALANA
MODELS ..........ISAIAH FLYNN
MARCO PEREZ GONZALEZ AZUCENA SOTELO
NYLA ANDERSON
STYLIST ..........EMILY HAMNETT
DESIGN ..........MOLLY DEHAVEN &
LAUREN MALLETT
Make Boston Sapphic Again
By
Mars Early
If you live in Boston, you know how gay of a city it is. But despite its abundant queer presence, there are seemingly very few spaces for us here—especially us sapphics. As a lesbian, I often find myself grasping at even the slightest morsel of representation in media or the tiniest crumb of room in queer spaces. It can feel quite lonely and ostracizing as a sapphic person when the few spaces queer people are permitted to enter are so often male-dominated. Dani’s Queer Bar, however, is here to change that. In early September,Dani’sQueerBar,aspecificallylesbianbar,openedupin Back Bay, at 909 Boylston Street, across from the Prudential Center. It is the first of its kind to exist in Boston for over two decades. The bar aims to be a home and a safe space for the queer community in Boston, especially the lesbian, sapphic, trans and non-binary communities that exist here.
The opening of Dani’s made big headlines, being covered by NBC and even garnering a shoutout by Michael Che on the SNL Weekend Update. It is not only clear to queers in Boston just how major Dani’s opening is, but to the whole of the United States. The bar joins a slew of other lesbian bars that have opened up across the U.S. since the height of the pandemic, an event that has been coined by NBC News as the “lesbian bar renaissance.”
It’sstrangetothinkthatwe’reina“renaissance”,thatcities(includingBoston)acrosstheU.S.arejustnowgettingtheirfirst lesbian bar after decades, that in 2024, this is as much progress as we’ve made. Lesbian bars in the U.S. back in the 80’s usedtoexistinthehundreds,butnowthereareonlyaround 32intheentirecountry,asof2024.Whathappenedtothem? Manylesbianbarclosuresinthepastseveralyearscanbeattributed to the impact of Covid, which certainly is true, but the numbers had been dwindling long before that. Personally, I think it’s because people just don’t care whether queer
women have space. Most people don’t tend to care or think about queer women in any capacity.
Despite lesbians fronting the acronym LGBTQ, the lesbian and sapphic community is consistently an afterthought. Even in the case of the acronym that has bound us as a community, lesbians were an afterthought; the acronym used to be GLBT, until the ‘80s when people began recognizing the leadership and strength of lesbians in the queer community and moved the letter to the front to reflect their contributions. Lesbians played a major role in the AIDS epidemic, taking care of gay men affected by the crisis when the government and major healthcare failed them. That was the turning point for the queer community in the ’80s, when hundreds of lesbian bars opened up. It’s all been downhill from there. Nowadays,it’slikepickingatscrapstofeedourhungertobeseen.Everythingissomale-centric. The majority of popular queer media today (e.g. Heartstopper; Red, White, and Royal Blue; Call Me By Your Name; etc.) focuses on MLM stories. The media that does portray sapphic stories garners very little reach or, in the case of TV shows, gets canceled after only one or two seasons. One of my favorite sapphic TV shows Everything Sucks!, which premiered on Netflix in 2018, was canceled after one season despite being a wonderfully authentic portrayal of the struggles of adolescence and teenage relationships (which of course included a sapphic one). It’s true that it was canceled due to low-audience engagement, but therein lies the problem; viewers watched the first episode, saw the main character was a lesbian, and decided it wasn’t a story worth watching. Our stories and lives never seem to be deemed quite important enough to share. Usually the next step to take if your stories aren’t being told in mainstream media is to seek out fanfiction, but even on Archive of Our Own, one of the most popular fanfic sites, there are almost double the amount of stories with the ‘M/M’ tag than stories with ‘W/W.’
Despite lesbians fronting the acronym LGBTQ, the lesbian and sapphic community is consistently an afterthought.
It is important for lesbians and sapphics to have their own spaces because we have distinct struggles from queer men, and often our struggles stem from queer men. Gay bars, for example, although sounding good in theory, often end up being hostile environments for queer women because of the casual misogyny that so many gay men tend to express toward lesbians. There are so few safe spaces and places of support out there for us that having something like Dani’s Queer Bar is highly impactful on our community. We are people whose lives are valuable, whose stories are important to the generations of queer people that will come after, and who deserve to have space to celebrate our love and pride safely.
I still have a couple more years to go before it’s legal for me to hit up Dani’s Queer Bar, but I cannot wait to be a part of something so revolutionary. And I hope that, once I’m twenty-one, there will be plenty of other options alongside Dani’s.
Urban Heartbreak: Rats, Resilience, and the City
By Mars Early
ThefirsttimeImethiminperson,Icouldn’tlookaway.
Under a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses, he had these dark brown eyes that, at night, appeared black. And such thin legs with uber-muscled calves. His face was always scraggly, half-shaven like it was the first time he had ever picked up a razor.
And he was so quiet, until he wasn’t. When you’d get him going about his ex-girlfriend or his ex-friends or his exfamily, he’d never stop. The only thing that would shut his mind up was a good smoke—then, he was silent.
We’d walk for hours in the dark, hand in hand, throughout the city. The streets became a hazy kaleidoscope of fast food, drunken shouts, and interestingly enough—rats.
They were everywhere and nowhere. In passing, we would hear them rusting through the trash tucked in some small crevice of an alleyway. Or the Common. There, they would squish their bodies in the grated trash bins, desperate for scraps. On a bench, we’d just sit and watch and smoke. Sometimes, on lucky nights, I’d spot them chasing each other—playing.
I began to see rats in pairs. One dutifully following the other. Oddly enough, I saw us in them. Like the little rodents, we scuttled aimlessly around each other. Me, after him. And him, after something I could never understand.
In the heart of winter, under the pale glow of the moon, I discovered an underground tunnel system dug by the claws of rats and mice. From little holes in the dirt, their heads would pop out, waiting for me to leave them alone. I imagined dozens of them hidden below, scraping past each other. Maybe their cramped quarters would become too much. Maybe, in desperation and accident,theirtailswouldbecome entwined in passing, forming a rare rat king—a collection of rats bound together, typically by their
tails. Without outside intervention, the rats die.
By month three with him, I knew it wouldn’t last.AndIneededtoescape.Wehadbecometoo ugly. But like the rats, the harder I pulled away, the more entrapped I became. Overwhelming loneliness and insecurity tightened the knot of my heart (their tail), until it snapped. No amountoffearcouldkeephimandmeentwined.
After the break-up, I realized I had only ever seen him in the dark—walking along the streets of the city, sitting across from me at dinner, under the sheets of my bed. And when morning arrived, again and again, and evenings spent with him disappeared altogether, the city had become someplace foreign.
I was lost. The only places I knew how to get to from memory, apart from school, were the ones we frequented together. Those, at least, were familiar. I knew Jaho had gross tea. I knew the Thinking Cup had good macaroons. I knew Jibei Chuan had the best chicken fried rice.
His perception of the city began to plague my own. The subway wasn’t worth it and walking everywhere was better. The Back Bay was the bestplacetoexploreatnight.Aftermidnight,big shipsarrivedattheHarbortodelivergoods.MF Doom and Ice Cube were who to listen to when high. His hometown, Springfield, was complete shit. Marred by gang violence and drugs. And inevitably, menial things like that I wasn’t the bestatkissing.ThatIwasn’tthebestatsex.That I was too clingy. That I was delusional. That I was a dick. That he could never see himself loving me. I knew nothing. He knew nothing.
From then on, I avoided going out at night. But from my bedroom, I could still hear the sirens wailing like clockwork, the drunken shouts; I could envision the fantasy of a scuttle of rats across pavement. The ice skating rink atop Frog Pond, temporarily stationed during Boston’s winter months and the one he had always promised to take me to, would be deserted. Another plan our relationship wouldn’t last long enough to experience. Suddenly, he became a figure with a forgotten face, marred by shadows and half-memories, but present and demanding all the same.
Despite all these fantasies, I finally strolled through the Common for myself and nothing really was different. The same group of people could be found smoking behind the Earl of Sandwich, bongs set up like trophies on those rickety iron tables. Our bench was still there, just not with us on it. He was probably high somewhere, walking around the city until he became exhausted enough to sleep. Hoping to never hear from me again, the person who’s treated him the best out of any partner.
We haven’t spoken since. And the city still stands. More importantly, the night. I’ve had time to reintroduce myself to the city as someone who was not so long ago brand new to it. To meet people who I don’t feel I have to convince to be my friend. There’s so much more to see. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the ideaofhim,though.Maybehe’llbewalkingon the other side of the street from me ten years fromnow.Butthistime,he’llonlybeastranger.
Green is Good:
By Erin Norton & Annie Douma
The Disparity of Tree Coverage by Wealth
Mere steps away from the Boston Common and the Boston Public Gardens, with their weeping willows and majestic oaks, the issue of trees and access to green space feels worlds away from Emerson College. However, the issue of access to green space in Boston is a real concern that gets at the heart of inequity in city living. Over the past decade, citizens and government officials alike have become more aware of the discrepancies in green space distribution between communities, often following a pattern of less access in neighborhoods with higher percentages of low-income or BIPOC residents. Despite this relatively recent revelation, this pattern was not accidental; historic acts such as redlining, disinvestment, and “white flight”—the phenomenon of middle-class white people moving out of urban areas to newly constructed suburbia—have intentionally left urban, low-income communities in a tree-deficit.
This goes beyond the aesthetics of pretty trees. Limited access to greenery and natural spaces is associated with increased risks to physical and mental well-being and decreased protection from the negative effects of climate change. Studies from 2013 to 2021 acknowledge the positive effects of parks and urban green spaces on physical and psychological health, as well as the impacts of dense plant coverage on environmental factors like air quality.
Parks in urban areas serve as a “third space,” providing a place with little to no financial barrier to access for people to gather and interact outside of the two primary places Americans spend time: home and work. The COVID-19 lockdowns from 20202022 caused many Americans to lose these “third spaces” and spurred an increase in discussion around the “loneliness epidemic”
in the public health sphere. Accessible and well-utilized green space draws people outside andencouragessocialinteraction.Inturn,this social connection helps reduce the prevalence of isolation, generates social capital, and can contribute to increased personal resilience and well-being (Lee et al., 2015). This increased engagement has even been shown to have a positive correlation with reducing crime in neighborhoods (Conniff, n.d.).
Furthermore, the phrase “touch some grass” isn’t just TikTok brain rot jargon—in fact, it’s the opposite. Spending time in nature has been shown to reduce stress and anxiety, even reducing blood pressure and improving cardiovascularhealth(Leeetal.,2015;LeMoult, 2023). This may also be due in part to the utilization of public green spaces as places for residents to exercise (Lee et al., 2015). The fact thatpublicparksareafreeresourceisespecially importantinpromotingexerciseinlow-income communities where memberships to private gyms or other exclusive recreational facilities may be unattainable (Rigolon et al., 2021).
As temperatures rise across the globe, mortalities as a result of excessive heat exposure have also steadily climbed. Urban areas often have higher rates of heat storage due to the concrete and asphalt that make up most of their land surface. This phenomenon, also known as the urban heat island effect, causes higher temperatures in cities than in surrounding suburban and rural areas. Tree shade is incredibly effective in regulating the urban heat island effect, with the ability to reduce land surface temperatures by 10-20ºC onasummerday(Mcdonaldetal.,2021).Trees also reduce temperatures by absorbing heat to evaporate the water that is released through their leaves (LeMoult, 2023; Mcdonald et al., 2021). However, low-income communities have 15.2% less tree cover causing average temperatures to be 1.5ºC higher than in
their wealthier counterparts across the United States (Mcdonald et al., 2021). In the Northeast, where the disparity is the worst, low-income communities may have 30% less tree cover and experience temperatures 4ºC hotter than richer neighborhoods.
With the addition of trees, there’s a potential opportunity for more sun-exposed neighborhoods to cool down even outside of the shady reach of the leaves. Through the process of transpiration, in which the leaves of anyplantreleaseswaterintoair,theatmosphere experiences a cooling effect. In turn, this creates an opportunity for air conditioning to be used less, ultimately reducing energy consumption and air pollution.
How has tree inequality gotten this bad,
specifically pertaining to low-income or BIPOC residents of urban environments? There are a few factors that most definitely have played a part. Redlining is a form of discrimination that denies financial services to BIPOC individuals. It is a modern form of segregation. Starting in 1920s urban U.S. areas, government homeownership programs deliberately color coded maps that detailed residential areas based on their racial makeup, red indicating the lowest areas. People in these areas were deemed “high risk” by the government and banks, making it near impossible for residents to secure loans to buy homes. Moving into the future, these areas became deeply underfunded and remain in a state of neglect. Urban decay is a process that occurstoareasthatremainunderdevelopedand underfunded. Many of these neighborhoods
do not get the love and attention that inner cities receive. Therefore, they have less infrastructure and very little green space. The decline of urban areas that are not at the epicenteroftheircitiesalsocauseswhiteflight, aphenomenonwherewhitepeopleleaveurban areas to go live in suburban neighborhoods.
Classism is also to blame. As a response to the growth of homelessness, many city governments have implemented hostile architecture, an urban design strategy that actively discriminates against the unhoused population. Hostile architecture is not only to blame for slanted seats, benches with short and inconveniently placed separators, and heavily grated sidewalks, but it’s also to blame for the lack of female trees that produce edible fruit. Botanical sexism is prevalent in urban areas because city governments deliberately want to keep free fruit from flowering female trees an impossibility. Instead they plant male trees, which statistically produce more pollen and worsen allergies and asthma. Those who do not have the financial ability to become homeowners also suffer greatly from tree inequity. Generational wealth—property wise or fiscally—is a privilege. Many essential and bluecollarworkersareforcedtoliveinneglected neighborhoods for their jobs; they do not have the luxury of owning a home elsewhere.
To this day, Boston has a huge segregation issue.EversinceFDR’sHouseOwnershipLoan Corporation (HOLC) was established, causing redlining to be a commonly used practice, many areas just outside of Boston were marked as high risk (Ofulue, 2021). Despite its highly effective public transportation and school systems, Roxbury and surrounding areas were deemed to be high risk simply because it was an area in which many BIPOC people resided (Ofulue, 2021). On the other hand, areas such as Newton were deemed green, simply because there were zero BIPOC residents (Ofulue, 2021). These themes, even
though they remain unspoken, still sneak into our unconscious biases. These building blocks for infrastructure, which were created nearly a century ago, seep into today. This is most notable when looking at maps of Boston that depict green space. The lack of green spaces in the Dorchester or Roxbury areas are so noticeable that it can be noted on the satellite view of Google Maps. Go look.
Luckily there are many contemporary efforts that are actively combating these issues. The City of Boston’s Cabinet of Environment, Energy, and Open Space created The Boston Tree Alliance (Mass Audubon, 2022). This alliance aims to grow the urban tree canopy in a way that does not gentrify residential areas. In the 2022 Urban Forest Plan, it was found that 60% of Boston’s tree canopy is located on private property, not residential land (Mass Audubon, 2022). The Boston Tree Alliance plants more trees throughout the city of Boston, but specifically on residential land.
While green spaces and the growth of each city’s green canopy is essential to the wellbeing of everyone, the potential for “green gentrification”—the addition of green amenities displacing residents—must be mitigated.. This can happen when the addition of green spaces prices out residents or the addition of parks literally replaces residential areas. In order for tree inequity to be addressed properly, it’s important for cities and coalitions working against this issue to keep in mind what causes housing to become unaffordable and unavailable.
While tree inequity is something that cannot be solved overnight, these communities are working tirelessly to reclaim their space. They have the right to create a neighborhood that is prosperous and hospitable for everyone, and it is our responsibility to help where it is necessary. From Boston to L.A., we owe our communities the healthy lives they deserve.
Reclaiming Concert Culture
By Rowan Wasserman
Ilove concerts—crazy, I know. Concerts are cool as hell. The lighting, the sound design, the liveproduction?It’ssoawesome,Ican’tgetenoughofit.I’maguywhogoestoeveryconcertI canafford,whichisgreatformysociallife,andterribleformybankaccount.Inthelastthree concerts I attended, I’ve had a lot to think about in terms of how concert culture has evolved for the worse in many subgenres—maybe I’m crazy, but give me a minute on my soapbox.
The three shows I attended most recently were: K.Flay in Spokane, Washington, The Front Bottoms, and Novo Amor, the latter of which were both in Boston. The experiences were great, awful, and redemptive—in that exact order. K.Flay is an alt-rock/indie pop artist from Illinois. If her name sounds familiar, it’s because her single “High Enough” was popular on TikTok around 2022. It’s a banger, I won’t lie.
I attended her concert in Spokane, Washington, a simple ten minute drive from my brother’s home. The ticket was free from a dear friend, and we had a great time there. The vibes in the audienceweresafe,kind,andneedIsayitagain,SAFE.Theinfluxofbracelettradingatconcerts has given a whole new way to connect with the community in these sorts of events, and it’s a really good way to feel safer and more accepted in a space. My friend and I both received bracelets from some kind strangers in the audience, and we kept them on the whole night. The show itselfwasalsoamazing,butarguablythebestpartwashowKristine(K.Flay)wasadamantabout keeping us in the crowd safe. She didn’t encourage moshing, she reminded us to drink water and keep from passing out—she did a great job at something not necessarily required of her.
Then there’s the Front Bottoms. Wow, a different experience. Going from indie rock to Midwest emo is going to be a very different crowd, and honestly, I didn’t prepare myself adequately for that difference. By the first chorus of the opener, moshing had begun. I’ll let y’all know now, I don’t take kindly to getting shoved around: I throw elbows back, alright? And I was indeed doing that. Despite my best efforts, there was a point in the concert where I felt genuinely afraid for my safety, and more so for the safety of the smaller feminine individuals around me. I wound up grouping up with two strangers—a girl and her boyfriend—all of us clinging to each other to keep stable, and to keep her from getting hurt. Then I hit up Novo Amor. Very different vibes. Honestly, the only bad thing about this show was the group of drunk women talking too loud during the quiet parts of songs—and good for them, have your fun. But other than that? It was an incredible show. The crowd was safe and respectful of each other, which was explicitly condoned and emphasized by the band.
In comparing these concerts, I’ve had to think a lot about specifically Novo Amor vs Front Bottoms. They’re two of my favorite artists, and I was equally excited to see them both live. I also saw them both here in Boston, one at the House of Blues and the other at the Royale Nightclub. These experiences really couldn’t have been more different. Where I left Novo Amor from a Nightclub feeling hyped up and grinning wide, I left the Front Bottoms feeling anxious and unhappy. The ride back to campus on the T, I don’t even want to know what I looked like. The shower I took when I finally got back was… life-changing.
I can’t stop thinking about this. What happened to concerts, man? Do y’all even know about the Riot Grrrl movement? Do you???
Riot Grrrl, for the uninitiated, is a punk scene movement frommyownhomeofWashingtonState.It’sallaboutwomen being able to express themselves in ways that were frowned upon—typically in punk music—but men were free to express their rage and disillusionment. But women faced intense criticism for the same expressions. Within Riot Grrrl, various female forward groups gained popularity and added new faces to the conversation of the punk scene. Riot Grrrl, andtheGirls-to-the-Frontmovementwerepivotalinmaking concerts safer for women and people who are disadvantaged in a moshpit-type scenario. Many people who experienced thisfirsthandcanattesttothedifferencesthesegroupsmade.
Bikini Kill—again a Washington State native—is a band that was one of the major proponents of the girls-to-the-front movement. Their headman Kathleen Hanna was (and continues to be) incredibly vocal about the discrimination towards women in the punk scene. As she once said, “I would muchratherbetheobnoxiousfeministgirlthanbecomplicit in my own dehumanization.” And yeah, that’s where I’m at.I’mgoingtokeepthrowingelbows,andlookingaftergirls in mosh pits wherever I’m able, and y’all should be too. To open up concert culture to women and other disadvantaged groups, we need to return to the vibes pioneered by the Riot Grrrl movement. We just need to look after one another.
PHOTOGRAPHER
ILIAN HOLLAND
By Callan Whitley
The Damned IKEA Wardrobe
The first of the harvest month is a notorious, pesky little holiday in Boston, Massachusetts. It’s best known for the collectively absurd idea of having every new resident of the city move in on the exact same day, the exact same time, and, seemingly, the exact same stretch of sidewalk.
On September 1st, my dad and I arrived at Logan Airport from our tiny town in North Carolina. (I am telling you this now because almost everything about my father boils down to him being from a tiny town in North Carolina). He had an industrial suitcase and roundtrip ticket with him that would take him home the next day for a work event. We had a little over twelve hours to move me into my very first apartment.
Our first stop of the day was the IKEA in Stoughton,Massachusetts.Thisisanimportant hallmark of the holiday, you see. The odds that you will not encounter furniture from IKEA’s warehouse are severely stacked against you, whether in a Facebook Marketplace treasure hunt or, god forbid, a trip to the amusement park of Swedish meatballs itself. Aswewalkedthroughtheswarmoflast-minute shoppers, my dad did the thing he always does
when he knows I’m being held hostage by his creditcard:givemeasmuchunsolicitedadvice as he can. He hit some of his all-time favorite topics—the proper way to cook a perfect sweet potato, how to say no to roommate peer pressure about drugs, and the best brand of peanut butter that won’t ever get juicy.
“Youneedabout10%ofthethingsyouactually think you do,” he said as he sideswiped my attempttoloadanergonomicpillowintothecart.
This is another thing to know about my father—he is a very vocal and very annoying minimalist. His favorite pastime is to rant about how much stuff there is in our house, how much stuff we do not need, and what stuff there is to give away. For most of my childhood, I swear he snuck into my room in the dead of night like the Grinch to fill a trash bag of items for Goodwill before the sun was up. It was the only way to explain how essential things were constantly disappearing from my life—like my Hannah Montana blanket and every sock I’ve ever owned.
“This is going to be a good year,” he said, debating which 99c dish brush to buy.
“Everything is going to be so much better.”
I smiled at him. I tried to believe it.
The first time I turned my keys in my new
apartmentwasamonumentalfeeling.Nothing could’ve ruin it, not even the immediate encounter with my new roommate and her almost naked boyfriend who made my dad run into the wall. It was mine and I was an adult and that was all very exciting.
We unloaded the car with the IKEA bedframe and wardrobe we picked up. In an unexpected turn, my dad had agreed to a sidequest to pick up a reading chair in the middle of nowhere, Massachusetts, from a sketchy lady off of Facebook Marketplace. (We met at her house, I venmoed her $65, and she produced an armchair covered in dog hair. The whole affair was all very September 1st).
By the time we got to the damned IKEA wardrobe, it was already 10:00 p.m. We had just spent a full day of expediting the move-in process. No fumes were left. My dad had a flight to catch at four in the morning. But nothing was fitting together. We had to start entirely over at least three times.
very fast. Junior year was spent under the fluorescence of hospital lights. My body began to eat itself from the inside out. No medicine worked, no treatment stuck. Food is a trigger point for S.I.B.O., so it became the enemy. In the months that followed the diagnosis, I started to receieve dangerously low blood pressure readings at appointments. I developed an extreme iron deficency. Classes were attended through gritted teeth.
I’ve taken several deep breaths, and it is the end of the world. And have you ever noticed how heartache is even worse through the static of a telephone call?
I couldn’t see his face, but the strain of his voice cut me like a knife. I wanted so desperately to get better, formyself,butalsohim.
I have always been a (cautiously) optimistic person, but I think S.I.B.O. stole that from me. That’s what happens when you get sick— things are stolen from you. There have always been certain anchors to who I am—reading cheesy romance novels, too-sugary hot chocolate, writing, playing soccer. But I couldn’t do any of those things after I got S.I.B.O. Nothing felt right. I didn’t feel right.
“Dad, please, I can do it by myself tomorrow. You have such an early flight,” I said.
“No, I’m going to get this thing built for you,” he insisted.
And I knew why, of course. I knew why he couldn’t bring it in himself to leave me with a half-finished wardrobe.
It had been a hard year.
Small Intestinal Bacterial Overgrowth is what they call it. Things got very bad
As sick as I was, it’s possible my dad was even sicker with worry. I began to call him a lot. He would tell me things like it is okay, take some deep breaths, and it is not the end of the world. To which I replied with things like it is not okay, I’ve taken several deep breaths, and it is the end of the world. And have you ever noticed how heartache is even worse through the static of a telephone call? I couldn’t see his face, but the strain of his voice cut me like a knife. I wanted so desperately to get better, for myself, but also him.
We found one treatment that was different than the others. The June before I moved into the apartment I underwent the most intense treatment program for eradicating S.I.B.O. that there is. And I won’t say that things are completely better, because I am beginning
to understand that that will probably never be the truth. But the symptoms became much more managable. The idea of living on my own wasn’t so impossible anymore.
So there we were, at the beginning of my senior year of college, putting together the pieces of my new life.
At 1 a.m., I took a break as my dad’s compliant (but mostly unhelpful) assistant to unpack the gigantic suitcase he had been lugging around all day.
And my heart swelled. Because my dad is such a phony.
For all of his minimalist nonsense, my dad had packed the luggage to the brim with the unnecessary things he pretended to despise. Dusty Halloween decorations, a nightlight, socks, and even my tenyear-old piggy bank. The highlight was a brand new Baby Yoda stuffed animal (you know how dads find that one thing you like when you’re young and latch onto it for dear life? Well, enter Baby Yoda).
And that’s when I realized how much bigger this was than building a wardrobe. That, and when I watched him perform what I can only describe as a sort of curled, serpentine yoga position to insert one of those wooden dowels IKEA is so obsessed with into the back of the armoire. He was so red-faced and so full of determination and his body was so arranged in a way no man of his age should ever be that it all made me want to lay down on the hardwood and cry.
I had been sick for so long
and my dad had been worried for so long. This year had been hell and, now that we were finally on the other side of it, my dad was literally bending over backward to make sure I would have a better one. He sacrificed his distaste for clutter to fill my room with the things that would remind me of home. My dad was determined to put togetherthisnewspace for me, a haven where my body could heal.
At that moment, I was determined to believe him. I promised myself that no matter what happened, no matter what lay ahead, I would wear my dad’s optimism like a hand-me-down. I would wrap hislovearoundmyshoulderslikeaheavycoat.
Wefinishedbuildingthewardrobearoundone in the morning. Before he left, I clung to his sweat-drenched shirt in a way I hadn’t since I was a little kid. And it felt a little like that, too. Like I was seven years old again, wiping my snotty nose into his shoulder after he rescued me from the top of the Chick-fil-A playground’s tube slide. It was one of those heroic, silly little dad moments that stick with you well into your years. He’s full of those.
Ode to Lesbian Longing
I grew up going to Catholic school which meant a lot of things. Days spent in churches surrounded by stained glass, choirs singing hymns, and kneeling in pews praying to a god I wasn’t sure I believed in. It meant praying three times during the school day: once in the morning, once before recess, and once at the end of the school day. My first day at this school felt like being at a concert for a band I didn’t know. Standing awkwardly in the audience as everyone else around me knew the lyrics to the songs except me. My classmates around me started reciting a prayer in perfect harmony. Saying the right words at the right time. Once the prayer ended, everyone moved their hands to their forehead, then their heart, then their left and right shoulders. I would later learn that the prayer they recited was “Our Father.” That the hand movements
were symbolizing the sign of the cross. I would also learn that being queer wasn’t a possibility for me. Not at Catholic school.
By Annalisa Hansford
Although my parents weren’t Catholic, the values of Catholic school seeped into my life at home. Once, I was singing the lyrics to Katy Perry’s “I Kissed a Girl” around my house. I wasn’t thinking about the meaning behind the words I was singing. It was just a song I heard on the radio with a catchy melody. Yet my mother scolded me for singing it. I was embarrassed. At some point, I would realize what the song was about. Either by Googling the lyrics myself or learning from a friend. I taught myself that queer desire was shameful, something to hide. So that’s what I did. When Ihadcrushesongirls,IconvincedmyselfIjust wanted to be really good friends with them. I
distanced myself from them, regardless, so I didn’t have to confront my feelings. When Sasha Pieterse’s character in Pretty Little Liars appeared on screen, I shielded my eyes from my television. If I looked at her for too long, I’d have to look within myself. To confront my own desire. And that was the last thing I wanted to do.
As I’ve grown older, my shame surrounding lesbianism has turned into adoration. Queer media has helped me reclaim the term “lesbian” for myself. A year ago, the film Bottoms made me fall in love with lesbianism and everything it encapsulates: authenticity, honesty, and vulnerability. The movie is about lesbians starting a fight club at their high school so they can hook up with cheerleaders. I gravitated toward the heartthrob of the film, Hazel Callahan. She’s a masculine presenting lesbian who is unapologetically herself. After watching the film, I cut my hair to look just like her’s.
After getting the “Ruby Cruz” haircut, I felt more like myself. I slowly started incorporating her character’sstyleintothewayIdress.
I started putting energy and effort into my appearance which made me feel good about myself. On the weekends, I searched Boston for markets and vendors selling jewelry. I found a silver chain that looked like the one she wore in the film. I adorned my fingers with rings. At one market, I found a silver ring with a turquoise stone in the middle that matched the turquoise nail polish I painted my fingers with. I stopped wearing the same t-shirts I had been wearing since high school that no longer felt like me. I invested in sweater vests, baggy button-ups, and oversized sweaters from thrift stores in Boston. I finally felt more like
myself.Iwasslowlyrebuildingmyrelationship with the term “lesbian.” I was realizing the ways in which lesbianism made me feel comfortable in my own skin. In my identity.
I have a playlist on my Spotify called “queer desire” that I created a few months after watching Bottoms. It contains songs like “Amelie” by Gracie Abrams, “Kissing in Swimming Pools” by Holly Humberston, and “We’ll Never Have Sex” by Leith Ross. Even if the songs aren’t queer in nature or written
by queer artists, every song on the playlist encapsulates desire so intense it’s reminiscent of queer yearing. I find myself revisiting this playlist every few months when I have a new crush. It reminds me how beautiful lesbian longing is. How revolutionary it is.
This summer, I listened to Clairo’s new album Charm on repeat. It’s an album that makes me want to dance under a summer moon and write letters to the people I love. She sings of longing, desire, and wanting so delicately.
Without shame. In her song “Nomad,” one of my favorite lyrics is I’m touch-starved and shameless. I adore the way in which it sounds like a line from a confessional poem. The way Clairo sings so unabashedly about her longing makes me feel less alone. As if she’s giving me permission to revel in my queer yearning that the younger version of myself was so afraid of.
Sometimes I think about the past versions of myself. My childhood self that spent Friday mornings at Mass, feeling suffocated by a
religionIdidn’tbelievein.Theversionofmyself that existed freshman year of college. How back then, I was full of social anxiety, brimming with insecurities, surrounded by people who made mefeelself-conscious.IhadahaircutIdidn’tlike, wore clothes that didn’t feel like me. I look back onthoseversionsofmyselfnowwhilewearinga navygreenmessengerbag,adarkbrownleather jacket,andmyflesh-coloredbinderpeekingout from under my gray plaid button-up. I have finally become the version of myself I always wanted to be. I feel the most authentic in my entire life, in my truest state, and I owe it all to lesbianism. From the lesbians past and present who taught me it’s a lovely thing to be myself.
Self-Love, One Bad Hair Cut at a Time
By Emma Siebold
I brushed a knot out of my hair today.
This probably won’t strike many as a big deal. Most people with long hair have had to deal with a tangle or knot at some point. But despite my now shoulder-length hair, I can’t recall the last time I had to fight with it. I almost cried tears of joy.
My hair and I have an on-again, off-again relationship.Growingup,Ihadthelongesthair of my friends and classmates, and that became adefiningfactorofwhoIwasandwhatIlooked like. I had well over two feet of hair when I decided to donate to Locks of Love in fourth grade, and even after cutting the required 13 inches, my hair fell past my shoulders.
My virgin locks got highlights for the first time when I got to high school, and my
soccer teammates said I looked like Rapunzel when I was on the field. Hair became both an identifier and a security blanket; I used it to hide other physical insecurities I had like my acne and forehead. But then came the quarantine identity crisis; six months in lockdown led to a flurry of regrettable hair decisions, and none of them stuck. It went from waist length back to my shoulders, golden blonde to caramel to dark brown to blue, even cut from layers to curtain bangs.
The big chop came during junior year of high school. While the other choices I had made up until this point felt temporary, this would be long term. I cut my hair chin length, with curtain bangs and layers of white highlights against my natural brown. It looked good for a few months. I felt confident. No longer having long hair forced me to accept and
accentuate other parts of my appearance, like fashion. While it may seem shallow, having really short hair made me feel unique.
But one day during senior year, I found myself standing in front of my mirror clutching a pair of scissors. It started with a few snips, an illadvisedventureoftrimmingmycurtainbangs. ButthenIkeptcutting.Andcutting.Icutlayers and bangs in places where layers and bangs didn’t belong. Length and style meant nothing to me. My once-cute wolf cut quickly became an erratic pixie and the obvious result of a child who shouldn’t be trusted with scissors.
I went on like that for weeks, aggressively cutting my hair each night, before I finally took a step back and realized the damage I’d done. There was no purpose to it, no end goal, just a strange satisfaction from the lack of control. The confidence that I felt when I first cut my hair was long gone, as was my sense of identity. I started changing my hair because I wanted it to reflect the changes and new beginnings in my life; I had recently started receiving help for my mental health and anxiety. The new hair was supposed to be reminiscent of a fresh start, butsomehowIhadgottenlostonthatjourney, and I felt like my hair was now a reflection of how utterly confused and upset I felt.
to stop the madness, I had to relinquish that control, and I was filled with shame from what my hair looked like and anxiety from not being able to do anything about it.
Letting my hair grow out into awkward, choppy layers was harder. Because I had long hair for most of my life, I never had to deal with that strange in-between phase, where you can kind of braid your hair (even if it comes undoneinfiveminutes)andfashionaponytail that’s so short it feels pointless. Now, brushing knots out of my hair is a chore that I welcome. Idon’tknowhowtobraid,butItryanywayjust because there were months that any sort of hairstyle was impossible. I find joy in brushing my hair after the years that I never needed to.
physical appearance is just an extension of our identities, not the entire vessel
I always felt like my physical appearance had to correspond directly to how I felt. Instead of acknowledging my frenzied emotional state and taking care of myself, I got carried away with trying to prove I was unique. Instead of starting college with confidence, I came to Boston hating everythingaboutmyappearance.Socialmedia is no help—it feels like everyone on TikTok and Instagram preys off of insecurities and tries to sell you things to change yourself.
Putting down the scissors was the first step. I had been told by a couple of my friends that my hair wasn’t looking too good, and instead of blindly chopping it one night, I forced myself to look in the mirror and take in what I was doing. At this point, I realized that the only way I could control the length of my hair was to keep cutting it. In order
It’s been a challenge to accept my insecurities, but I’ve learned to acknowledge and coexist with them. I am actively pushing against the train of thought that I need to first fit some quota before loving myself, whether that’s how “fit” I am, the length of my hair or the clarity of my skin. Maintaining a kind inner monologue and rebuilding a solid relationship withourselvesisnecessarytonavigatethislife, and physical appearance is just an extension of our identities, not the entire vessel.
The lights are on, but no one is home
By Rowan Wasserman
Myfirsttimehangingoutwithagroupofpeople
Icouldnearlycall“friends”atEmersonCollege was attending the early premiere of Saltburn through Brightlights. I sat, surrounded by peers, watching with open mouthed shock. The movie was great, but it’s hardly what I remember most from the experience.
I got to the theater way too early—I’d never entered the Paramount building before, and everything was new and terrifying. I spotted the person who had invited me, taking my seat in relief beside them, before we were joined by the others in our little group. The low rumble of hypercritical film students filled our ears, and I made quiet, nervous, yet eager conversation with the kind strangers I sat with. As the movie played out, we all gasped, and screamed and laughed in unison as a glorious chorus of new experience.
I continued to tell my roommates about how wonderful the experience was, but I conflated my enjoyment of the experience with a love of the movie. The movie was good, don’t get me wrong, but what I loved so much was finally feeling a part of
something. A community—what I had always hoped my college experience would be.
Iwouldgoontoattendvariousfilmscreenings through Brightlights within my freshman year here at Emerson. I eagerly looked forward to
these events—to walking in, greeting Anna Feder,takingmyseatandleaningbackassome gorgeous documentary played out on screen. I’m not even a film student, man. Brightlights wasfor everyone.Thespacedidn’tfeelexclusive, thanksingreatparttothewayitwasmanaged. You walk in, sit down, watch something amazing, and talk about it. I never was made to feel like I wasn’t smart enough to engage in those conversations - at Brightlights, everyone felt equal. We’re all just here to learn, after all. IbelieveIsawsixscreeningsatBrightlightsover
my freshman year, and ending the semester, I had looked forward to attending far more in my sophomore year. Then we got the update: Brightlights is canceled. Reportedly due to it costing too much. BTW the “too much money” in question is less than a single student’s tuition for a year.
As a sophomore, I wasn’t relying on Brightlights to help me make friends - I’ve got some, I’m alright. That said, I empathize with the pain of the anxious freshmen who are brimming with fear at the constant lack of social engagement. I’m devastated for those freshmen that they do not get to experience that first night at Brightlights— that first night of belonging.
Not only did I lose my favorite Thursday-night activity, but every freshman has lost out on the easiest way to interact with community members. Bright Lights being taken away honestly feels like a slap in the face to upperclassmen, and a punch down at the freshmen. Not all freshmen are going to be as sad and lonely as I was, but we all have our miserable moments,and Bright Lights was there for me in mine.
It feels ironic to an exceptional extent that Emerson College, known colloquially as a “film school,” has chosen to do away with its best film screening program. I mean, come on. We’re all broke college students, - none of us want to spend $20 to see a movie at the AMC when we had the option of seeing things in
the company of our community, in our own theater.Evenifwehavethemoneytoseeevery new film at the theater, we’re now missing out on opportunities that plenty of us had never experienced before. Touring documentaries with post-screening commentary and conversation with the creators was always exciting, and inspiring. For so many of our VMA students, I could always sense how reaffirming it felt for film students to get to personally interact with creators of films like that. I’m a WLP student, and I loved talking to the creators too. It feels incredibly shortsighted to cut those experiences out.
There were plenty of standouts for me at Brightlights. Films like Queendom, - the story of a performance artist and drag queen in Russia,showinghowanti-LGBTQ+legislation was being combatted, and how it impacted
peopleonanindividuallevel.Therewerefilms like King Coal, - the story of the impact of fossilfuelsintheAppalachianregion,andhow coal has become a facet of culture and daily life there. And there were films like Lakota Nation vs. United States, - a recounting of the fight to reclaim the indigenous Lakota and Dakota peoples right to their sacred area, the Black Hills. Brightlights also featured pieces some consider “controversial” like Israelism which has received plenty of criticism from Zionist entities. That piece in particular faced a good deal of censorship attempts—many students believe the showing of this film to be a direct reason for Brightlights being canceled, though the official narrative makes no mention of it. But we’re Emersonians; we know how to connect the dots.
These movies did exactly what filmmakers
endeavor to do: tell our stories, and teach us other people’s stories. I would never have heard about Gena Marvin, the performer from Russia, had it not been for Brightlights bringing her into my consciousness. I can’t help but wonder what stories I’m missing out on now that I can’t attend Brightlights.
Brightlightsexposedmetothoughts,concepts, court-cases,andindividualsthatIwouldnever have heard of without it. The entire crop of Freshmen is, as I write this, missing out on those experiences, - and so are the rest of us.
Ihopethatthiscommunityiswillingtoseethe value and the beauty of what has been taken from us, and decides to help. All of us need to talk about this. Brightlights is Emerson. And without it, everything feels muted.
We all miss it. All of us. This isn’t just a minor tragedy for the VMA students, it’s a major loss for the entire community of Emerson. So, here’s the call to action you’ve been waiting for:
Follow @Bringbackbrightlights on Instagram, and annoy our administration about this.
A film school needs a film screening program.
Ink & Self-Esteem
By Liz Gómez
“It’s too small,” she said while pointing at my left wrist.
My pointer finger and thumb were about an inch apart—displaying the size of the tattoo I had planned, for the past year and a half, to have permanently etched into my skin. A design that no amount of water, soap, alcohol, or self-denial could wash away. A design that would cling to my skin as my body is buried six feet below the ground, only leaving once worms, bugs, and bacteria slowly eat away at me.Eventhen,Icouldimagineawormspitting out the ink-filled skin, finding it too bitter.
To say my heart stopped when I heard those three words is an understatement.
“Sorry,” I said, trying to hide how my voice shook, “it’s too small?”
Nina, a tattoo artist at Galway Bay Tattoo, sighed and pointed at my fingers. “If we make the silhouette that small, when it heals, it’ll just become a big, black blob.”
I could only reply with an, “Oh, okay.”
Shaking her head, Nina turned to a computer and began to type away. “You have to go much bigger than that,” she explained, with a surprising amount of patience. “And you can’t make it a silhouette. Like I said, black blob.”
Turning the monitor around, she showed me a Google search: an outlined, shaded drawing of a cardinal perched on a branch.
The complete opposite of what I asked for.
“The smallest this can go is,” Nina paused to convert the measurements to something more American, “three inches by three inches.”
“So,” I said while studying the tiled floor of the shop,“myoriginaldesignhastobethrownout?”
“Yep.”
For most of my life, I’ve hated how I looked and wanted a tattoo.
My self-esteem has been the lowest of the low—where I can’t remember looking in the mirror and liking what I see; whenever someone compliments me, my first thought is, “What’s the point of lying?”
For as long as I can remember, I’ve battled— and lost to—my insecurities.
In first grade, I learned about tattoos by studying the patterns scattered across my uncle’s skin. At family barbecues, I forced him to drag a lawn chair next to mine and hold out his left arm for me to cradle. Underneath the blistering summer sun, I traced the ring of his Celtic Cross tattoo, following the circle as it intersectedwiththearmsandstemofthecross. Brushing my palm over the panel, I convinced myself that I could feel the raised, bumpy, and overlapping lines of the Celtic pattern.
Our bodies being used as a canvas—as a blank page to draw upon and forever hold the stories of our past, our loved ones, and what we find to be so important that we would permanently alter our body to carry it—became an obsession of mine.
In middle and high school, I watched every episode of Ink Masters available on YouTube. I took notes during tutorial videos about which needlesworkbestfordifferenttattoodesigns— neveruseMagnumshaderneedlesforlinework or American Traditional tattoos cannot be more than one-third black. Anytime I was at a grocery store, movie theater, volleyball practice, or even church, I’d be on the lookout fortattoos,analyzingtheirdesignsandgleaning the personalities of the people who held them (never trust someone who has a lion roaring next to Jesus tattoo on their upper right arm).
No matter how badly I wanted a tattoo,
my low self-esteem limited me to what I envisioned. I only deserved a small tattoo. I didn’t want to further ruin my body, so I could never get a highly visible tattoo. What would others think of me if they saw what I’d done? What would I think of myself?
So,onmytwentiethbirthday,Ilistened.Iagreed towhatI’dalwaysthoughtandhadmyfirsttattoo reflect this: an inch-by-inch semicolon on my right wrist. Barely visible when I look at it in the mirror; I can’t tell you the number of times it’s been mistaken for an oddly shaped mole.
But that’s what I wanted. From my years of envisioning my body as a portable art gallery and from everything I endured, I was only worthy of a small dot and an even smaller comma beneath it.
Nina emailed the image of the cardinal to her co-workerSeanandtoldmeit’dtakehim“thirty minutes to finish the stencil.” I sat in a nearby caféwithmyfriend,doingthebestIcouldnotto burst out into tears. Stomach filled with coffee and dread, I returned to Galway Bay Tattoo and found myself holding the stencil of the opposite tattoo I had planned on getting while in Ireland. Originally, I wanted a design like my semicolon tattoo: small and unnoticeable. The cardinal, for my mother, was planned to be an inch-by-inch silhouette situated on the left side of my left wrist. The design I held with shaking hands was intricate. It had feathers, a gleamingeye,andclawsclutchingabranch.Its tail feathers fanned out beneath its oval body.
“We don’t want that blob, now do we?” Sean said with a kind smile.
I looked up at him and tried my best to smile—I probably looked just as afraid as I felt. “And this will go on my wrist?”
Cocking his head to the side, he politely laughed. “Isn’t that what you asked for?”
This isn’t at all what I asked for, I thought to myself.Yet,atthebottomofmyheart,Isensed
something strange. Studying the design again, a smile pulling up the corners of my lips, I realized how much I loved it. I loved how detailed it was—no one could mistake it for a mole. I loved how the bird was perched on a branch, ready to swoop down my forearm and glide toward my heart. I loved its size; my mother deserved more than an inch on my body.
I nodded my head yes.
Sean chuckled and guided me to the back of the shop. Yellow, fluorescent light shone onto my wrist as he shaved and disinfected the area.Ikeptimaginingawonkyblobbelowmy thumb. How it would change from a cardinal representingmymothertoaperiod.Toanend.
I wanted the tattoo to be a beginning.
Sean gently—or as gently as a group of sharp, moving needles could be— placed the tattoo machine onto my skin. I wasn’t as uncomfortable as I expected since I thought its size and placement would make it more painful than my previous tattoo.
Excitement and nervousness dulled the feeling of intense scratching; I watched as the exact opposite of what I wanted, yet exceedingly more beautiful, cardinal took shape.Tearsswelledinthecornersofmyeyes as I saw a tribute to my mother permanently added to my body. Her memory lives on my wrist and will stay with me until those worms,bugs,andbacteriastartchewing.And maybethatonewormwon’tspitoutthatinkfilled spot of skin. Maybe it’ll taste the deep, sweet love and respect I held for my mother.
When the tattoo was finished, I felt beautiful. Loved and worthy of love. When my friend complimented the design, I didn’t think she waslyingortryingtobepolite.Instead,pride in my mother and myself flourished beneath my skin and bloomed into a bright smile that stayed on my face for the next few days.
So, when I got my next, spur-of-the-moment tattoo for my father, I went even bigger. Even more intricate. Even more unapologetic. Because my father, like my mother, deserved more than a lumpy blob on my skin.
I studied the stencil in the full-length mirror in Galway Tattoos. The design, a tiger lily, wrapped around my right ankle; its petals unfurled across my lower calf. Bending down, I hovered my finger over the flower and traced its lines.
“Everything alright?” Patrick, the tattoo artist, asked.
“Yes, this is perfect,” I said, beaming at my reflection, because I deserve to continue looking in the mirror and loving what I see.
PHOTOGRAPHER .....LAITH HINTZMAN
MODELS ..........ISAIAH FLYNN, SARA KELLEY, & NYLA ANDERSON
MAKE UP .........CHLOE MCALLISTER
DESIGN ..........UGNE KAVALIAUSKAITE
Speaking in Tongues
By Laith Hintzman
“S
hou hatha? Laith! Khaif halak ya habibi!”
The voice of Khalto Huda, Mom’s oldest sister, crackles over the WhatsApp call.
“Uh. Hi! Or- Kwayas, alhamdulillah, How are you?”
I reply, and she returns a warm smile.
My Arabic is awful. Not good, at all. And I’m entirely to blame for it.
As a kid, I was given countless opportunities to connect with my culture. I turned away each one: Sunday school, daycare programs, yearly trips to Amman, daily phone calls with family. None could tame my inexplicable aversion to being Arab.
Truthfully, I never knew the root of that aversion. At first, I thought it was the sickness. Each flight to Amman plagued me with such debilitatingairsicknessthatIhadtobewheeled in and out of every boarding gate. Even the thought of an airport could send me reeling with nausea. But no, I couldn’t just blame the sickness. I knew there was something more to it—itwasn’tthealtitudeorthemotionthatmade me sick, it was the thought of my destination.
ThenIthoughtitwastheshame.Shameatbeing different from my peers, fear that I would be judged,mocked,andridiculedforstandingout.
Maybe I could blame my social conditioning for how I felt? But no, this wasn’t right either. Schoolchildren are harsh, yes, but I’d rarely
been the target of bullying for my culture. Besides, I had no trouble passing as white. I felt shame, but it wasn’t inflicted upon me.
If I wasn’t being shamed by others but still felt ashamed of who I was, could my discomfort be something internal?
Could it be that I didn’t feel Arab enough; that my aversion was a convoluted manifestation of this?
To date, these are questions I consider. I can’t offer much comfort to other Arab-American or multiracial people who share my identityconfusion; I can’t explain why or for what we feel shame. But I can offer my experiences, with hope that they might provide answers.
“Macarona, ya habibi,” Teta says with a smile.
I’ve only just stepped off of my 12-hour flight. I’m exhausted, but I can’t help but smile back.
My grandmother—my Teta—has been an inspiration to me for as long as I’ve lived. I love her deeply, but I’ve never spoken to her. She was fluent only in Arabic, and I only in English. Because of that, our communication wasneverstandard.Itwasdefinedbygestures, expressions, and surrogate speakers. Still, I feel that she knew me better than most others. MyfondestmemoriesofTetaare of her knowing smile: one that could speak a thousand words -”I saved some sweets for you,” “There’s more food if you’re hungry,” and most often, “I
love you.” There was a unique comfort to her smile that words could never compare to. In this way my refusal to connect with my culture was a boon; if we’d shared a language, perhaps her smile wouldn’t mean so much to me. But that was the only advantage of my aversion.My yearly trips to Amman weren’t yearly forever. In fact, it seemed that the more Amman meant to me, the less frequently I’d see it. As a young child, my aversion was at its worst, and I was given the opportunity to shamelessly express that to my loving family each summer break. Then, as an adolescent, it lessened; where before it was brazen, now it was unspoken. At the same time, my annual visits to Amman became biennial. So, while my attitude had shifted, I had half as much time to show it off. That did little to assuage family members who I’d already spent years convincing of my distaste. They still loved me, ofcourse,butitwasn’tclearthatIfeltthesame. By the time I realized I’d have to put in effort to change that, my previous carelessness had come to bear. I could communicate across the language barrier only so far, I could rewrite my character only so much, and this was the ultimate price of my aversion: it was easy to fall into and incredibly difficult to undo.
Once I was a senior in high school, I’d been away from Amman for half a decade. I spent those years considering the consequences of my cultural reluctance, and I was ready to do the work to rectify them. I was finally proud
of who I was. I wouldn’t be in Amman again for a while (COVID-19 precautions and a busy school life made that certain), but for the first time I was excited for my next visit; I was preparing for it. I had been studying an old interview my brother conducted with Teta, a look into her experience as a young mother in 1960s-Jerusalem. I was captivated, and decided to draft my own essay about the impact her story held. I shared it with my mother, who sent it overseas. Little in my life compares to the smile Teta offered when she read the essay I wrote about her. I decided at that moment that the next time I visitedmygrandmother,Iwouldcompletemy brother’s interview and write her full story.
Teta passed away January 12, 2024. I didn’t have the chance to see her again.
IfthereisanylessonIcangivetothosewhoare caughtbetweenheritageandhumility,itisthis: the boundaries of your comfort lie very close to the edges of a much more fulfilling life. Get over yourself, get past that aversion, and just live. Doitforyourfamily,anddoitforyourself.Tell them you love them; ask them the questions you want to ask. It might mean nothing to you now, but it will mean something to them. And it will mean something to you very soon.
My Arabic is awful. Not good, at all. But that doesn’t mean it can’t get better.
AOn Coming Back
By Sydney Flaherty
car blew up and I am leaving. We are saying goodbye at Martina’s front door and we can all see it — charred metal and ash and smoke. It holds its shape, but is now merely a gray outline of a car, glass from its windows lying shattered on the street. I am holding back tears as I hand out letters, final farewells. It stinks like oil and we are coughing. There are police here too, putting up caution tape. I won’t see any of these people again.
ThenIduckunderthecautiontapeandgohome.
I don’t talk to Martina anymore. She was one of my closest friends in Italy and now I can’t remember where her house is. Maria Rita is the only one I stay in contact with. My phone regularly displays her texts:
“When will you come back??”
But Maria Rita and Martina got into a fight soon after I left and haven’t spoken in four years. It’s not the same.
I’m back and I’m walking aimlessly, looking for the shape of a car. A not-car, an outline, an iron structure that blew up five years ago. But all the streets are clean and all the cars are intact and unrecognizable.
MariaRitaismybestfriend.Shetranslatesforme when our teachers talk too fast. We spend every eveningtogether.Wewalkaroundthesquareand talk, shifting from topic to topic, gossiping and nodding our heads. I follow her down alleyways and into restaurants. She knows my favorite gelato place and the boy I have a crush on.
When we say goodbye she tells me
that she knows we’ll be friends forever. We promise to be. We swear on it.
We are. I text her that my train is running late and she stands in front of the station and waits for me. She sees me before I see her. By the time I spot her, she is running at me, and so I run at her. She is so much shorter than I remember; when we hug the top of her head just barely reaches my shoulders.
In her car I map it out: the road from the train station to our school, the light by the bakery that once gave me a free croissant, the theater we saw a show at.
“Do you remember [...]?”
“Yes”
I remember all of it. How could I forget?
In the car on our way to the Rome airport, my hostdadisplaying“AmorMio”byMinabecause he knows it’s my favorite song. Because he saw me in the countryside, swinging in a hammock, singing along. I wipe my tears before they fall. I amsadbecauseIamleavingand I can never come back. Not to this car. Not to 16 and Italy in 2020, not to my host dad before he found a new haircut. I can never come back to this song without the context and tones of the years in between. Between here and now.I ring the buzzer and my finger fits perfectly, as though my skin remembers touching it after school everyday. As though my skin is not constantly renewing itself. As though the skin I have now was magically the same as the skin I had five years ago.
“You look exactly the same!”
This is the first thing my host mom says to me.
The only people in my house who don’t sleep after lunch are me and my host grandma. We sit at the dining table and read one of my little host sister’s, Silivia’s, books. It’s about a crow with a bad singing voice and I read it aloud again and again until I have it all memorized. Every sentence she stops me.
“‘Gli’ not ‘Glee’”
“Glee”
“Gli”
“Gli”
She was a kindergarten teacher and I think she likes this routine. She asks me to pronounce words for the family at dinner.
When we said goodbye, I didn’t think I’d see her again. My host grandma had a stroke in 2021, but it’s only lasting effect is her walker. I can hear her coming down the hallway. When we hug everything feels the same. She asks if I remember our books.
“Io fassio” I do.
“Io fachio” I do.
“Io faccio” I do.
My host dad works on a farm and when he comes back for dinner, he brings food with him. He’s particular, he brings only the freshest bread with the crispiest crust. He explains the
subtle differences between regular mozzarella and the huge bulbs of buffalo mozzarella he brings me to try. He peels fruits for me and Silvia, skins of apples and peaches and oranges in one snaky line on the table. Sometimes he brings strange, hybrid fruits, which he grows himself. He loves the orangelo — a mix between an orange and a grapefruit. It’s large and he always offers me a slice. “Do you know what this is?” “Yes”
It’sanorangelo.Hestillgrowsthem.Isuddenly feel like crying, even though I am back, even though this is supposed to be a happy thing.
I missed the way my host grandma and I rolled out pasta dough with our fingertips while watching “X Factor Italia.” I missed the Saturday lunches that went on for hours and the cans of tomato sauce I’d bring up from the garage. The focaccia my host mom taught me how to make, kneading it with Silvia,hersmallfingersleavingtinydotsinthe risen dough. My host uncle and host cousins speaking in spirited dialect that I couldn’t understand, my host grandpa translating.
I leave early in the morning so we have one final dinner. We make pizzas in the oven and play a card game I can’t remember now. I speak Italian. It is the image of a family, not a host family. Silvia falls asleep.
She is still sleeping when I wake up at 4am, and she is still sleeping when I get to the airport at 8am. I never said goodbye.
The first place I went when I came back was Silvia’s school. My host mom wanted to surprise her so we stood outside the heavy metal doors and sifted through the crowds of eight -year-olds and parents.
She shouted my name in the way she always
pronounced it: like two words, not “Sydney” but “Syda-nee”. She introduced me to all of her friends like this. She held my hand all the way home and she was so much taller. I didn’t need to twist my body like I did before.
When I am not at school or with Maria Rita, I am with Silvia. We watch her favorite movie, one about bees that can talk, over and over. We do a “Beauty and the Beast” puzzle every day for two months. She has Legos and we build houses and ice cream shops.
We speak in our broken Italian together, understanding each other. I hold her hand when we walk to the park. She sings a song about a talking horse and we dance together.
We hold hands and spin together.
She speaks English now, too. She made me quiz her with flashcards.
“Come si dice sorella?”
“Sister”
“Sister”
We are driving home from dinner and Silvia andIareinthebackseat.Itislateandtheskyis turningdarkblue.Headlightsreflectintothecar instreaksandbursts.Silviafallsasleep,herbreath slowanddeep,andsheisholdingmyhandtight.
My host family drives me to the airport, Silvia and I in the back seat. She holds my hand.
“See you!”
I leave all over again, and nothing will ever be the same. Except for the smell of oil and a burnt up car. The slight tug on my fingers, something pulling me back.
Red Lights
By Lucy Latorre
Amsterdam has gained a reputation for its legalization of two of the most popular human vices: weed and prostitution. So when I told people that I was going to Amsterdam to study abroad, they chuckled. A college student in the city of sex and drugs. Go figure. I was going for school, I assured them, so I planned for neither weed nor sex to appear in my day to day life. But, I couldn’t lie… a part of me was intrigued by the more notorious aspects of the city. Or rather, one in particular.
Globally, the Amsterdam sex work scene has long lived under a veil of scandal as early as the 14th century. A huge shipping port, the city constantly welcomed sailors and, because of the thriving market, prostitution became a huge moneymaker. The culture around prostitution in the city shifted back and forth from straight-laced to wide-open, but became officially legal in 2000 as a way to protect the willing workers and weed out the possibly unwilling.Withthislegalizationcamepermits, interviews, screenings, and income taxes. Soon, prostitution became as serious a career as office work. The main hub of this industry resides in what is referred to as the Red Light District,or“DeWallen.”Filledwithbars,clubs, andliveshows,sexoozesfromeverydoorstep, enoughforamentionofitinaconversationto result in shoulder shimmies and giggles, like going there was akin to eating forbidden fruit.
There’s a transactional appeal to sex that men benefitfrommorethanwomen.It’satriedand true fact that the innocent, calming Madonna and the seductive, provocative Whore both somehowlosetheirrespectivebattles.Itproves that no matter their stance on sex, women will always leave the transaction with less than men, whether it be physically, emotionally, or mentally. Women who have control over their bodiesanduseitasameanstoearnmoneyare looked down upon simply because they have control. Their ability to corner the market of men’s desires into something that benefits them makes men realize that women aren’t just their playthings; they can play, too. This disruption of social order is what makes the Red Light District so special, but also what makes it so “shocking.” Seeing women in control is outside of the world’s comfort zone.
About three days into my Amsterdam trip, my class headed to what was by far the most unique activity on our itinerary. The administration had arranged a Q and A with a sex worker who works out of the Red Light District. We climbed up the stairs of a restaurant to a moderately sized event space and took a seat in a large circle of chairs. There was a tangible sense of unsureness in the room, all of us wondering what was to come next. We sat tense and quiet, which was unlike this particular group of students.
She looked much different than I expected. Curvy with long black hair, she wore a cheetah print top and a flowy skirt with a costumey waist cincher. Cool. She took a seat next to the teachers as we stared at her, but she matched our unbreaking eye contact. Her makeup struck me instantly. Bright lipstick, bright blush, bright white teeth. I loosened up. Chester, an administrator who had arranged the interview, introduced her as “Nicki,” an alias that she would be using with us. She was a camgirl, and that was all she did to make a living. No side job, no freelance work, no Etsy shop. Just camming. At no moment did she make it seem like she did her work because she had to. She just did. It wasn’t because it paid the bills, either. She madeitclearthatshedidsexworkbecauseshe enjoyedsex.Shegenuinelydidwhatsheloved.
The more Nicki told her story, the more she told us about the experiences of sex workers in the Red Light District. The way that she spoke of them was akin to Gladiator-esque heroes. She had seen window workers open doors and tackle harassers, chase people down the street, and throw cell phones into the canals. Despite the city’s safety precautions for the sex workers, they held the power to protect themselves and others.
Inspired by Nicki’s stories, I went to the Red Light District two times: one in the daylight, and one late at night. In the daylight, you can see the beauty of the city. The flowing canals sparkle with faint flashes of red and reflections of neon signs. At night, the lights shine bright against the night sky like beacons of pleasure, enticing and opening They also became a beacon of protection.
Fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for that. Absurd.
I watched a man huff away from the window and stormed past me and my friends, ranting as he walked off into the night. Groups of men looked at him as they went by, stealing glances of us, as well. It seemed the farther we strayed, the more the eyes of men wandered. Their faces seemed to fear the red lights, and I wondered if they knew that once they entered theirglow,theywerenolongerincontrol.That was too much for them to manage, so they stuck to the shadows and harassed unseen.
Weventuredbacktothemainstripforaquick drink,buttherewasalsoasensethatthisstreet was our safety net. Contrary to everything I had been told, I felt safer under the red lights than I did in any spot in the entire city.
After our Q and A with Nicki, we were welcomedtoatableofCokeandvariouschips.
I had my fair share, thirsty and hungry and tempted by the scents of the restaurant below, but I kept looking back at Nicki. Something insideofmewasbeggingformore.Iawkwardly strolled up to her. I told her that from the moment she appeared at the top of the steps, I noticed that she looked like me; I had never seensomeonewholookedlikemebesointune and confident in their own body. She smiled and revealed a little bit of lipstick on her teeth.
I know what you’d like. Here, write this down.
I opened my notes app.
Search GwenIsAdorable on Instagram. Tell her C- from Amsterdam says hi.
Layers of Womanhood
By Meghan Boucher
Onceuponatime,inalandfar,faraway, there stood a statue of a girl, not yet a woman. Here it is good luck to touch herbreast.Torubitrawuntilitshinesgoldlike the sun. With each grasp a layer of her bronze exterior is erased, but in return, good fortune seeps out, favoring those who dare touch her.
In fair Munich where we lay our scene, the statue of a thirteen year old girl stands alone. An iconic, albeit naive, female character in literary history, Shakespeare’s Juliet Capulet is immortalized by tourists’ groping hands. When I first saw Juliet’s golden chest, I couldn’t help but think about her legacy. Although Juliet herself is made of bronze, her legacy is not so different from those of women across the globe. How many of us are remembered merely for our sexuality? How many women have lived and died with their bodies belonging to another?
Staring at Juliet I thought of all the women in mylife.Mymother,mygrandmother,mysister, my best friends. Me. Is our purpose on this Earth merely our anatomy?
I never believed it, but maybe the rest of the world thinks otherwise. Juliet’s golden chest is certainly proof of that. No matter how young we are, how accomplished, no matter how many lives we impact, are we only made
to be remembered by those who touch us? Are our golden qualities within not enough?
My mother and her unwavering generosity and kindness.
My grandmother’s endless intelligence and creativity.
My sister, who taught me the importance of self love.
My female friends, who have shown me the warmth of their souls through their humor and acceptance.
I see good fortune in every aspect of my life and I needn’t erode another woman down to find it. Instead I have turned to my fellow femalestimeandtimeagainfortheirguidance.
The women in my life have shown me love as passionate as Juliet’s. They made me fall in love with who I was and as I looked at Juliet, I couldn’t help but think of the irony of it all. All those people who grasped and rubbed and erased and yet what did they strike? Gold.
Juliet came to me at a very pivotal point in my journeyfromgirlhoodtowomanhood,andwith hercamethewordsofanotherbeautifulwoman.
My grandmother, a published poet amongst her many other creative endeavors, once said to me, “May you always love words and all things good.”
This sentiment struck me deeply. It was in moments where I witnessed the reality women like Juliet faced that it became challenging to love all things good in the world. What was good for me out there? Objectification? A lack of respect?
But despite it all, the women in my life navigated womanhood with such grace and ferocity that by the time my turn came around, I thought I would have the same ease. What I’ve come to realize instead is that life tends to complicate things.
I mourn the moments when my beautiful motherwouldremarkofheragingskin.Tome, the lines etched in her face told the story of a lifetimeoffeeling.Thecreasesinherbrowwhen shewasangryandtheparenthesesthatformed around her contagious smile made up the face of the woman who showed me unconditional love. And yet the world told her these marks of life were something to be ashamed of. But the world didn’t stop there. Life never failed to offer up a plethora of criticism and scrutiny. As if becoming a woman wasn’t challenging enough, the world made me feel like an ant under a magnifying glass – small and constantly observed.
I felt myself float farther and farther away in a seaofresentmentthatthreatenedtoswallowme whole. I was enraged when men commented on my body, when my sister cried over the boy who broke her heart, and I remember the sense of helplessness I felt when my friends first began discussing the pros and cons of botox. As I struggled to keep my head above water, Juliet emerged like a mirage on some
distant shore, but instead of relief, the sight of her finally sent me under. There she stood, a thirteen year old girl tarnished by all the bad in the world. Normalized objectification, I started to convince myself, was just a part of being a woman. Juliet was a mere statue, but the proof was right there on her chest.
But no matter how deep I sunk, something kept pulling me to the surface. Like a lifesaver, those words my grandmother spoke to me saved me from being consumed by the overwhelmingness of being a woman in the world. She made me realize that where the world points a judgemental finger, I have the ability to find the good.
I look back fondly on the happy and innocent vignettes of my girlhood. Sewing with my grandmother, laughing with my sister and mother around the kitchen table, playing in puddles with my girl friends. Layer by layer these moments built me into the woman I am today. And then I think of Juliet and how layer by layer her dignity and girlhood was stripped from her.
For a series of endless moments her body no longer belongs to herself, but rather to fulfill the momentary enjoyment of others.
And if I could, I’d return every layer rubbed away from her chest and restore her to her bronzed and beautiful state, knowing of that gold that persists underneath.
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