Atlas Magazine: The Mythology Issue

AUTUMN 2022

Mythology

is anything we can and cannot imagIne. It is the practice of storytelling, tracing, invention, reinterpretation. Expressive, expansive, mythical, imperfect, ever-growing. The practice of creating and connecting the folklore of our own existence.

What bewitches us, enthralls us, entrances us? What do we yearn for and strain against? What is enchanting about ourselves?

What if it was all true? What if it was all fiction? It is our fate to explore origins and cultivate new ones. How do we knit the fabric of our lives from what we know and what we long to discover?

Where do we place our faith and our love? Our cruelty? Our aches? What do we return to and tie ourselves to with ribbons and words?

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR WRITING & COLLAGE BY

KAITLYN

JOYNER

agazines were one of my first loves as a kid. I remember begging my parents to let me subscribe to the “big girl magazines,” longing for pretty words, glossy pages, and bright photographs of everything current. I would take the long way home just to check our mailbox, peeking inside with the hopes there would be an issue with my name on it. Magazines were something to cling to, something to hungrily devour and bask in each word. I would devotedly flip through each and every one of my copies until the corners of all the pages were tattered and thin, an omen of my love. You could always tell what pages were my favorites by how torn or wrinkled they were.

But the truth was that I turned to print magazines when I was in need of guidance. Pages would keep my silly quiz answers secret and tell me more about the world that felt so large I could barely imagine everything in it. They were a confidant, something I could place my faith into when I felt faithless in every other regard. And though perhaps a good amount of what I read is now obsolete, magazines taught me about my love for connection and the creation of art. That’s why Atlas Magazine was the first organization I ever joined my freshman year at Emerson; I thought it would be rewarding to see everyone express themselves in print, and the past four years have proven that to me again and again. The first time I saw my own words and photos in print I was full of such awe and joy; it was my goal to channel that memory into everything we created this semester. From every stage in my involvement with Atlas from brainstorming and planning to organizing, writing, and designing, I wanted this issue to encapsulate the many realities and fantasies that occupy us all. Throughout the creation of this issue, I have cherished the ideas and art we are so lucky to present to you, our readers & loved ones.

It has been an immense joy to be part of Atlas Magazine. Beginning as a photographer and a writer, I eventually had the opportunity to occupy the role of photo director, then managing editor, and now editor-in-chief. We have an incredible, ever-shifting team of the most creative and hardworking individuals out there. Seeing the visions and minds of our artists come to life on the page is something I will never tire of. It is very bittersweet to depart from Emerson and therefore Atlas, but I am so grateful for Atlas and all of the beautiful people I have met because of it, and I know it will continue to bloom for years to come.

STYLE

Photography by Emma Cahill Design by Kaitlyn Joyner & Rebecca Calvar Makeup by Angelee Gonzalez, Elise Guzman & Suxuan Dong Styled by Ciel Antoine, Linh Luong, & Emma Cahill Modeled by Kelly Chen, Timothy Yi, Sam Huntington, & Lyanna Zammas Editorial Assistance by Hiu Ching Yan

DRESSING TO FIT THE MYTH

BY ELISA DAVIDSON

Every Emerson student remembers where they were when Zendaya was in Boston. We remember running into friends who had seen her at Tatte, posting photos of her and Tom Holland on Instagram, and gushing over how cool they were. Even people who weren’t big fans ran up and down the street for a glimpse of this icon. The celebrity love is real, and we all fall victim to it. However, a new way of loving celebrities has been on the rise recently: groups of cosplayers dressing like their favorite celebrities instead of fictional characters. People like Marilyn Monroe, Ariana Grande, Michael Jackson, Elvis Presley, and Audrey Hepburn have legacies that transcend their lives through their imitators. Why do people want so badly to dress like these idols? The answer goes beyond just admiration.

An easy answer is to look back at Marilyn Monroe. In a famous interview with her close friend, Amy Greene, the nature of Monroe’s charisma and beauty was explained: “‘Do you want to see me become her?’ (Monroe asked.) I didn’t know what she meant but I just said ‘Yes’ — and then I saw it. I don’t know how to explain what she did because it was so very subtle, but she turned something on within herself that was almost like magic. And suddenly, cars were slowing, and people were turning their heads and stopping to stare.” Monroe could make herself become extraordinary. Maybe this is what others seek when they dress up as their favorite celebrities — to become extraordinary.

A persona one can take on and off is

something powerful, and it’s something most people do. But becoming a world-famous celebrity? Why the hell not, right? It’s hard to be consistently happy with yourself and comfortable in your own skin. It’s tough to be lost in your own life, and oftentimes, this can make everyday life lose all of its glamor. Celebrity status is a whole other beast, though, transforming you from an everyday nobody into a person of style and influence. Part of the appeal is the ability to put on a performance for a while and forget yourself.

The confidence that comes from “being” Marilyn Monroe must be beyond compare, and those cosplaying seem to agree. At the 2022 Met Gala, Kim Kardashian wore a vintage Monroe dress, sparking a great deal of controversy over the sanctity of the piece. It goes to show that even a modern celebrity still wants nothing more than to live up to that larger-than-life persona of the past. After all, Monroe has a lasting legacy — and so does her clothing.

When cosplayers imitate celebrity styles, the looks are always classy. Bold. Unique. And extremely complementary to the wearer. Many iconic celebrities were and are known for clothing that catches the eye. These big personalities will always have a place for wearing the outrageous, the breathtaking, the new and upcoming fashion — and wearing it well. Most of the celebrities that are cosplayed or imitated have a specific style that catches the attention of the media and everyday people. Ariana Grande’s girly and sweet style has been highly sought after by impersonators who adore her short poofy skirts and long ponytail. Audrey Hepburn was idolized for her soft doe eyes and classy clothing, among other staples. She created the phenomenon of the “little black dress” after wearing a black Givenchy piece, and with this, she became a quintessential fashion icon. Zendaya is well on her way to becoming the modern fashion it girl, always showing up to the Met Gala on theme and dressed to impress. Her dramatic choices in draping clothing and silhouette styles have caught media attention, landing her on the cover of Vogue multiple times.

There’s something powerful about a woman who is both charming and alluring, representing every perfection of the standards on your screen. All of these women are known for the same thing: being beautiful, and grabbing attention because of it. As much as confidence has to do with it, there has always been something about these icons that is impossible to replicate. Their legendary status continues long past their careers and their legacy in fashion will never be forgotten.

...even a modern celebrity still wants nothing more than to live up to that largerthan-life persona of the past.

Femininity in fashion has taken many different forms over the years, but the women who embody them are always front and center. Women taking on these styles today are aware of their historical reach, but also of their discordance in current society. Beauty standards are different now, but the mythical element is still there. We’re still worshiping the old goddesses of another time, remembering their influence fondly.

Fashion has always been a thing caught between myth and reality, with larger-than-life ideas and iconic figures representing it. Looking at the people that represent its highs shows so much about where fashion was, and where it was headed. It’s difficult to live up to these powerful and beautiful women in history, but no matter what, it’s important to recognize how large and lasting their impact is. Taking the myth and making it a reality goes differently for every person, but it’s starting to have a much more relevant role in society. How long will these myths stand as people try more and more to become them?

FASHION REPEATS ITSELF

BY CIEL ANTOINE

In 2020s fashion, styles fall into a variety of different subcategories ranging from “granola girl,” to “e-girl,” to “soft girl,” which has been popularized by young people on the internet. However, in earlier decades, there was usually one very distinct, popular style or aesthetic. In the years when women’s fashion was more uniform, many trends and silhouettes disappeared and resurfaced, and remnants of certain styles and silhouettes still appear in today’s fashion trends.

It is impossible to discuss fashion trends without also talking about the beauty standards that propel them. No matter what the “ideal body type” for women has been, it has almost always been unattainable or difficult to possess naturally. For example, according to the New York Times article “When Fat was in Fashion,” in the 1500s, when most people were starving, bigger and plumper women were seen as more desirable: “Among the desirable qualities of upperclass elegance, slimness did not figure except as the property of hands, feet or noses, and occasionally the feminine waist all by itself, independent of other proportions. As for bones, they were totally banished from the idealized female nude.” During this time, being extremely thin meant you were lower class or old and sickly. When culture changes, the beauty standards for women change with it.

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Women today are expected to stay — or at least desire to stay — youthful forever.

During the 1600s and 1700s, women’s beauty standards were highly specific. “Thirty Marks of a Fine Woman” (1722) stated that the ideal lady was “slim and blonde, with broad buttocks, small breasts, a small nose, and red lips.” Before this, in the 1600s, the beauty standard for women dictated a skinny body, but a very plump face and a slight double chin. According to an article called “Setting the Stage: Ideal Beauty — 16th Century Venice & Titan” from Venice 3, the beauty standards for European and American women during this time included: “thin, long, and blonde hair; dark-haired and arc-shaped, tapering eyebrows; blue or brown oval shaped eyes; soft and rosy ears; white and rosy rounded cheeks and chin, which also had a petite dimple at its center; small mouth with no more than six visible teeth that shone bright white; and a rosy-white, slender neck which smoothly transitioned to the depression formed by one’s collar bones and finally the square shoulders that were not too angular.”

Women’s beauty standards became more general in the late 1700s and the early 1800s. In the early 1800s, the United States had just been established, and people were focused on expanding and changing the country for the better, so beauty standards and trends for women were changing along with it. The new standard for women was to have a very thin waist and an exaggerated bodice. The hourglass figure was in high demand, inspiring the resurgence of corsets. When corsets were invented in the 1500s, they were only worn by aristocratic European women, but by the 1830s, they had come into everyday women’s fashion. Women were expected to be “desirably plump,” yet tie their corsets as tight as possible for that thin waist illusion.

The beauty standards for women in the early 1800s emerged again in the 1950s. After World War II, a “soft voluptuous” figure was ideal for women in the United States. There were even ads encouraging skinny women to take weight gain supplements to “fill out their curves.” Hoop skirts and fit-and-flare dresses that accentuated the waist became increasingly popular. Even though fashion trends changed drastically from the 1800s to the 1900s, it is interesting to see the similarities in silhouettes despite the immense technological and cultural shifts that occurred. It is also important to note that the early 1800s saw massive social and societal shifts, and the 1950s were sandwiched between the end of World War II and the Civil Rights Movement. The change in fashion once again mirrors the change in culture.

In the late 1800s, 1920s and 1960s, women’s fashion trends favored showing little to no figure. The empire silhouette, where the waistline of the dress falls right under the breasts and the rest is left flowy, was favored over form-fitting corsets in the latter half of the 1800s. During the flapper era of the 1920s, a popular silhouette for women was a dress where the waistline very low, almost directly under the pelvis, creating a straighter silhouette that hid a woman’s figure. In the mid to late 1960s, the mod style became popular, usually characterized by very boxy, colorful dresses. During these times, Americans were going through many different changes. In the late 1800s, the U.S. switched from an agricultural economy to an industrialized economy. In the 1920s, the U.S. experienced a great economic boom, and the “Roaring ‘20s” were in full swing. In the 1960s, the Vietnam War and the Civil Rights movement inspired massive societal changes. Culture thrives on change, and so does fashion.

The fashion patterns of the past still continue in the present. Women today are expected to stay — or at least desire to stay — youthful forever. In order to accomplish this, there is an expectation to keep a nice hourglass shape, use anti-wrinkle cream, get plastic surgery, go to the gym regularly, or wear makeup daily. Nowadays, much like in the 1950s and early 1800s, the ideal for women is to be curvy in the right places. Therefore, clothing that accentuates the hourglass shape is back in style. Today’s versions of corsets and bustles are crop tops and flared leggings that crisscross at the waist. It is also no secret that the 2020s have been a time of massive social change between politics, the coronavirus pandemic, and social justice movements. We can see how these shifts impact our closets.

When cultures and societies change, the human beings that make up those cultures and societies change with them. Fashion trends and beauty standards constantly evolve to fit the society they are a part of; fashion continually repeats itself, just like history. Since it has become more acceptable to exist outside of the beauty standards that society has for women, I hope fashion will continue to become more individualistic and less repetitive. Hopefully, our beauty standards will fully emulate the individualistic fashion trends we have today.

LIFE THROUGH AESTHETICS

BY LYANNA ROSE

Clothing has always carried a great deal of meaning in my life. All it takes is a single photo from circa 2011, in which I am wearing a certain top or hat, to transport me back to being seven years old again, dancing around my room to “Mean” by Taylor Swift as my big sister recorded footage that I would now kill to ensure never got out. Fuzzy scrunchies holding my then-much-blonder hair into two neatly-braided pigtails. A seemingly never-ending array of colorful jackets in my closet and Silly Bandz on my wrists. It was the time before I began dressing myself. The time when every outfit I wore had some trace of my mother’s methodical styling or my games of dress-up written all over it. Growing up in the late 2000s as the youngest of four siblings, much of my closet mirrored the aesthetics of the eras my three older siblings had grown up in: the late ’90s and early 2000s. Velcro sneakers and jelly slippers. Matching crochet hats and shawls. Paul Frank tees. The seemingly unquenchable yet universal desire for a pair of Heelys. The early 2000s was an iconic era for fashion in its own regard: hence how unsurprising it’s been to see its trends resurging in recent years, many of which I have also adopted into my closet again (the Juicy tracksuit, pleated mini-skirts, low-waisted corduroy, and pinstripe pants).

So much of what I remember about the aesthetics of my childhood can be summarized by the movies and TV shows of the time — think Lizzie McGuire, Bratz, Mary-Kate & Ashley’s mystery adventure series. My carefully-curated scrapbooks help me detail what my life looked like back then, but in the most unorthodox of ways, this media does, too. When I look back at images of my childhood, adorned with insane two-piece matching sets and sequined tops I would shamelessly rock in the present day, I can’t help but welcome the wave of nostalgia I feel in the pit of my stomach. These clothes mean so much to me. They’re everlasting snapshots and artifacts of the lives I once led. The mildly-embarrassing Journey T-shirt I wore at fourteen when I had my first kiss. The red Converse high-tops I wore until the rubber was virtually falling off during my freshman and sophomore years of high school. The slip dress I thrifted years ago that clung tightly to the skin beneath my high school graduation gown. Even the tie-front tops I never really liked, but wore because I knew that they framed my body in a manner that was pleasing to the male gaze. Clothing that was passed on to me that I’ll pass on to my little cousin or niece. The loose threads and minor imperfections that come with a garment’s age tell a story—a story that immortalizes my own. Here’s my attempt at telling that story through these aesthetics.

Middle school: the socially-deprived Tumblr girl. It was the age of tattered hand-me-downs and a school uniform that could never fit me right. A time when I was, regrettably, dressing entirely of my own accord, and my style was everything you’d expect of a 13-yearold who found herself on the Internet much too young. The staple black choker I constantly sported and the leather Converse I vividly recall begging my mom for, dressing to make sure I looked like all of the bands that I listened to. My life was scored by the likes of Halsey’s “Badlands,” Panic! At the Disco’s “Death of a Bachelor” and Twenty One Pilots’s “Vessel,” with ever-frequent features from Marina and the Diamonds, Lorde and Melanie Martinez. Having been barred access to any kind of black eyeliner, I was thankfully spared from what I’m sure were Effy Stonem-fueled dreams of rocking the indie-sleaze look at the ripe age of 13. My cheer practice clothing was worn regularly, even (especially) on my days off. Wattpad was, of course, my most-used app — second only to Tumblr and Youtube, where I used to watch countless hours of video game play-throughs by Markipiler, followed by subsequent theories on said video games. 13-year-old Lyanna certainly sported one of the aesthetics I have a harder time both recounting and identifying with, but who am I to deny her the attention she so desperately desired?

My freshman year of high school came and went, and with it, brought on some of the most harrowing growing pains I’ve ever experienced. It was a time in my life characterized by mourning and grief, struggling to grapple with the loss of my understanding of myself and the world around me. Maybe that’s why I can’t quite put a name to the aesthetic I found myself sporting through my early days of high school.

There were band T-shirts — lots of them — and remnants of the soft grunge look that consumed my middle school years. But it wasn’t anything specific, honestly — just oversized sweatshirts to offer comfort and denim shorts below them to cooperate with the Florida sun. I was struggling with my identity, and the clothing I wore reflected that. I wore clothes I thought others might find flattering on me, and ironically enough, it was at the end of freshman year that I had my first kiss. The first kiss that led to me falling in love for the first time. The end of freshman year brought on a whirlwind of emotions, and the high that accompanies your first encounters with pure, unfiltered young love. My first experience being vulnerable with another person, and all that I learned about myself in the process. I found that just because horrible things happen doesn’t mean there can never and will never be light again.

What came next was the wannabe-indie art kid that made up my final years of high school. Vintage blue Levis and oversized grandpa sweaters. Everyday basics I could throw a flannel over and match to my favorite red Converse. I was in my hopeless romantic era, listening exclusively to love songs and constantly adorned in bright colors. The red chapstick that never left my lips. Colorful hair ties and clips were the only ones I used. Identity and fashion are inextricably intertwined with one another, which was something I was finally coming to know. Different aesthetics I enjoyed were just windows into the ways I’d like to have been perceived or the person I was at the time. It’s through fashion that I was able to fluidly explore these different styles and learn more about my own identity. When my mother handed me my kindergarten graduation cap just before my high school graduation, I was so shocked by the fact that my head once fit into that tiny thing. I was reminded of how small I used to be, and how small the world used to seem.

Now that I’m a freshman in college, there isn’t exactly one aesthetic I find that I could use to characterize my style. I’m sure fourteen-year-old Lyanna would be fond of the black eyeliner I sport almost daily, or the collection of tights that have somehow worked their way into just about every outfit I’ve worn since moving to New England. I’ve found that I enjoy indulging in my femininity, tying my hair up with massive silk bows or wearing dainty tops under oversized cardigans. Ribbons reminiscent of the ones I’d wear in my hair as a child. How I’ve come to romanticize academia through pleated miniskirts under long brown overcoats. The oversized sweaters I thrifted years ago that I make good use of on cold, rainy days here in Boston.

One’s fashion sense doesn’t have to be so rigidly defined or trapped within the parameters of a single aesthetic’s boundaries. Still, they’ve helped me to articulate the otherwise inconceivable journey I’ve had with fashion and my own identity. Humans are so beautifully multifaceted, and fashion is the language that precedes any form of communication people indulge in. These clothes are the ones that built me. Each of these aesthetics has played some role in that and come into some kind of permanence within my life.

“The loose threads and minor imperfections that come with a garment’s age tell a story—a story that immortalizes my OWN.”

THEDIVINE FEMININE

Photography by Ainsley Gasbarro Concept & Design by Khatima Bulmer Makeup & Style by Ciel Antoine Modeleded by by Daphne Bryant, Joei Chan, & Hazel Holme

Photography by Sophia Roberts Design by Ellye Sevier & Kaitlyn Joyner Makeup by Angelee Gonzalez & Suxuan Dong Styled by Ciel Antoine Modeled by Chloe Derosier Editorial Assistance by Hiu Ching Yan Visuals by Nicole Levine

ARTS

THE IMPORTANCE OF MELISSA LOZADO-OLIVA

S “PELUDA”

BY CHRISTINA HORACIO

Melissa Lozada-Oliva is a Colombian-Guatemalan poet who famously writes about the Latinx experience. My favorite book of hers is “Peluda,” which talks extensively about body hair and femininity through the lens of the Latinx experience. I was first introduced to the book by my white roommate, who has always had a love for poetry. Every time she heard me relay my troubles as a Puerto Rican woman, she questioned why it sounded so familiar. One day, when she was visiting home, she found her old copy of “Peluda.” Curious, she read through the annotations. She brought it back to the dorm and told me that she had always wondered why she held on to it, but now she realized that it was always meant for me.

I remember sitting in bed later that night, in shock, unable to put the book down, marking up the text in bold red ink, underlining everything I felt but had no words to describe. For the first time I was not only being seen, but celebrated. Lozada-Oliva effectively navigates the pressure of assimilation versus the pressure to be knowledgeable and submerged in one’s own culture.

One of my favorite lines from the book is “Imagine you are what makes the white girls in a brooklyn apartment scream / Except deep down, you want to be a white girl / in a brooklyn apartment / screaming / following her dreams.” As a mixed kid, this made me quite emotional. I spent most of my youth denying my Puerto Rican ancestry, insisting to anyone who asked why I looked so “exotic” that I was just as white as them. I bleached and doused my curls in chemicals in an attempt to match the appearance of who I thought I wanted to be, someone society would deem “beautiful.” I wanted to be the one that boys actually like, instead of serving as a crutch for them to get to my white friends. I drew portraits of myself that were of a girl with glossy, pinstraight hair who was, undoubtedly, not me. I’d get so frustrated every time I looked at the page, wondering why I couldn’t have been born that way.

Lozada-Oliva speaks of the same feeling, talking extensively about her hair being characterized as gross and her “ugly” mustache distracting from her red lipstick. Her poem, “Lip/Stain Must/ Ache,” about her facial hair and the constant pressure she felt from her peers (and even family) to wax or shave deeply resonated with me.

body text

In elementary school, I was ridiculed for having such dark, “manly” body hair. A white friend’s younger sister said it was gross, and even made a song about it, yelling, “if you’re Indian you have a mustache,” all while her family roared with laughter. Lozada-Oliva, speaking on a similar instance, says, “imagine being as gross as you fear.” And that is exactly how I felt. I went to school the next day with my hand covering my mouth as best I could. I started shaving my upper lip, along with my arms and legs, in the fifth grade.

But when I got to high school, I started to embrace my identity as a Latina woman. After talking extensively with my older sister about our similar struggles, we both decided to explore our identities more deeply together. It also helped that I was seeing more of myself in the media I was consuming. I remember watching Mexican YouTube influencer, Antonio Garza, rise to fame back in 2018. I reveled in the fact that she was getting the recognition that was — and still is — primarily reserved for white girls like Emma Chamberlain. Seeing her take pride in her own identity so unapologetically propelled me forward on my journey with selflove.

I no longer cared to appeal to the white crowd who never wanted me anyway. I stopped relaxing my hair and made an effort to understand more about my culture, which my dad never taught me of. However, this was not the end of my struggle with identity, for a new problem arose. I was excited to make more friends that looked like me, but I quickly realized there was still a divide between us. I am a “no sabo kid,” like LozadaOliva, meaning I can’t speak Spanish. I didn’t have much experience eating Puerto Rican food because my mom could never cook it like my grandmother did. I moved away from my grandparents — who once practically lived with us — at a very young age, so I couldn’t learn directly from my grandmother, who had grown up in Puerto Rico.

Body type Body type

Reading a well-established writer saying “me too” to many of my own experiences allowed me to better reconcile these two parts of my identity. Her words managed to shorten the distance I felt between myself and the Latinx community. I am still a Puerto Rican woman. No one can manipulate or pick and choose parts of my identity. Not anymore. Not when I’ve spent so much of my own life being perpetually stuck in a loop of confusion and crisis.

For that, I became resentful. I hated the fact that as soon as I found my community, I still felt like a fish out of water, a feeling I was so used to having around my white peers. It felt like I couldn’t win.

Pertaining to whiteness, Lozada-Oliva poses the questions: “what do you do with it?? / do you spray it with windex?? / trap it under a paper cup??” I found myself questioning the same. I once wanted to be the “brooklyn white girl,” and now I was desperately scrambling to find the windex or a paper cup. I wanted to erase it completely. But comments like “you’re basically white,” or “your Spanish accent sounds so white,” made it nearly impossible.

Pull quote

Lozada-Oliva summed up that painful realization well, saying, “I will tell you my Spanish is understanding that there are stories / that will always be out of my reach / there are people / who will never fit together the way I wanted them to / there are some words that will always escape / me.”

There are a lot of stereotypes surrounding Latinax women that can make many of us feel boxed in. Latinax women are often deemed “ghetto,” loud, hypersexual, and even more masculine because of dark body hair, as Lozada-Oliva has emphasized. These words can push us to want to stray further and further from our culture. Simultaneously, there can still be that fear of appearing too whitewashed within the community. Being tugged in both directions can be incredibly disorienting and difficult to navigate. Lozada-Oliva actually validates this experience and relays how she has personally dealt with it. In doing so, she effectively lends a helping hand to those who haven’t quite figured it out yet — or, at the very least one to hold in solidarity. Many Latinx kids like myself never really got that growing up, which is why authentic authors like Lozada-Oliva are unquantifiably special and integral to the Latinx community.

“I am still a Puerto Rican woman. No one can manipulate or pick and choose parts of my identity.”

APHRODITE LIVES IN ME

BY EDEN UNGER

What is beauty? This is something we’ve been asking ourselves for as long as humanity has been able to ask questions. Think about what we as a society consider beautiful: a symmetrical face, a well-proportioned body, a small nose, fair skin, etc. These standards are deeply harmful and problematic, yet Eurocentric beauty standards are still the standards of dominant society. They’re not immutable, though. Standards shift and change over time. The beauty standards of early 20th-century society are very different from the ones of today. The “BBL slim-thicc” look that has become popular in the last few years is a far cry from the emaciated “Heroin Chic” of the early ‘90s, and that’s just within the past thirty years.

Whether or not we are aware of it, these standards influence the ways we think of ourselves and can show up in the art and media we create and consume. I remember making self-portraits in elementary school with colored pencils and crayons. At that age, I didn’t think too much about the way I looked. Undoubtedly, though, the drawings I made were influenced by the dominant cultural ideals that I had been inundated with since birth. I don’t remember the last time I drew a self-portrait, and while I’m sure the lack of confidence in my sketching abilities is partially to blame, the general sense of bodily discomfort that accompanied puberty is also a major factor. By the time middle school rolled around, I was all too aware of my appearance, and any depictions of myself from that time would probably show the insecurity I was feeling.

What is beauty? The little girl with the crayons and the colored pencils may have known better than I ever will.

Let’s look at the word “cosmetic,” which, according to Merriam-Webster, means “of, relating to, or making for beauty.” The root of cosmetic, which it shares with the word cosmos (the universe seen as a well-ordered whole), is “kosmos,” the Greek word for order and the world itself. Beauty, then, is order.

To the ancient Greeks, beauty and love were intertwined, and, more than that, they were divine. Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of beauty and love, was the personification of these ideals. Throughout history, Aphrodite has been depicted in art countless times. But over time, these depictions have shifted and changed.

To better understand her significance, we must first go back to the birth of Aphrodite. Greek mythology tells us that Aphrodite was born when Gaia, Mother Earth, had her son Kronos, king of the Titans, kill her husband and Kronos’s father, Uranus, the Sky, by cutting him into pieces. The pieces of Uranus’s body landed in the ocean, causing the sea to foam. From this foam, Aphrodite was born.

While beauty is order, Aphrodite’s chaotic origin story is anything but orderly. Chaos is the opposite of order. It is instability, and instability is constant change, which would make change the antithesis of beauty. And yet, Aphrodite, the embodiment of beauty and love, is born from violence, chaos, and conflict — from change!

Aphrodite was an important part of the culture of ancient Greece. Temples were built in her honor, and statues were sculpted and cast in her image, some of which have been lost, while others have been copied and preserved. These statues depict Aphrodite in various ways, each reflecting the ideals of their point of origin within Greece and the period during which they were created.

Traditionally, only men were depicted in the nude in Ancient Greece. That standard was challenged when, in the 4th century BCE, Praxiteles of Athens sculpted a statue that has come to be known as the “Aphrodite of Knidos.” The statue depicts a fully nude Aphrodite, with one hand covering her genitals and the other holding a robe or towel. Women were second-class citizens in Greece, but the tolerance, or even acceptance, of female nudity during this period potentially suggests a rise in the social status of women. Interestingly, while we traditionally associate nudity with a sense of shame or impurity in the modern age, Aphrodite was depicted in the nude as preparation for a ritual bath with the purpose of restoring purity.

Almost 2,000 years later, during the Italian Renaissance, there was a new famous depiction of Aphrodite, known as “Venus” to the Romans: Sandro Botticelli’s “The Birth of Venus.” Though they share a subject, “The Birth of Venus” and “Aphrodite of Knidos” depict her very differently.

Much like the “Aphrodite of Knidos,” Botticelli’s Venus covers her genitals with one hand. However, her other hand covers her breast, and a figure rushes from the right side to clothe her nakedness. The painting follows the aesthetic tradition of “Venus Pudica,” literally meaning “Modest Venus.” Pudica, which is the feminine form of the Latin pudico (modesty), also has the connotation of “vulva” and shame or disgust. This style of depiction, as well as this particular image, could be said to convey a sense of shame and disgust at the female form.

In the late 19th century, painter Dante Gabriel Rossetti created a new depiction of the goddess, “Venus Verticordia.” In the painting, Venus holds an apple in one hand, an arrow in the other, and is surrounded by roses and honeysuckles, which, at the time, would have been understood as a reference to women’s sexuality and genitalia. What really stands out about the painting is its title, which translates to “Venus, Changer of the Heart.” Traditionally, “changer of the heart” referred to Venus’s ability to make women virtuous. Rosetti, however, interprets it as her perceived ability to turn faithful men unfaithful. The sexualization of the goddess is much more apparent in this depiction, but the vilification of female sexuality is unchanged.

Beauty standards, fashion trends, and the aesthetic ideals of our culture are constantly changing. Fashion changes with the seasons, and as it changes, there’s the all too familiar outcry of “that’s so last season!” Although there’s a lot of interest in vintage and retro fashion, we only bring back the pieces from those periods that fit modern standards. We put our own modern spin on them and make them new.

Old is boring, new is sexy.

There is beauty in transition and growth. The more recent concept of a “glow-up” shows that we know we are capable of change and growing into our beauty.

The way we photograph can be reflective of how we feel about ourselves. I think of snapshots of myself over time in a similar way to these changing depictions of Aphrodite. After all, Aphrodite is my middle name.

I hated being photographed growing up. In my family’s living room, there was a picture of me as a little kid, grimacing back at the camera, that we’d always laugh about. I couldn’t have been older than four or five when it was taken, and I was probably just grumpy, but the trend continued as the years went on.

As I became older and more self-conscious, I smiled less and less in photos. By the time I was nine or ten, I’d stopped smiling with my teeth. No matter what I did with my face, the pictures never came out right. When my bat mitzvah rolled around, people would not stop taking pictures of me, and I hated it. The person in those pictures was a different person from the one I saw in the mirror — or the one I wanted to see there, anyway.

“There is beauty in transition aND growth.”

High school happened, my braces came and went, and I didn’t get much better at taking pictures. Toward the end of my high school experience, though, I realized a few things about myself. The few times I’d worn makeup produced some of the first pictures where I was genuinely happy with the way I looked. As I experimented with my presentation, I realized that I was more comfortable when I wore more feminine clothing. On my 18th birthday, it occurred to me that perhaps the reason why I never felt comfortable with the way I looked as a man was that I was not one.

It took me another year or so to figure things out, but as I became more comfortable with the fact that I was a woman, there was a shift in how I photographed. Just as changes in the way humans have depicted Aphrodite reflect changing ideas about beauty, my increasing level of comfort being on camera has reflected changes in the way I perceive myself. This hasn’t happened overnight, though. It’s an ongoing process — always in flux, always changing — and I think that’s okay. I don’t mind smiling with my teeth anymore, a result of being more comfortable just existing. The standards I’m holding myself to are different now, and the person I see in pictures looks like the person I expect to see. I’m capable of living up to my own expectations.

THE MYTH OF THE MUSE, MAUD, & ME

BY CLAIRE FAIRTLOUGH

Picture this: a little girl wrapped up in her blankets, flashlight in hand, carefully reading an illustrated book of Celtic history that her grandparents had given her. Within this book, she finds many tales of mythology and heartbreak, and she falls in love with poetry and all that it has to offer.

I remember the first discussion I had with my dad about poetry. A poet himself, he was thrilled to talk to me about the subject. He told me in detail about the greatest poet who had ever lived, who, according to him, was none other than William Butler Yeats.

Yeats was an Irish revolutionary, a driving force in the Irish Literary Revival, and a titan of 20thcentury poetry. The Irish Literary Revival was an era of increased Irish literary talent in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, with an emphasis on a renewed interest in Gaelic history and Irish nationalism, inspiring work that was experimental in style, form and genre. I remember listening to my dad recite his favorites to me; eventually, he gave me my own book of them to read. “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” was my favorite poem. I wished someone would spread their dreams for me. If someone were to do that, I was sure that I would tread carefully.

I needed to know whom this poem was written for. I asked my dad, and he told me about Maud Gonne, the muse who inspired all of Yeats’s poetry. When Yeats first met Gonne, he instantly became infatuated. He dedicated all of his poetry to her, and had her star in the plays he had written. He confessed his love to her constantly, even proposing marriage four times. Each time, she rejected him and insisted that their relationship was simply platonic. She even went on to marry someone else. Years later, Yeats tried to seduce Gonne’s daughter in a desperate attempt to reclaim the love that he never received from her.

This form of obsession is nothing to be idolized. But when reading his beautiful words, it was hard for me to understand why Gonne couldn’t love Yeats in the same way he loved her. I vaguely remembered my father telling me about how Maud Gonne was also an Irish revolutionary, but I never understood the sheer importance she had as a political activist and suffragette. Instead, I unintentionally downplayed her worth. I reduced her to being just a muse.

The term “muse” originated from Greek mythology. The nine muses were the sources of all inspiration for both mortals and gods. During my childhood, the Disney movie “Hercules” was one of my favorites: I loved the music and the stories that the muses told. It was a beautiful thing to be adored, revered, and at the center of the most beautiful stories ever created. But no matter how much I loved the idea of the muses, I knew I would rather be Apollo. I would rather be the sun. I would rather be the person crafting the story than the inspiration behind it.

I heard the adults around me say phrases like, “Behind every great man is an even greater woman.” Even as a child, I felt a contradiction of emotions to this. I could tell that the adults in my life weren’t saying this in a negative way: they were saying it with a tone of voice that was meant to be reassuring and complimentary. Still, I felt a tug at my heart. I wasn’t able to articulate it then, but I felt defensive. Why does the “greater woman” have to stand behind someone else? If she’s so great, why isn’t she getting the proper credit?

These questions were never properly answered the way I would’ve liked. I felt like this statement articulated the belief that a woman’s best shot at contributing to society was to be involved with a brilliant man. By association, then, this woman would also be brilliant. Descriptions like “femme fatale” and “muse” became synonymous with the underlying notion that women were encouraged to serve as inspiration for men, not to be inspired or create great things themselves.

I never saw this standard reversed.

As I started to get older, I learned more about who Maud Gonne had been beyond a muse. She was an Irish Republican revolutionary, a suffragette and a brilliant activist. She was strong in her convictions, fighting for social welfare, independence from Britain, and equality for women throughout her lifetime. Despite her life being dedicated to this work, I’ve found it difficult to locate any information on her that doesn’t use her relationship with Yeats as a focal point. The work that Yeats created in response to her brains and beauty are filled with beautiful prose and imagery, but it doesn’t define Maud Gonne. She had her own wits, her own beliefs, and her own life, completely separate from Yeats. If he can have thousands of articles written about him without mentioning his “muse,” why can’t Gonne have the same thing?

Being considered a “muse” isn’t a bad thing entirely. In fact, I think it’s a compliment to be the inspiration of beautiful work. However, when a woman is reduced to being only a muse, that’s when this image denies women of their creativity, intelligence and artistry. In contemporary media, it’s common to see women as the source of inspiration instead of as inventors themselves. The standard image of the muse reinforces the belief that men are the ones who create, while women are the vehicle of male fantasies, incapable of having any artistic or academic agency of their own.

Maud Gonne is not the only, nor the first, woman to have her accomplishments diminished by her status being reduced to “just a muse.” Historians have proven that F. Scott Fitzgerald plagiarized his wife Zelda’s work, all while celebrating her as “the muse of the ’20s.” Many lines from “The Great Gatsby” and “Tender is the Night” were taken directly out of Zelda’s diary. Zelda wanted to be an artist herself, but was always put down by her husband; when she published her own novel, F. Scott told her that she would never compare to him in talent.

“In contemporary media, it’s common to see women as the source of inspiration instead of as inventors themselves.”

This is a tale as old as time, but it’s a story that continues to reveal new chapters. I wonder how many books I’ve loved, inventions I’ve taken for granted, or movies that I’ve enjoyed that had a woman at the center of its creation who didn’t receive the proper credit. The anger, sadness and pain that I feel when I think of all the women that have been lost to history is incomprehensible. It’s abhorrent. It’s a loss of such magnitude that no words that I can write can effectively articulate it.

In some ways, I should be grateful to the muse. It can be a truly beautiful thing to be, if we celebrate her for who she really is, instead of forcing her into a box she was never meant to fit into. It’s time we look at these women beyond the labels and the limits forced on them. It’s time we think of them as the full human beings they are.

Sometimes, I think Maud Gonne said it best in a letter she wrote to Yeats when he claimed that he would never be happy without her: “Oh yes you are, because you make beautiful poetry out of what you call your unhappiness and are happy in that. Marriage would be such a dull affair. Poets should never marry. The world should thank me for not marrying you.”

DEAR FRIEND,

BY KATHERINE RISPOLI

Inever really put much thought into the immortality of words, particularly my own, until I began unpacking everything from my freshman dorm back into my bedroom at home. Most of what I unpacked was trash—class notes covered with doodles, mainly—but tucked away in the plethora of bags and boxes was a neat stack of handwritten letters, which I had received monthly from my pen pal 500 miles away.

Tika, my friend for too many years to count, and I had exchanged letters as often as we could. Between our loads of work—hers larger than mine, given she’s a STEM student—and the slow trek of our letters from Pittsburgh to Boston and back again, these letters were not our most common way of communicating. Getting two letters a month from Tika was usually lucky, and I found myself coming home after each semester with no more than five letters total. We mainly kept in touch with faster, more convenient forms of communication, usually by sending each other our favorite tweets. The letters were something different. One day, we may log off Twitter, or, more likely, clear up some storage by deleting old conversations. One day, those digital messages may fade, but the letters are permanent.

When I was unpacking my dorm and came across my stack of letters from Tika, I put them aside in my bedroom closet, eventually storing them in a pretty box adorned with flowers. They are still there now, as I sit in my dorm room back in Boston. I think they’ll stay there for some time, until the day I feel nostalgic for who we were two years ago and start digging through them again. I can’t quite remember why we started writing to each other in the first place, if I’m writing entirely honestly. I just know we chose to because it was a practice that seemed so us. We gave each other journals and annotated books as birthday gifts; we packed bags of stationary everytime we went out. We’re the kind of people who have an undeniable adoration of the written word.

Maybe one day, when I move out of my parents’ house and into a place of my own, I’ll pack the letters up and take them with me, along with those journals and annotated books. Or maybe, even then, they’ll stay tucked in my childhood bedroom closet. Either way, the letters I sent to her will live as a permanent reminder of who Tika and I were at that time.

They aren’t like the notes that I took in class, doodled over repeatedly, and then tossed in the trash. Beyond the words that were written, there was an amount of effort put into these letters akin to creating a piece of art. Tika always addresses her envelopes with perfect calligraphy, a skill I have yet to master. I decorate my envelopes with stickers and little doodles, finished with a fine-point marker.

The effort that we put into these letters is far more than what we put into our online messages, and that’s saying something. Sometimes we can type paragraphs without an end in sight, the topics embarrassingly endless: our all-time favorite contestants on “Jeopardy!” (mainly Brad Rutter), deep character analyses of everyone from “The Great Gatsby” (usually Gatsby himself), rankings of every fanfiction trope to ever exist (literally every one of them), and so on and so forth. Yet all of those messages seem fleeting in comparison to our letters; they are temporary conversations, sparked by immediate thoughts.

Our letters, though, are pen on paper, each thought written down and unable to be erased. They are the thoughts that we write to each other with undeniable deliberation. They are our intentional way of saying to each other: “Hey. Thinking of you enough to pay for a stamp. Miss and love you, always.”

They are tangible, something to carry forward. I plan on gluing Tika’s newest letters from this year into my journal, which, after all the pages are filled and once the elastic band can barely hold the book closed, will sit on my shelf alongside her past letters. They may not be my words, but they’re just as much a representation of me as the words I scribble on the private pages of my journal. They are a piece of someone in my life that is utterly important to me, and whose relationship with me is a reflection of the person that I am. Everything that she writes to me about is something that she knew I would enjoy reading, based on what she knows about me or the assumptions that she can make. If someone were to pick up the letters she sent to me and read the little things she chose to write about, they would probably learn as much about me as they would about her.

“maybe one day, when the flowered box in my bedroom closet is in the hands of a stranger, when I’m gone and the world has circled around the sun a few times more...”

Of course, I’m still evolving; we all are. I’m not the same person that I was when Tika and I began writing each other letters two years ago, nor is she. I won’t be the same person I am now, if the letters ever stop. Regardless, these letters are an indication of who I am. They tell my personal history better than I can tell it myself, because they are an utterly honest, direct glimpse into my life at a single, specific moment. Nothing can change these written words; it’s as though they’ve been carved into cement.

I don’t see anyone else reading these letters anytime soon, but maybe one day, when the flowered box in my bedroom closet is in the hands of a stranger, when I’m gone and the world has circled around the sun a few times more, maybe then they will be. Maybe someone will read Tika’s letters to me and get a glimpse into the young-adult friendship between two people. Just two regular people.

Strangers will read them, and look to the past, trying to craft together the mythology of our friendship.

Photography by Chenan (Ali) Lin Design by Erin Norton & Kaitlyn Joyner

Makeup by Angy Beare Styled by Ciel Antoine Modeled by Dailey Newcomb, Amelia Zhou, & Sylvia Zhang

WELLNESS

PUBERTY AS TOLD BY RITUALS

BY GRIFFIN WILLNER

From a traditional chant in our native tongue surrounded by our entire family to a confrontation alone in front of the mirror with brand new makeup and a shaving kit, the dramatic and isolating experience of puberty is universal. We are meant to carry on our genes just as every other living creature, which means going through changes in order to prepare. Not only sexually and physically, but emotionally and mentally, we are meant to grow up to a state of maturity and strength. As a result, we may learn how to lead in our communities and make social connections. Since the beginning of time, cultures have learned to celebrate these changes while preparing adolescents for their physical and mental growth periods. Each culture and religion uniquely understands the importance of this era in one’s life and have developed their own strategies to help young people enter adulthood. When looking at all cultures, whether our own or those of great contrast, we are better able to broaden our perspective and become the adults we are truly meant to be.

People of Western culture are used to experiencing age through birthdays, the big ones being the sweet sixteen or quinceañera; the 18th birthday, which signifies young adulthood; and the 21st birthday, which represents becoming a full-grown adult. However, it is known that during the latter half of the decade after World War II, our ideas of independence evolved from leaving the house and getting married to attending college before finding a full-time job, a home, and a family. As a child, I was raised under Judaism and Christianity as a connection to both sides of my family. While experiencing both of these religions was very important, my immediate family was relatively secular. Finding myself was, therefore, an activity that generally took place apart from my religious identity. I refused to be bar mitzvahed and I did not grow up regularly going to church, so much of my coming-of-age was done on my own.

As with many other queer individuals, my coming-ofage may have been experienced parallel to my coming out. Early on, I knew that my sexual attraction seemed to go against Western norms. In starting to understand that my attraction was strictly toward people of the same sex, I also had to unpack what sexual attraction was in a deeper, more mature sense. For me, this meant brief and confusing sexual encounters both alone and with other men. I then started telling my friends about these experiences, which led to a moment where I decided to walk out of a closet in a literal way and tell my family my truth. In my living room, I told my parents and brother those taboo words: “I’m gay.” I received mixed responses from my brother and my dad, which left me shattered and teary-eyed.

I soon picked up the pieces when I went to a play practice where my fellow actors and crew, all several years older and wiser than I, held me in their arms and treated me like an adult. “It’s going to be okay. You are going to grow from this.” And I did. Religion can certainly be a part of one’s period of change, but for me, it was learning to understand myself sexually through the help of my friends and support system which allowed me to better understand myself physically and emotionally.

While religion was not involved in my growth, many of the people I care about have had religion to guide them through this confusing time. It may differ from my story, but it is important to recognize how each of us can find our own path based on our background and our own experiences. For many raised in Western culture, the mythos surrounding maturity and adulthood are key in learning about this transition period. Pew Research Center recognizes that about 70% of adults in the United States identify as Christians, with about 21% identifying as Catholics—in fact, one-third of the global population may be Christian! As a part of the seven sacraments, Roman Catholics are baptized as babies, given first confession and a first Holy Communion, and then receive a confirmation so that they may be seen as adults in the eyes of the church. However, these practices offer very little insight about adulthood and instead focus more on sealing an individual’s commitment to the religion.

In the Jewish faith, 13- and 12-year-old boys and girls are respectfully given a bar/bat mitzvah, which translates to “son/daughter of the commandment.” Historically, those who go through this ceremony are no longer minors according to Jewish law, so they must receive the religious privileges and responsibilities of an adult. This age was likely chosen due to the onset of puberty, which often begins earlier for women than men. Because of this choice of age, it is believed that with the introduction of puberty and the approval of the synagogue, young Jewish teens are given agency over whether or not they want to continue with the religion. Regardless of the ceremony, it is understood that adolescents past this age are seen as adults and decision members in their communities. Similarly, though there is no official ceremony, Muslim teenagers are encouraged to begin acting as adults in participating in core aspects of their religion. This means joining in on daily prayers, fasting during the holy month of Ramadan, and beginning to cover hair and other parts of the body for women, often by wearing a hijab. These may seem like simple acts, but as adolescents take part in these traditions, they begin to understand the responsibilities that come along with being a part of a community.

In other cultures, adulthood represents more than just decision-making skills. In the Apache tribe, girls, who come of age around 12 years old, are given a chance to embody the mother of her people, called N’dee, or the Changing Woman. Young women know it is their time when they receive their first menstrual period. The ceremony traditionally occurs over four days during the summer. The Changing Woman must dress in a white buckskin dress and must find bee pollen, eagle feathers, ochre clay paint, and other religious objects before the ceremony begins. With pollen, she is dabbed on the face to represent that she is sacred and to protect her from Apache witches.

After this, she begins dancing and chanting for hours amid prayers and booming drums. The Changing Woman must dance facing the east, the rising sun, and then must run in four directions to represent the seasons and the stages of life. Traditionally, young women are not allowed to eat or sleep during the four days of this ritual, but with time, traditions have changed to keep the ceremony alive. After the end of the four days, she is no longer seen as a young girl, but as a queen or a high priestess. The ritual represents strength in the face of adversity—something women face throughout their entire lives.

“Each culture and religion uniquely understands the importance of this era in one’s LIfe.”

Although some people may never receive a ceremony as arduous as this, we can all learn core traits such as strength and resilience, as well as divine femininity, masculinity, and androgyny, like the young women of the Apache tribe.

Similarly, in the eastern region of Ghana, the Odumase Krobo group has a two-day celebration called the Dipo ceremony. During this ritual, held in April, young women are given various foods and cocktails. On the first day, young women have their heads shaved and are dressed in traditional cloth around their waist that reaches around their knees; this is performed by their ritual mother, who signifies their transition from childhood to adulthood. The young women are then paraded around the town in celebration. Early the next morning, a priest performs a ritual bath on them. Next, their feet are washed with goat’s blood while the priest offers prayers to ward off bad spirits.

After the ceremony, the young women leave their village and live in confinement for a week to learn about childbirth, housekeeping, and nurturing children. By getting through the ceremony, girls are officially seen as being of age to marry, so it is important that they understand intimacy and their own bodies. However, their virginity is also tested. Maturity being related to reproduction in this ritual shows imperfection in this culture, as with every other culture. In many cultures, women are often objectified, so by the end, a man may court female participants if they are deemed suitable by these invasive standards.

While these deeply embedded practices may be seen as problematic from an outside perspective, we can respect these challenging customs and attempt to learn from them while we travel across our own sea of change. As each of us actively grows and observes, we can allow these perceptions to guide us toward the best version of growth we can imagine for ourselves and each other. Something to note is that many of these cultures focus on the divide of gender. Often these divides come with disparities. However, it is understood that gender as we know it is not so black-and-white. For centuries, cultures all over the world have recognized gender identities outside of man and woman. The recognition of nonbinary people is on the rise in Western society, but in indigenous cultures, the two-spirit people have long been well-known. In the Jewish faith, people have begun having “b-mitzvahs” and “they mitzvahs” to signify a nongendered entrance into adulthood. To go with a more traditional name, some have opted for a “b’nai mitzvah,” which is the plural in Hebrew. In opting for this difference, it is clear that puberty rituals can be made gender-neutral so that all can reach true adulthood without having gender be scrutinized. To move forward, we must respect each person’s queerness, as personal empowerment is a key part of growth.

In finding personal empowerment, we can find our own ways of growing, whether through religious growth, coming out, spiritual ceremony, or something as simple as seeing oneself in the media. The truth is that all people go through puberty. From the changes in body to the changes in mind and emotional state, puberty is an incredibly important part of life.

When I started to experience growth during my coming out, I was able to better understand this truth and move forward. Through all of us finding different ways to become who we are meant to be, people are able to learn the values of self-love, personal strength, and we can learn to triumph. Though each culture’s tradition varies, all have found ways to mark the importance of these changes. By comparing and contrasting our different rituals of maturation, our perspectives can be broadened, and we can have a greater understanding of the importance of puberty.

In finding personal empowerment, we can find our own ways of growing, whether through religious growth, coming out, spiritual ceremony, or something as simple as seeing oneself in the media. The truth is that all people go through puberty. From the changes in body to the changes in mind and emotional state, puberty is an incredibly important part of life. When I started to experience growth during my coming out, I was able to better understand this truth and move forward. Through all of us finding different ways to become who we are meant to be, people are able to learn the values of self-love, personal strength, and we can learn to triumph. Though each culture’s tradition varies, all have found ways to mark the importance of these changes. By comparing and contrasting our different rituals of maturation, our perspectives can be broadened, and we can have a greater understanding of the importance of puberty.

POSTCARDS ARE HOME

VISUALS & WRITING

BY SISEL GELMAN

Throughout freshman year, my (then) long-distance boyfriend would slip a postcard into his mailbox every Sunday. I’d religiously check my mailbox every day after class, knowing quite well it would arrive on Thursday, but always hoping the mailman had sped through a few red lights and delivered it earlier. The scene always unraveled in the same way: my heart would jump at the sight of the postcard; I’d press the love letter to my chest with the biggest, goofy smile on my face; and I’d run down the halls of my dorm building, reading what he had written to all the poor souls that agreed to listen.

It was a ritual with a spiritual-like magnitude because it was the one consistent thing in my life during my first year in college, a time of great change. Receiving that postcard — and feeling a wave of love wash over me — was near holy.

I know that other people experience the fulfillment of physical mail, too, because every time I have received a postcard and told a friend, their reactions have all been similar: a soft smile, an “awwwww,” and maybe even pressing their hands to their cheeks or chest. So why does it feel so good to receive a postcard or a handwritten letter? My theory is that in a long-distance relationship, physical mail satisfies four out of the five love languages.

The first love language is the most obvious, and it is gift giving. A postcard is a physical object that is sent from one lover to another. It is a token of their appreciation that can be felt, held, hung on the wall, or preserved as a piece of sentimental value. Through the artwork that has been chosen specifically to please the receiver, it is an aesthetic experience, and is has a homemade element through the intimate, personal handwriting. It’s a unique gift that is tailored to the recipient, and that no one else on the planet has.

The second is words of affirmation. Most loving postcards will allude to the phrase “I wish you were here,” or “I love you,” and in a long-distance relationship, these phrases create a sense of security. The writing on the love letter is an affirmation of the beloved’s sentiments, and it is powerful and meaningful in its timeliness. The immortalization of those words in ink creates the feeling of eternity, because the beloved can go back to the postcard whenever needed, and the postcard will withstand time regardless of the relationship’s fate. It is worth considering that some people feel they can be more honest or forthright about their feelings when writing at a distance, allowing them to be more genuine and vulnerable about love in a way that is refreshing, private, and unique.

Lastly, the intersection between acts of service and quality time. A postcard is not a direct act of service or sharing space with a loved one, but it is the product of a lengthy period of time in which the beloved has set aside a moment to do something to make their person happy Because writing a postcard is a deliberate act geared towards creating wellbeing, it could be argued as an act of service in an abstract way. Similarly, a postcard can not be a substitution for sharing a meaningful moment, but in a long-distance relationship, quality time presents itself in unexpected ways. A postcard is physical evidence that one person thought of another for long stretches of time while securing the postcard, writing on it, mailing it, and then waiting for its delivery. The time might not have been spent together, but the postcard shows an intention and a willingness to prioritize allocating time towards the relationship.

My postcards lived on my dorm wall for years. I kept them displayed in a chronologically organized grid for all my friends to admire. Toward the end of my two-year relationship, the postcards had piled up and created a timeline tracking the evolution of the relationship over time.

I liked the postcards as decor for a number of reasons. Keeping them on the wall gave them a second life in which I could keep rereading them. Regardless of what had happened during the day or how I was feeling, I had unlimited access to words of affirmation and tokens of my lover’s love. They were an excuse to pause and realign with myself through the memory that I was cherished, wanted, and admired. Second, and as selfish as this sounds, they were a form of social capital. I liked to believe that anyone who walked into my dorm and saw the postcards on the wall felt impressed by my boyfriend’s commitment to the long-distance relationship. We were “relationship goals.” It was a facade that we were the ideal couple, despite the stark reality.

That boy and I broke up. I took the postcards down from the wall and placed them in a paper bag. I haven’t read them since; it stings to read the words “I love you” written over and over in his scratchy handwriting.

My current boyfriend and I cohabitate most of the year, so there are few opportunities to send postcards to each other. Nevertheless, when I was living abroad in Europe last year, I made an effort to send a postcard to him and to my parents from every city I visited. It felt natural to take on the role of a faithful, responsible sender for the first time. I had so much to say about Europe, and the ritualistic element that I loved about postcards took a larger scope because it also now included choosing the postcard I’d send. I’d scout all day long in souvenir shops and street vendors for an image that resonated with me or symbolized my journey in that city. I was adamant about finding a vehicle for my love that was not trashy or common.

This thought made me realize that I sent these postcards more for my personal enjoyment than for my parents or my boyfriend. They received daily updates on my adventures through pictures and credit card charges — what else could I say on a limited amount of paper that they did not know already? Why would they care if the postcard I sent had a riverview or the skyline?

The postcards became a personal habit in which I took the time to sit at a beautiful, quiet spot and reflect on what I had learned that week in class and in travel. It was a space where I could be profound and honest with myself to unpack the joys and tribulations of my life in Europe without fear of judgment. In the space of only a few hundred words — if I wrote in a small handwriting — I could say the things that mattered the most, but didn’t have a reason to communicate in any other everyday medium. I was strict about dating my postcards accurately; these postcards were my own self-care and future conversation with

Postcards beg us to reflect on how we love ourselves and whether or not we’re actually honoring all those love languages. Are we using words of affirmation in our journals, our minds and our lives to remind ourselves of our worth and our brilliance? Are we gifting our bodies the food, rest, cleanliness and care we deserve? Are we using our time wisely to create space for pleasure and quality time to be friends with ourselves? Sending postcards might remind us to love others better — to love them constantly and to love them widely across love languages — but they are more so a reminder to love ourselves in new and creative ways. Self-love is allowing ourselves to be seen and known; it’s a kind of vulnerability that takes a lot of effort in a modern world where so many are determined to have a front.

Once the postcard was written, I would march from the medieval castle in the Netherlands that I lived in across the town of Well to Vissers, the all-under-one-roof shop that sold stamps. Afterward, I would cross the street to the bright orange mailbox and make sure I slipped it into the correct slot — Europeans divide international mail and local mail to help with processing times. As the postcard slipped from my fingers, I could picture the face of my loved ones, and I feared my love would get lost in the long journey across the sea. Only one postcard ever got lost. I still wonder where it ended up.

beg us to reflect on how we love ourselves and whether or not we’re actually honoring all those love languages.”

My beloveds kept all of my postcards. My mom keeps my postcards in a photo album beside all the postcards she received as a teenager. My partner went down the classic route and stuck my postcards on his dorm wall. I see these letters as a tapestry in which I’ve woven years’ worth of the narrative of my life across individual threads. With every postcard I’ve sent to loved ones, I’ve grown their understanding of who I am and my understanding of myself. It’s unlikely I’ll ever get to hold all of my postcards together again. They’ve now become something larger than the individual rectangles of cardboard. I can only hope my collection keeps growing with every postcard I receive and every letter I send.

“Postcards

I sometimes read the postcards I do have when I feel nostalgic. I enjoy being transported back to those moments, frozen in time forever. Someday I’ll be able to read the postcards from my ex-boyfriend and feel happy for that time in my life rather than hurt. They will be a good memento of my youth for my older self.

I’ve kept up the habit due to all this enlightening knowledge. I write once a week to my parents and tell them how I’ve been, although I know it’ll take a month for the postcard to reach Mexico City, and I’ve likely already told them all about it over the phone.

It’s heartwarming. I might be physically away from them, but I feel close when I write. Yes, they are one-sided monologues in which my voice overpowers the conversation and my parents do not get to speak, but that is the sacrifice I must make to transport myself as completely as I can into my living room in Mexico City. They will have their opportunity to respond, just as loudly and just as powerfully. I will feel their hugs and kisses flutter in the wind, across valleys and over mountains, to land tenderly in my hands as I hold their beloved handwriting.

THE ILLUSION OF THE PERFECT MAN

BY IZZY DESMARAIS

Growing up on Walt Disney’s fairy-tale love stories, it’s no surprise that I ended up a hopeless romantic. Some of my favorite movies of all time, movies I unabashedly consider cinematic masterpieces, are romantic comedies: “10 Things I Hate About You,” “Dirty Dancing,” and of course, “When Harry Met Sally.” Even after multiple rewatches, these films always fill me with this indescribable feeling — it’s fixed somewhere between joy and despair.

My face will always split into the biggest smile when you first hear Patrick Verona’s voice through the football field speakers, softly singing “Can’t Take My Eyes Off You” before switching gears to an extravagant, marching band-led fanfare in an attempt to woo Kat Stratford and convince her to go to prom with him. I don’t think I’ll ever not cry when Harry Burns runs across the city and confesses his love to Sally Albright, his best friend in the entire world, just as the clock strikes midnight on New Year’s Eve.

I’m happy when I watch these movies, of course. That’s the whole point of the romantic comedy genre — they’re supposed to make us feel good. Sometimes, though, when I watch these iconic moments, a part of me feels a little sad — maybe even a little scared — because I’m certain something like that will never happen to me.

There are seemingly no realistic representations of love in mainstream media. For queer people, romance is only portrayed from a heteronormative lens, so they never get a clear idea of what their relationships should or shouldn’t be like. Straight women have the privilege of seeing couples on-screen that mirror what they’re looking for — except even these representations are constantly disregarded as unrealistic. We’d be putting too much pressure on potential partners by expecting some picture-perfect, cinematic love that feels more like a verse from Taylor Swift’s “Sparks Fly” than real life.

On one hand, sure, I get where they’re coming from: my inner five-year-old girl is upset that I won’t get my Prince Charming, but hey, we all have to grow up someday, right?

However, let’s actually look at the men we are deeming “unrealistic.”

Patrick Verona was paid to date Kat. When heartbreaker Joey Donner first proposed this plan, Patrick didn’t even consider the ethical implications: in fact, he bartered Joey for more money, saying one date to the movies is worth $75.

Johnny is an asshole to Baby when they first start rehearsals, treating her like a hindrance even though she was doing him a huge favor by filling in for his usual dance partner, Penny. Sally hated Harry when they first met, and I can’t blame her — he was a complete dick. It took Sally ten years before she even liked Harry as a friend, never mind as a love interest.

Even the fictional men we swoon over are kind of the worst. What makes up for this behavior, ultimately redeeming all these characters as viable love interests, are their perfectly worded and deeply sentimental declarations of love. They are presenting the bare minimum and, in turn, leading us to believe that these traits — which oftentimes are just basic manners, but even that’s pushing it — are unattainable when looking for a partner.

What actually makes me a hopeless romantic is this crippling fear that I’ll never fall in love again. It sounds pathetic, but as I stop and watch the world around me and see how awfully some men treat women, I can hardly blame myself. I do know that love exists and I’ve felt it before. I’ve had kisses in the rain and a hand on my knee and laughs that would accompany all of my jokes. Your first heartbreak is undoubtedly one of the greatest pains a person can experience. Once you’ve healed, you’re able to distance yourself from the relationship — once you think more critically about it, you understand that he probably never was the man you were going to marry — but it still influences your perspective on future relationships.

There’s this hyperawareness of your past that frames how you look at new love interests. Of course you want somebody different from your ex, but you also want him to have similar qualities, like those basic personality traits you found attractive and shared interests or hobbies. But at the same time, he can’t remind you too much of that past relationship, because what’s the point of that? It’s a fine line to walk, and for me, three years after the fact, it’s only exacerbated the age-old anxieties one has about love.

“Am I pretty enough? Will I say the right things? Will he call back after our first date? What if I’m not a good kisser? What happens if he wants to do something I’m not ready for? How will he react?” These anxieties wrap around my neck, choking me, and stop me from ever putting myself back out there. While these anxieties are present in the movies, too, there’s a big difference between me and Sally Albright—the 21st century.

Our lead girl always met the love of her life organically — at a party or through mutual friends — until “You’ve Got Mail,” a movie that I hate. The digital age and popularity of online dating has only brought on a whole new crop of fears to infect our hearts. “What’s a good text to keep the conversation going? What if he ghosts me? What if he sends a dick pic? What if I meet him and he just wants to hook up? What if we hang out for a while and then he drops me after he gets what he wants?”

There are countless Netflix original movies that try to tackle the plight of modern dating for women, but none of them are as believable as the classics. I think that might say more about love than the film industry, though. I find myself longing to return to a time where meeting the next love of your life almost always happens naturally. It feels so much more authentic that way. Technology has not only put distance between us, but highlighted unsavory realities. Every week, it feels like there’s an Instagram story being shared to warn us about some guy who has been trying to roofie girls at a local bar. It’s hard to trust people you first meet — especially men. We were told all throughout childhood that we shouldn’t talk to strangers on the Internet; ironically, it now seems that’s the only way I’ll ever find a boyfriend.

I always find myself returning to my favorite ’80s and ’90s rom-coms to throw myself a little pity party whenever I need some cheering up. I can picture it now: I’m back home in my bedroom. I’m fresh out of the shower, my body still a little tacky from the lotion, my thermal pajamas from Old Navy clinging to my skin. I turn on my Winnie the Pooh lamp — the one I’ve had since I was a baby — for some soft, ambient lighting and climb into bed. Underneath enough blankets to crush a man and surrounded by a ridiculous amount of stuffed animals for a 19-year-old girl to have, I hit play on whatever film I decide to watch that night.

I know the term “pity party” elicits some sort of negative connotation, but I don’t think of it that way. It really is a moment for self care, to reflect and relax. As I watch, I’ll catch myself wishing I could find a man like the ones on screen, but I have to stop myself. I think we all should.

We’re allowed to wallow with these picturesque narratives about so-called perfect romances — it’s all a part of the grieving process. However, we shouldn’t allow these fictional men to leave us disillusioned about the men we encounter in our daily lives. Most of the time, they aren’t that much better.

Instead, focus on the fact that these are stories about successfully finding love and feel the reassurance that there’s someone out there for you, too. I mean, if a little jerk like Harry can win the heart of an intelligent, strong and absolutely gorgeous woman like Sally…there’s got to be hope for all of us.

“Even after multiple rewatches, these films always fill me with this indescribable feeling — it’s fixed somewhere between joy and despair.”

Photography by Liz Farias Design by Kaitlyn Joyner Makeup by Lily Mayo & Vara Giannakopoulos Styled by Liz Farias Modeled by Elise Guzman, Amiri Mateo Rivera, Breazy Rowlands, & Melanie Shephard

H OME FAR AWAY FROM HOME

BY ANA LUQUE

When sophomore Moe Wang entered the Jia Ho Supermarket located in Boston’s Chinatown, memories of home in China and Japan flooded her mind. “Once you walk into the supermarket, the way the vegetables and all those products are placed is exactly the same as how Chinese supermarkets are back in Shanghai. That image just reminds me of the older Shanghai scenes [from] when I came to Shanghai in first grade,” Wang says. Many other international students have experienced something similar around Boston and Emerson College. For some, it may take a bit longer to find places where they can feel at home. Moving to a new country can be exciting but scary, and finding a new home can be hard when you’re suddenly in a completely different place. Everyone has different ideas of what home is, but there is no “right answer.”

Irka Perez, a senior journalism student, describes home as the following: “Home is more of a spiritual thing than a physical thing. Home is somewhere that is consistent, but you feel like it’s your own.” Other students describe home differently; Sam Rajesh, a junior VMA major, finds “safety, comfort and financial stability” key to creating a home away from home.

Although everyone has different ways to describe home, finding a community or a group of people that understand you is a first step to finding it in Boston. Perez says her friend Anna from Puerto Rico reminds her a lot of the Dominican Republic, where she grew up. She says, “Every year I’ve been at Emerson, she’s been a constant. She just reminds me of home because we can speak in Spanish, we can dance and sing to the same music, we laugh at the same memes and stuff. Little things like that go a long way.”

But for some of us, home is a place, or a scene. Although meeting like-minded people definitely creates a homely community, sometimes finding a place that looks familiar gives a sense of comfort. For both Rajesh and Wang, Chinatown is that place. Rajesh says that she found Penang, a restaurant that she visits every weekend, where she’s known and welcomed. Wang finds that food is a way to help her reconnect with home. Food, especially home-cooked meals, is usually what most students miss from back home, so for many, finding a place that has food that resembles what they used to eat is essential to finding a home.

Personally, the Boston Common is a great place to go, especially when it’s sunny. It reminds me of home, since I’m from Honduras, a country where it’s mostly warm and summer lasts all year long. When there is sun, I like to go outside and feel the heat on my skin, especially as Boston begins to get colder.

But sometimes, you have to explore a little farther away from Boston to find that place that makes you feel warm. Perez took a trip to Cape Cod with her boyfriend for her birthday this summer and said it reminded her of the Dominican Republic. “It just felt nice being surrounded by sand and feeling the sun on my skin. That really feels like home,” she says. Not only has the city and Massachusetts as a whole reminded students of home, but places and scenes at Emerson have also helped. Rajesh says that the Center for Spiritual Life has been a place where she feels safe. “I feel like I can talk here so openly, especially if I’m talking to Amber or Julie [Faculty at CSL],” they said. “When I talk to them, I genuinely feel like they’re listening to my experience.” Faculty at Emerson College, especially in places like the Center for Spiritual Life, are very comforting and understanding, providing a sense of home for many such as Rajesh.

Wang says that some of her classes have reminded her of high school in China: “When I had my Writing 101 class in freshman year, the classroom, the people there, reminded me of my high school classroom. Because most of the students in my class were Chinese and they spoke Chinese, it reminded me how I used to have class in my high school.”

Trying to find these places, scenes and people may seem like a daunting process for any student, but it is especially harder for international students. Coming to a new country, no matter how “familiar” you think you are with it, can be scary. Culture, language, people and food can be very different, and many times you don’t know how to begin the process of trying to find a place for yourself in such an unfamiliar space.

Everyone has different ideas of what home is, but there is no “right answer.”

Perez, Rajesh and Wang all have tips on how they found a home far away from home. Wang suggests students go to Chinatown and try the food around the area, more specifically boba. Rajesh suggests using the resources Emerson has, as that is how she was able to find a place where she feels comfortable. Personally, I recommend going to events, such as karaoke and free boba nights, which helped me find a community and friends here at Emerson that made me feel comfortable.

As an international student, it is important to find these places and people that make Boston homelike. Unlike domestic students, traveling back home either for holidays, breaks or whenever one is feeling homesick is very expensive, time-consuming and tiring. Having those places or people to go back to here in Boston is key.

Everyone has different journeys to finding a home, and it’s okay if Boston and the U.S. still don’t feel like home. Perez suggests not forcing it, “because it’s okay if this place is not home, [if] it’s more of a temporary place you’re in.” Have you found a home here in Boston?

Photography by Kaitlyn Joyner

ALL THE WAYS THE PUBLIC GARDEN HAS EMBRACED EVERY ITERATION OF OURSELVES

BY ERIN NORTON

The first time I graced the Boston Public Garden, I was 18. I was sitting on one of the long green benches and sharing an arepa with my boyfriend at the time, whom I was planning on long-distance dating. It was late July and the warm summer wind grazed our skin gently as we mentally prepared for the future ahead of us. Finally able to tour Emerson for the first time, just a month away from move-in day, and with change on the forefront of my mind, I was getting ready to rebrand myself as a city person. At the time, I was fully convinced that city life would be the secret to happiness. Don’t get me wrong: I loved my smalltown life back at home in the luscious green hills of Vermont. Still, I was so eager to integrate myself into urbanity and call myself a local as soon as I possibly could. Motivated for change and self-improvement that I couldn’t yet define for myself, I looked so desperately into how I was perceived by others. But what I didn’t realize was that in actuality, everyone else just lives their lives in the same way that I did — through small, incremental and unconscious reincarnations of their past selves.

I only recently became aware of this when I fell down the rabbit hole that is my camera roll — a lively yet daunting space of over 20,000 images, each with their very own unique memories attached: anywhere from the dusty green room at my high school’s theater to, more recently, walks from Seaport to the Public Garden. The feature that captured my attention the most was the map; seeing where each of these memories occurred really brought me back to the moments themselves.

For every picture I have of myself in the Public Garden, or of my poor attempts to capture the way that the sun sets behind the John Hancock Tower, I envision a different version of myself. Even though I still have the same glasses, my favorite scent is still lavender, and I still enjoy an iced chai latte with oat milk, I am not the type of person to remain completely stagnant for months at a time — and I’m certain that most people can resonate with that as well.

Junior journalism major Maura Cowan and I chatted about our first times in the Public Garden. Their first time in Boston was when they were in ninth grade, when they also happened to be in New England for the first time. She talked about how it felt to see the “Make Way For Ducklings” statue for the first time, not only as a person who loved the book growing up, but as a kid who grew up across the country from where it took place. Cowan also went on the Swan Boats during their trip, something she said really healed her inner child — which, as a small-town kid who always wondered what it would be like to live in a city, is a feeling I know very well. As time moves, the charm of tourism and awe naturally wears off, but the Garden still stands as a place for community that fosters memories — a topic that came up with other people that I got to chat with.

Sophomore journalism major Minna AbdelGawad spoke about the way in which places “hold a lot of memories” and, specifically, the importance of finding a place that is reserved for your own self. Before we really dove into the gravity of the Public Garden itself, Abdel-Gawad spoke about a place back in her hometown in Virginia where she would bring her friends that held a lot of the same significance as the Garden. She explained how “three versions of [herself] live within that space,” depending on who she was showing, the relationship she had with that person, and the moment in her life. She acknowledged that she felt as though she was “able to grow within that spot,” the same feeling that arises when in the Garden. Abdel-Gawad also brought up the idea that “everyone has their own spot that they made their own.” This only makes the Garden so much more special because it’s a place that’s shared by so many, but somehow, everyone has made unique connections with different places throughout it.

Senior writing, literature & publishing major Nicole Codianni touched on what it means for a place to hold meaning, defining it as, “a place that is able to hold all of you.” It shouldn’t be a home to only good memories or to only bad ones. We talked about how the Public Garden, in particular, is a place where all of these emotions can reside, and is the perfect place to watch yourself grow over time. When she lived on campus, she used to use the Garden as a place to experience every emotion. She mentioned how if she was ever angry, she would go for a walk. If she was feeling happy, she would sit in the sun. If she ever felt sad, she would find herself sitting on the “Good Will Hunting” bench for a cathartic cry. This made me think of all the times I myself have experienced every emotion possible at the Garden, and how it still remains a place so close to my heart.

“It’s really cool to have one place as a reminder of home,” Codianni said, which really resonated with me. The word home is so singular and definite, and the Public Garden is shared by over 600,000 people. But somehow, the Garden is home to all of us, our past selves, and our memories — a mythology of ourselves and a scrapbook for souvenirs from times past. When I look at all the pictures I have of myself and my friends, past or present, in the Garden, in none of them do I see the same person. I especially do not see the person I am today. I can expect that the Garden will foster many more versions of myself for years to come. Something we hear a lot at Emerson is that the Common and Garden are our backyard — something at which we all roll our eyes. But there is something so truthful about it. Over the years we’ve all watched ourselves grow up in that space, just like we did as children in our own yards and homes. Even though we might not realize it, there are little fragments of ourselves scattered throughout the Garden, glowing like the pond all lit up by the sunset.

“At the time, I was fully convinced that city life would be the secret to happiness.”

MIDWESTERN MIRAGE

VISUALS & WRITING

BY KAITLYN JOYNER

Though I always longed to be blanketed by the noise of a city, now that I am here, I can only find myself in vignettes of Midwestern highways and the way the crickets would hum throughout the forest behind my childhood home during the summer dusk. There is something pathetic — tragic, even — about longing for those seemingly endless parking lots and dry, yellow fields, barns from decades ago with their roofs caving in. The Great Lakes seemed as wide as an ocean to me when I was small, and I still point to the palm of my hand in explanation when asked where I am from.

Surrounded by sulking hills and trees kissed with sap, I was never corporeal. I collected pine needles and clover and kept lilac branches between the pages of my books, trying to collect evidence that I had existed there, that the woods around my home would remember me the way one remembers how to braid hair, or ride a bicycle. An instinctual return to something that fades in and out of relevance. My words were grapefruit served with sugar, served on a ridged spoon: sharp, unforgiving, halved. I needed to become a memory for the landscape that seemed determined to consume me, to spit me into a home that shared a picket fence with the God-fearing. No amount of soft serve and car rides with the sunroof peeled back could temper my determination to align with the pulse of a city, where I could fade in and out of crowded rooms at my ease of wishing to be known.

I recall sitting at peeling picnic tables and planning my future with someone I no longer speak to, eating orange foods that we had picked up at the market up the street: peach gummies and orange peels and orange Towne Club sodas with those lids that pop when you press them against the edge of whatever surface you can find. We wrote down our plans for our New York City apartment in a spiral notebook. In that moment, there was nothing more grand or more brilliant than this fictitious thing that we held in our minds like a quivering image from a photo carousel. It could fragment with the slightest lack of a knowing glance, the interference of summer camp and separate dinner tables and shortened birthday texts. It was an invention of girlhood, I think, the kind that I wish I could keep inventing still.

The stairs in my building creak like the ones in my grandparents’ basement, that familiar weight of age pinned beneath the soles of my shoes. The doors open by themselves sometimes, but I almost beg them to; there has to be a history here I can trace, a history I can grasp on to as time turns to wisps of smoke from hibernating chimneys. How much is invention and how much is unorchestrated proves to be half of the purpose.

Sometimes the apartment gives me gentle offerings in answer, like the Polaroid of the woman who last lived here, left in the closet on the highest shelf as if she was hesitant to become memorable. She smiles with two friends in a grad cap and gown, students of indeterminable subjects who have found new rented rooms to haunt. I don’t know how to let go of this omen, so I keep the photo of the strangers tucked away with my own ticket stubs and pressed flowers. I’ll carry on their ritual, I decide. The walls here will hold me long after I have marooned them, even if I must be the architect of my own remembrance.

Though I have lived in my Boston apartment for three years, the man who lives below me does not remember me very often, nor does he know my name. He only recognizes me within the stairwell, my face cast in shadow-puppet shapes from the little lanterns on bluebell walls. When I pass by him on the street, I can read the lack of familiarity on his face.

I saved his dog from what was nearly a fire in his apartment once. The dog ran to me and shook at my side, both of us inhaling the lingering smoke, our bodies filling with everything that had almost unfolded. His dog pulls towards me on the street, tugging at his leash — but still, the man cannot read me in the ledger of the outdoors. Have I shifted shapes, or have I been pinched out like a flame by the voices on the street, the sound of distant sirens and church bells?

Sometimes I long for a Midwestern hello on the sidewalk downtown, the kind I would receive like small offerings on hiking trails, in swimming pools, in the grocery store or in the bakery where I once fell and skinned my knee after piano lessons. The owner brought me bandages, a hovering presence to mute the flow of tears and blood. But there is another form of warmth in the way we glide past one another through the gates of the garden and through the narrow roads paved with cobblestone, flitting eyes and a lack of expectation. Familiarity is earned and traced, like the rings of an oak that expands with time. Proximity is not a promise you find yourself ensnared by; it is a miracle of large quantities. It is being nothing more than an ephemeral occurrence in the supercut of a stranger. We are aligned to witness each other in some vital way, to learn each other’s faces to fill the blank faces in our dreams, to assure ourselves that the reality of our body is in flux, yet undeniable.

I do not believe that I would know how to mourn, how to age with reverence and grace, if the New England winters had not mirrored my Michigan snow days. They beg me to recall the quiet of the sudden ice storms and the slow shatter as the icicles melted and fell from the branches like daggers from the sky. Gravitating toward bodies of water and views of the stars between treetops, cradling myself between headlights and fields that stretch towards heaven and hell. I redraw the streets of my hometown in my mind and look for all the beauty that I refused to bow to in my time as a saturnine girl with stinging edges who wished on all her birthday candles to be seen in a way that didn’t make her ache. My mouth cannot fully deny the shape of the vowels that feel like contradictions of youthful hatred and grandeur; I am living in the spiral notebook with a few minor revisions. I am an apprentice of existing as both a whole and a vision, a figment and a certain being.

Perhaps I cannot see myself anywhere unless it is written in the past tense, a retrospective to be both reprieved and loved; my time here will be an oracle, and I myself will read it down the line, someday.

“It was an invention of girlhood, I think, the kind that I wish I could keep inventing still.”

IS BOSTON STILL THE ‘CITY ON A HILL?’

BY MORGAN GAFFNEY

Walk anywhere around Boston, and you’re bound to see big, beautiful, old churches like King’s Chapel in Downtown Crossing, or the First Church in Back Bay. Boston is a historically religious city. When English settlers first arrived on the windy shores in 1630, it was built on the idea of creating a community where they could practice Christianity as they pleased. These churches were built to function independently and allowed members to practice by their own direction and have a voice in the community.

Now, some 400 years later, these churches still stand tall, but where does religion stand in this city? Over the years, people have moved away from religion for many reasons. This may manifest from feeling discriminated against, or maybe they do not see much purpose in it. But to some Bostonians, it still holds a stake in their lives. “It serves whatever purpose people want it to serve,” said Edmund Robinson, the Interim Minister at the First Church of Boston, on what religion means to Bostonians today. “Search for meaning is one of the biggest ones.”

In the First Church of Boston, a Unitarian Universalist Church, all people are welcome. “As the Unitarian Universalists have evolved, we now accept people with any kind of religious belief at all, or none — the nones,” Robinson said. “I would love it if the nones would realize that they have a home here waiting for them if they want to come.”

In the much more progressive society — and city — we live in today, it makes sense that religion is up to the interpretation of anyone who chooses to practice, and not something to live one’s life according to, as it so often was in history. But even with this freedom within religion, its presence in Boston is declining.“Few people go to church. There’s plenty of data on that,” said Mark Leccese, an associate professor of journalism at Emerson who grew up going to church in the Boston area.

According to a 2014 study done by Pew Research Center, 25% of adults in Boston attend a religious service at least once a week, and 36% say that religion is very important to them. For a city built so deeply around religion, these numbers are low, reflecting how much the city has changed. Of these numbers, there are more Catholics than any other religious group in Boston. Irish Catholics, who have been heavily involved in Boston’s politics, play a significant role in Boston’s history. Throughout the twentieth century, Irish Catholics dominated Boston’s political roles. Mayors John F. Fitzgerald and James Michael Curley spearheaded tremendous improvements in the city, like establishing Fenway Park and the Franklin Park Zoo and expanding the subway system. Fitzgerald would then influence his grandchildren to be involved with politics, including his grandson John F. Kennedy, who became president of the United States, bringing great pride to Boston and politics rooted in Irish Catholicism. Several other Irish Catholic mayors would follow Fitzgerald and Curley, such as Marty Walsh, Boston’s 54th mayor, serving from 2014 to 2021.

“Irish (Catholic) Americans held political power in Boston for so long because Irish Americans were the first large immigrant group to come to Boston since the White AngloSaxon Protestants,” Leccese said. “It’s impossible to overstate how much (John F.) Kennedy meant to Catholics around here.”How did we come from being a city in which religion existed everywhere in everyday life, including politics, to now, with less than half of the adults in the city considering religion of any importance to them? This shift suggests a more recent downtick in religious affiliations of Bostonians.

Leccese points out the 2002 Boston Globe Spotlight investigative piece that revealed the sexual abuse and protection of abusers within the Catholic Church of Boston and greater Boston, and how this led to a significant decline in involvement with the church. “I stopped going (to church). I was furious,” Leccese said of learning about the sex abuse scandal.

After this abuse was exposed to the public, the Archdiocese of Boston was sued for tens of millions of dollars, causing it to sell off several of the large amounts of properties it owned in Boston; the archdiocese lost its influence and power in the city. Things have improved and changes have been made within the Catholic Church in Boston for the better, but religious affiliations are still decreasing among Bostonians.

“religion is up to the interpretation of anyone who chooses to practice, and not something to live one’s life according to.”

Political affiliations that are associated with some religions also contribute to a decline in religion. Homophobic, racist and sexist values exist within some religions, like Christianity. Many churches still take on a “traditional” viewpoint of the world: openly disagreeing with gay marriage, or remaining silent or refusing to recognize issues of racial disparity and gender inequality. People do not agree with the hypocrisy of churches that claim to be places where all are accepted, but uphold values that actively discriminate against certain groups of people.

Another reason people move away from religion can just be lack of time. We live in a nonstop society, where professions have become more demanding, and it is much more difficult to make a living wage. As obligations such as the workforce became more important and timeconsuming, religion became less important.

Though numbers are decreasing for many reasons, that does not mean religion cannot take on new forms in the future. “I don’t think we’re done with religion yet. I think religion might come roaring back one of these days,” Robinson said. “Perhaps we’ll find something other than churches to practice it through.”

And it seems as though people are already finding spaces other than churches to practice religion. “Religion is transforming, as the culture around us transforms. While it won’t look like the weekly pew routine of an era gone by, it will be just as deep and meaningful for those who search,” said Rabbi Elizabeth W. Meyer at Temple Beth Or in Reno, Nevada, in an article published in the Reno Gazette Journal in January 2014 about people moving away from religion.

Many people are moving toward spirituality and away from organized religion. Spirituality can mean almost anything, including believing in God, believing in heaven, a feeling of curiosity about the universe and existence, or just a belief in something greater than oneself. However, spirituality focuses most on not belonging to a certain religion with specific values. People are still looking for the deep connection with the world around them that religion provides, but without the constraints that organized religion entails. With spirituality, the connection is personal; in a way, people can create their own religions. More than ever, there is an emphasis on doing things for oneself, often referred to as “self-care.” Spirituality, as practicing religion for self-benefit on one’s own terms, fits into this box.

As Robinson said, perhaps religion will become a way for more Bostonians to “search for meaning” in the fast-paced, ceaseless world we live in today. After all, we are “the City on the Hill,” and our religious history cannot just be forgotten or erased.

Photography by Hanlin (Nancy) Yuan Design by Emma Albright & Kaitlyn Joyner Modeled by Cecil Lyu Visuals by Julia Lippman

GLOBE

ANCESTRY & ME A PERSONAL ESSAY ON HOMETOWNS & MOVING

BY ELLYE SEVIER

Ivividly remember the early weekend mornings of my childhood. I would crawl out of bed, sneak across the hall, and slip into my parents’ bed to await yet another story about my grandparents, great-grandparents, and so on. My great, great, great grandmother homesteaded on a tiny, remote island in the northern San Juan Islands—a place where I spent many summers growing up—after leaving her nearby homelands of the Swinomish tribe. I’ve been told she was a woman of incredible strength and bravery. She passed this land down through generations of daughters, each of whom had their own remarkable and unique lives. My great-grandfather on the other side raised hundreds of cattle on sprawling nature reserves in southern Washington, a place that still remains untouched by human development. I reflect on each of their narratives often, feeling comforted by my knowledge of their life, as if my own is put into perspective by my proximity to theirs.

From an early age, I always knew I was deeply connected to the land I grew up on. The evergreens of Washington, the Puget Sound, the fresh oxygen, and the rain. All are deeply woven into my genetic being. When I moved away from the Pacific Northwest to Boston last year, I felt lost and ungrounded. While new and exciting, the city didn’t hold any pieces of myself; I didn’t fully belong. In my heart, I belong in the forests of Washington and near the waters of the Puget Sound.

I would like to acknowledge my position and identity, as well as the true ownership of the land I grew up on. I am a white woman who was raised on land that was violently stolen from the people of the Puyallup and Duwamish tribes (the latter which remains federally unrecognized). Despite my deep ties, emotionally and ancestrally, to this place, I acknowledge that I am a descendant of colonizers who stole this land.

Many people share the experience of hearing stories while they are young: old tales passed down through generations about the people who gave them their X and Y chromosomes. Like many others, I am fascinated by these stories of our relatives and how they shape our connections with our identity. I have always felt that to hear the stories of my familial roots is to discover a part of myself that I didn’t know was missing. For me, hearing these stories was always about connecting myself, through my ancestry, to the land I grew up on.

Others share my curiosity about their ancestry, and others crave such stories of their family that have been passed down or lost through generations. That is one reason why services like Ancestry exist and have become so popular. Ancestry is a website and service that offers both DNA kits and a database of records to assist with tracing your lineage.

The service has a fee for both DNA testing and access to their records. Their tests provide detailed information about your genetic makeup, tracing genetic markers back to particular countries and regions. The other part of their services relies on known information with as much specificity as possible. By uploading names of direct family members, any genetic and DNA test information, and any other family history into the service, the service utilizes records to connect you with others that share similar genetic information. Users can find family documents, photos, relatives, and even stories about past family members.

“Each of us is a specific configuration of genetics, made possible by the unique lives of each individual ancestor.”

A key part of Ancestry’s marketing is the idea of discovering stories and rediscovering lost family history. Many go to these services because there are gray areas in their family lineage, missing stories, and unknown links that have been lost in translation due to time and circumstance. My close friend from high school, Ella Boers, is one such user. She was adopted from a Chinese orphanage by her parents when she was 10 weeks old. “[Ancestry] served as a placeholder for passed-down stories for me,” Boers said. “Since I won’t know those passed down stories from my family bloodline, the best I can do is see where people could have come from.”

Under the one-child policy in China, Boers said, many children—specifically girls—were left at orphanages for adoption. Since infancy, Boers knew almost nothing about her family in China. She has never known the stories of her ancestors. For Boers, she had to look for this sense of family history and genetics to inform her identity in other ways.

In a research project, Boers connected with other adopted Chinese girls raised in the U.S. “We don’t feel like specifically Chinese because we didn’t grow up even with one parent or two or just with any…even though we look, we are Chinese by blood, by looks, but there’s no sense of identity to that, really,” Boers, who was raised by white parents, said.

Searching for this missing link between her ancestry and lived experience, Boers is seeking other ways to connect with her heritage. “I’m taking Chinese,” she says. “I’d love to have at least adequate fluency. And I really want to learn how to cook really good, traditional Chinese cuisine.”

“I think that people just have a lot of pride in where their ancestors are from because it’s something unique,” Boers said, who expresses pride in her Chinese identity, despite growing up mostly removed from her culture.

Each of us is a specific configuration of genetics, madepossible by the unique lives of each individual ancestor. But what makes companies like Ancestry so popular in America, and why do Americans feel this need to connect with or discover our familial lineage? “Americans want to know [our] roots and know where [we’re] coming from,” Boers said. “We’re such a melting pot that it’s important to know your roots because that’s how you find people that you have things in common with and it’s a sense of community.”

For Boers, searching for stories and meaning in her ancestry is mostly about connecting with her cultural identity. For me, it’s about connecting with the land I grew up on. For others, it can be about all of this and more, such as connecting with lost relatives or piecing together one’s genetic makeup. But what we share is a desire to know—to find out about our lineage and to try to place ourselves meaningfully in time and space.

In a world full of so many uncertainties, I think this search for belonging in our DNA is something that many Americans relate to, which is why services like Ancestry have become so popular. By looking into our ancestral roots, we can find connections in our present lives that offer a deeper meaning. Ella and I were raised in the same place, yet the ways that we have sought to find meaning in our identities and genetic makeup are different. I learned my direct ancestral roots through storytelling; Ella found hers through the wonders of DNA testing. But we both share the same sense of pride and belonging to our families, our history, and our home.

LOVE WORTHY OF LEGENDS

BY BROOKE HUFFMAN

It is not a simple time to love. We are cynical people. We have grown up watching every idolized love in our lives succumb to stress, to temptation, to boredom. We are afraid that we do not know what love really looks like in a world ripe with dysfunction. This concern surrounding the unknown does not have to manifest as fear; instead, we can embrace our own inquisitiveness.

We are not the first to question the foundation of feelings. For eons, civilizations have attempted to fill in the gaps with explanations ranging from fascinating mythos to more scientific based psychological approaches. Mythology is founded on our natural curiosity combined with cultural influence. Love, as a similarly global force, is present in even the earliest stories, from ancient Greece’s lustful pantheon to ancient Egypt’s tales of eternal devotion. Each community has distinct perceptions of passion and a dozen varying views on romance. By exploring the concept of love from a myriad of perspectives, we can better practice it ourselves. We become better partners and form healthier bonds as we become almost acolytes of affection.

One academic that has set out on a similar course is the esteemed bell hooks, author of All About Love: New Visions. Her book, published in 2000, establishes a definitive love by breaking down its distinct components, including justice, romance, and community. hooks also works to define a love ethic.

“Embracing a love ethic means that we utilize all the dimensions of love (care, commitment, trust, responsibility, respect, and knowledge) in our everyday lives,” she writes. When we are all living lovingly together, we are uplifted. It’s spiritual, this sort of global, all-powerful love. In a word, it’s divine.

This divinity has manifested itself as various love dominant deities. In the four mythologies I studied—Aztec, Greek, Chinese and Egyptian, respectively—these deities are almost all women, or goddesses. We’re stereotypically more nurturing, more empathetic; we naturally encompass the traits that make a loving person. hooks believes the reasoning is rooted in experience, writing that, “Men theorize about love, but women are more often love’s practitioners.”

In Greek mythology, each deity had an assigned domain. Ruling over love, as well as beauty, the Greeks had Aphrodite, the absolute epitome of beauty who is also often depicted as nude in sculpture. She is primarily known for her string of lovers, both gods and mortals, despite her being married to Hephaestus. Her most notable and consistent paramour is Ares, the god of war. Undeterred by Hephaestus’ and the public’s knowledge of the affair, the two continue to meet. The love practiced by Aphrodite, as well as most of the Greek deities, is typically nonmonogamous: they do not bind themselves to one partner.

The ancient Egyptians had a different take: Hathor, the goddess of love, female sexuality, and motherhood. In mythology, she was the wife of Horus, the sun god, as well as the midwife during his birth. Her name translates to House of Horus, which is indicative of how devoted she was to her husband.

The Aztec goddess of love, Xochiquetzal, is central to their stories. Many of these myths mirror popular tales in other cultures. Her forced marriage to Tlaloc is almost identical to that of Hades and Persephone in Greek mythology, and her tasting of the forbidden fruit is akin to Eve’s in the Christian Bible. She is admired by the male gods of Aztec, yet she cannot have them, as she is Tlaloc’s captive bride. Xochiquetzal experiences adoration, but not love.

Chinese mythology, however, features a love god: the old man under the moon, Yue Lao. He was said to carry a book filled with the names of every person’s future spouse, as well as red cords for tying the feet of husband and wife. Yue Lao’s domain, or the connection between destiny and love, is our ticket to bliss, at least according to hooks.

“This concern surrounding the unknown does not have to manifest as fear; instead, we can embrace our own inquisitiveness.”

“When angels speak of love they tell us it is only by loving that we enter an earthly paradise. They tell us paradise is our home and love our true destiny,” she wrote.

This fated love isn’t necessarily always romantic. In fact, the ancient Greeks acknowledged eight types of love: from familial love to platonic love, obsessive love to puppy love. The closest to our current conception of soul mates would be a blend of pragma, or enduring love, and eros, a lustful and passionate love. They also recognized philautia, or what we now know as self care, or self love. We are often told before rushing into relationships that we need to “love ourselves first,” but what does that necessarily mean? Even the ancient Greeks often warned against leaning too deeply into self love, such as in the tale of Narcissus, the namesake of narcissism.

Another noteworthy myth traced back to ancient Greece is the story of Pygmalion and Galatea. Pygmalion, a sculptor, had fallen head over heels for his own creation: a marble depiction of Aphrodite. The artist had fallen in love with love itself — not the first, nor the last, to do so. The gorgeous goddess took pity on him, and brought the statue to life, dubbing her Galatea. Surprisingly, the two lived happily ever after, falling in love and remaining infatuated. This is often not the case when we fall in love with an idealized version of a person, a character rather than an individual.

“When we hear another person’s thoughts, beliefs, and feelings, it is more difficult to project onto them our perceptions of who they are,” hooks said.

Most Greek love stories do not feature happy endings— Eurydice is lost due to a careless glance from Orpheus, Apollo held the dying Hyacinth in his arms after a fatal discus throw, etc. The same goes for ancient Egypt’s divine it-couple, Osiris and Isis. Osiris was the lord of the dead, and Isis, his wife, ruled over motherhood and magic. When Osiris was killed by his brother, the pieces of his fractured body sentenced to drift the Nile endlessly, Isis went sick with grief. She scoured the land until each fragment was retrieved and held a funeral at the site of each one. Isis loved him deeply and wholly as she mourned, connected to him even in death.

“Given that commitment is an important aspect of love, we who love know we must sustain ties in life and death. Our mourning, our letting ourselves grieve over the loss of loved ones is an expression of our commitment, a form of communication and communion,” hooks wrote.

Our understanding of love is constantly changing and evolving, both positively and negatively. We are more cynical about emotional intimacy, sure, but we are also opening ourselves to more queer relationships, detatched from gender roles. When we examine how we love as individuals—our current behaviors, our past relationships, our philosophy surrounding love as a whole—we become more

SAPPHIC UNDERTONES IN TAYLOR SWIFT ’ S

“FOLKLORE”

BY ANNALISA HANSFORD

Folklore, the eighth studio album by Taylor Swift, is a love letter to cottage-core, childhood, nostalgia, Pennsylvania, and past lovers. Throughout the album, Swift sings about the narrator’s secret lovers and strained family relationships while referencing queer art. Listeners of Folklore suspect the narrators in certain songs, like “Seven” and “Illicit Affairs,” are telling these stories from a Sapphic perspective. Both songs display themes of secrecy and longing— which are often present in sapphic relationships and perspectives.

“Seven,” the seventh track on Swift’s album Folklore, is a song reflecting on the narrator’s childhood and reminiscing on a childhood friendship. What leads people to believe this song could be from the perspective of a Sapphic narrator is a line that comes from the bridge. After mentioning how the narrator’s friend should live with the narrator because her “dad is always mad,” she tells her friend, “then you won’t have to cry, or hide in the closet.” This line insinuates the phenomenon of how queer people hide their sexualities from their friends, family, or strangers. This line also relates to the chorus, when the narrator sings “cross my heart, won’t tell no other.” Although the secret is not specified, it is possible that the secret the narrator “won’t tell” is her friend’s sexuality, especially if she’s “in the closet.” Even if Swift did not intend for “Seven” to be about queerness, it can’t be denied how her choice of wording is associated with closeted queer people.

In the final chorus, the narrator sings about herself and her friend moving “to India forever.” This lyric is notable because Emily Dickinson, a queer poet, often referenced India in her love poems about women. The poem “My Eye is Fuller Than My Vase,” written by Dickinson is about yearning for a lover. The narrator describes how full her love is for her partner by comparing her love to the wealth and beauty of East India. It is also important to note that Emily Dickinson was often taught in schools as a straight poet, with her queer identity completely ignored or unacknowledged. Since “Seven” is a song about childhood secrets and hiding, the use of India as a physical escape for the narrator and her friend is significant because of its frequent appearance in Dickinson’s poems. India represents safety and refuge, a place for two young friends to flee to and escape from the judgment of others.

The tenth track on Folklore, “Illicit Affairs,” is a song about keeping a relationship hidden from others. This song starts with the line “make sure nobody sees you leave,” which illustrates the secrecy of this relationship. The narrator doesn’t want anyone to see their lover leaving the narrator’s home because then people will suspect the two are in a relationship. Many queer people, closeted or not, keep their relationships a secret from others out of fear of judgment or safety. The narrator ends the song by singing “for you, I would ruin myself a million little times.” This line is reminiscent of closeted queer relationships because of how emotionally burdening it can become to hide a relationship. It can become mentally exhausting to only show affection to one’s partner in secret.

In the bridge the narrator sings, “you showed me colors you know I can’t see with anyone else” which could be read as a reference to the film “Portrait of a Lady on Fire.” The film is about a female painter who is commissioned to paint a wedding portrait of a woman without her knowing. The two women gradually fall in love and must conceal their lesbian affair from others. Not only does this lyric refer to the film, the line is also reminiscent of maintaining secrecy in queer relationships when one or both partners are in the closet. Another lyric that references this secrecy is in the bridge, “you taught me a secret language.” Although not as common today, queer people used to communicate with each other privately or in secret years ago because being queer was not normalized, and was sometimes even punishable by law.

Members of the queer community turn to Taylor Swift’s Folklore because of its vulnerability and honesty. This album doesn’t sugarcoat or gloss over burdensome situations, circumstances, and relationships. The narrators of these songs are not afraid to look at their past head on and reflect on the feelings and memories that linger from their relationships. Even if Swift did not intend for her songs to be told from a queer perspective, her songs provide comfort to its queer listeners.

“This album doesn’t sugarcoat or gloss over burdensome situations, circumstances, and relationships.”

THE OBSCURING OF CULTURES

BY SYDNEY FLAHERTY

Aspaghetti recipe, a “Succession” edit, a guy in the UK’s vlog: these are all videos I liked on TikTok yesterday. I have let myself believe that these videos exist in a vacuum, affecting no one other than myself. However, they are not as random and pointless as I had previously thought.

TikTok’s algorithm capitalizes off of my interest, promoting videos I like to others within my determined “niche.” If other consumers like these videos as much as I do, particular creators can go viral overnight. My likes have the power to catapult certain hyper-specific aesthetics to fame and, consequently, the power to ignore others entirely.

These trends have the power to redefine who we are. And today, the existence of these aesthetics in and of themselves obscures others, taking attention away from those that may find beauty outside of predetermined, European structures.

Many aesthetics on TikTok have been criticized for not including BIPOC communities. Even today, when scrolling through #darkacademia on Instagram, I found the vast majority of photos to feature only white people enjoying the trend’s libraries and dark color scheme. Creators who do not fit these aesthetics’ hyper-specific molds have had to force their way in. For instance, left unsatisfied with diversity in the cottagecore aesthetic, Noemie Serieux created the instagram account @cottagecoreblackfolks, a space to promote the trend and the Black artists who partake in it.

Globalization has been defined as the process of certain countries and cultures obtaining international influence, and, as a result, leaving other, less-dominant cultures obscured. To me, it has always felt like a distant sensation. My culture — Western, white, middle-class — has maintained dominance on the global scale for centuries. The effects of globalization lie in foreign countries I’ve never been to, and I have always believed its perpetrators to be large corporations. However, sites like TikTok have made it clear that globalization exists beyond the borders of business executives and trade agreements. Dominant ideologies, such as secular opinions as to what denotes “success” or defines world history, can be promoted from our bedrooms just as easily.

Trends and aesthetics in popular culture are furthered as a result of our likes on social media. Through them, the global society creates notions of who we are and who we want to be. Perhaps these are our mythologies. This is why the Eurocentricity seen within current popular aesthetics has become problematic and why we as individuals are responsible for the ideas they promote.

Some may disagree with this take, claiming that trends on social media remain isolated within that plane and exist solely for entertainment. However, by disregarding the possible influence of these aesthetics, we risk ignoring the very real impacts they have on our modern society.

Cottagecore emerged in 2019, mainly through TikTok and Tumblr. However, it wasn’t until the pandemic that the trend became truly popularized. Through a casual scroll under “cottagecore” on Pinterest, you will be met with photos of enchanting woods, stone houses in fields, small ponds, women in frilly white dresses, and mushrooms. What these photos forget is this trend’s intrinsic connection to colonialism.

Cottagecore encourages the masses to connect with nature. The aesthetic seeks to abandon the modern world of technology and return to the simplicity of the countryside. The ideal cottagecore TikToker is self-sustaining and somehow disconnected from any spheres outside of their house and accompanying vegetable garden. The aesthetic’s message is one of isolation — an appeal for a world before technology and the second industrial revolution.

The rhetoric pushed by cottagecore might sound familiar to some. In fact, many of the aesthetic’s notions of freedom and isolation echo similar ideals from the United States’ era of westward expansion. In the mid-1800s, hundreds of white American families left their lives in increasingly industrialized cities for the wide and free West. Aided by government initiatives like the Homestead Act, which gave any willing family 160 acres of land to upkeep, individuals sought to reclaim their lives and move beyond the demands of industrialized routines.

However, all of this happened on stolen land. As the U.S. government gave free land to white settlers, it was effectively waging war on Indigenous tribes who lived on said land for hundreds of years. Through government actions such as the Dawes Severalty Act and the Battle of Little Bighorn, they undermined tribal autonomy, while at the same time encouraging white Americans to “reconnect” with stolen land.

It’s easy to make connections between cottagecore and the United States’ tragic past with westward expansion, but today, many cottagecore creators on TikTok don’t recognize this trend’s roots in racism and harmful expansion. Under #cottagecore, you will find outfit ideas and aesthetically-pleasing daily vlogs; critical analysis of this trend is much less prevalent than other, more well-liked videos that praise the aesthetic’s lifestyle.

At the same time that cottagecore was rising in popularity, different consumers found their niche in dark academia. The aesthetic of dark academia differs from cottagecore quite substantially: it regularly floods the average consumer with images of pleated dress pants, stacks of books and the campuses of several unnamed New England colleges in fall. However, similarities between the two aesthetics remain: namely, their shared promotion of Eurocentric ideals. In dark academia, this Eurocentricity takes shape through the ways it praises and defines education.

This aesthetic has often been used to romanticize studying and educational success. Creators who succeed within this trend often study Greek or Latin and make videos in old museums. However, the places being romanticized and subjects being studied reveal a much more harmful side to this trend, often uplifting European history and culture while willfully ignoring the perspectives and stories within other world cultures.

Ancient Greek and Roman classics are at the root of dark academia. Mythologies and artwork originating from these areas receive much more attention than the often-ignored ancient histories of other, non-European civilizations, such as the Mayans.

This pattern continues on throughout the trend. Much more weight is given to artwork originating in Europe than Indiginous groups, and studies of European history prevail against Asian or African histories. According to the majority of dark academia-themed videos, arts — such as literature and architecture — originating from locations other than Europe are practically nonexistent. Similarly, the study of romance languages is often romanticized in this trend, while non-Western languages remain absent from the aesthetic’s curriculum. Dark academia centers itself around European ideals of education, voiding any culture besides its own. This is done by focusing on one specific European perspective and choosing to romanticize it, while ignoring all others. In doing so, dark academia promotes the concept of Europe being the center of academic and cultural pursuits.

Finally, the coastal granddaughter is an emerging trend on TikTok. This aesthetic exists in the form of linen pants, J. Crew, and sweaters tied around shoulders. The lifestyle that this aesthetic promotes centers around New England in the summer, with the aim of feeling nautical and fresh. Everything seems to exist between shades of baby blue and white.

It’s pretty clear to see how coastal granddaughter as a lifestyle is inaccessible to the masses. Large white summer houses and seaside backyards — both staples of the aesthetic — are unattainable to most. Coastal granddaughter has its roots largely in the old money aesthetic and shares an emphasis on being “classic.”

“The perspectives you “like” today dictate what is advanced —and what is ignored — tomorrow.”

This value of “classic” is an ultimately materialistic ideal. The fashion staples of the coastal granddaughter and dark academia trends center around preppy styles, often championed by European luxury brands such as Gucci and Burberry. In order to be successful, one must possess certain items — items both praised and popularized by aesthetics like the coastal granddaughter. In other words, to be a coastal granddaughter, you must be able to afford a fancy house on the coast and an extensive closet of floralprinted dresses, which is a very secular idea of what it is to be successful.

Additionally, it is impossible to look at trends like the coastal granddaughter and old money without recognizing the historical origins of the wealth they promote. Old money specifically praises the families of industry leaders from as far back as the early 1900s. During this time, the rich upper-class benefited from the exploitation of workers who were often immigrants and minorities.

Coastal granddaughter signifies the resurgence of prep and the glamorization of riches — fortunes often made off the work of underprivileged members of society — all the while reminding us that success can only exist in compliance with Eurocentric values.

I have aided each of the aesthetics in their rise to fame. I like dark academia edits and cottagecore outfit ideas. It has been very easy for me to forget about the impact my consumption has on a larger scale, and the harm this consumption may cause.

In understanding the impact you have on popular culture through social media, you must also understand the responsibilities of such an influence. Your likes matter and may be inadvertently promoting harmful perspectives. The videos we like are amplified, taking up the spotlight and leaving others in the shadows of obscurity.

It is because of this responsibility that we must think critically about the creators and videos we promote. TikTok’s algorithm functions based on your engagement. The perspectives you “like” today dictate what is advanced — and what is ignored — tomorrow.

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THAT’S AWRAP.

To close, Atlas would like to thank all of the models and helping hands that made this issue possible. We would like to give a special thank you to our academic advisor, Kyanna Sutton. Without you, Atlas would cease to exist. We appreciate you and look forward to working with you in the coming years. Special thanks to Rosamond Chung for ALL YOU DO!

ATLAS MAGAZINE FALL 2022