BEYOND THE COMMONS
1 ISSUE NO. 2: NOVEMBER 2018
CONTENTS Issue No. 2: November 2018
ART
6 Art Feature: Hannah Kirk 8 Art Feature: Erika Rivero CITY SERIES: PLACES
9 Trondheim, Norway 11 Echo Park, United States CREATIVE WRITING
12 “Autobiography” 13 Creative Writing Feature: Cassie Bristow 14 Creative Writing Feature: Caroline Mang-Manger 17 Creative Writing Feature: Harper Wayne 21 “27” CULTURE
24 Why I Traded in My Finsta For a Good Old Fashioned Journal 26 Stop Trying to Look Like Us LUNCH BREAK
30 Isabella Mente: Validate Yourself 2
MUSIC
36 Music Festival Survival Guide PHOTOGRAPHY
37 Photography Feature: Ava Pucilowski POLITICS
43 Women in the Midterm Elections SOCIAL ISSUES
44 “The Grey” 46 Mental Health During the Holidays
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BEYOND THE COMMONS Editor in Chief: Sarah Harwell Editors: Art Editor: Krista Nguyen Creative Writing Editor: Ellese Castro Culture Editor: Destiny Hodges Music Editor: Joe Fayad Politics Editor: Laura Nguyen Photography Editor: Ethan Vovan Social Issues Editor: Salem Suleiman 
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EDITOR’S NOTE
ON GRATITUITY I am grateful for love, I am grateful for affection, sadness, happiness. I am grateful for the things that money can not buy, grateful for things not because of the lack of someone else not having it. People are constantly grateful for the food on the table, because others are hungry. Grateful for their healthy body, because others are not. Grateful they have a home, because others are out in the cold. We should be grateful for the feelings that we cannot buy, the moments in life that occur that make up who we are. We should not be grateful for the things we have because others do not, and even if we are thankful for them, we should not be because of the reminder that others have it worse. I am grateful for love, for small moments of affection, for every emotion I have ever felt, for happiness that beams from my whole body. I am grateful to have live a life worth living, not because of the things I have, but because of the people and the love I have surrounding me.  
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ART To intrigue, to enlighten, to inspire.
ART FEATURE: HANNAH KIRK By: Hannah Kirk
“The Feeling”
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“The Knowing” “The Release”
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ART FEATURE By: Erika Rivero
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CITY SERIES For the love of where we’re from.
TRONDHEIM, NORWAY By: Lilly Klein I have found myself underneath the shade of the trees in the little flower garden North East of Gamle Bybro, it is sunny but my fingers are cold, the air is crisp and clement. The sound of the swifts, cavorting through the air is relaxing. The gentle noise of Nidelva’s water running towards the fjord is tranquil. I am perched on a wooden bench, swinging my legs like a child because my feet don’t quite reach the ground. Perhaps this is adding to the feeling of buoyancy I am experiencing. Nidelva - the river’s moniker - strikes me as a mysterious name. Although the origins of it are known to me, I picture the river as an alluring woman - the soul of the city, the heartbeat, the backbone, the eyes - the windows to Trondheims’ depth, character and beauty. On the other side of Nidelva, stands my Farmors father - my Oldefars’ - childhood home. Although modest, it’s white exterior holds charm and I feel a magnetic pull towards it. I can feel my heritage here, and it is making me feel both grounded and simultaneously alive, awake, and inspired. The grand church who’s steeple demands attention, extending far into the clouds, lies behind the tiny home. Its bell rings twice, notifying me of the time as the European summer light is delusive and beguiling. 9
The flowers behind me are lustrous in this light and I find myself wishing I knew as much about blossoms as my Farmor does. But, I know they are yellow and meek and that I have never smelt a fragrance so sweet and fresh. My hand is dancing across the page, trying to describe the feeling of wholeness I am experiencing. Trying to fill my moleskin notebook with descriptions of the dusty grey light, trying to describe the way my cheeks flush warm against the never ending summer nights. I want to bottle up the smell of this - my favourite place; of the fresh, frangibility that surrounds me and wear it on my wrists everyday to remind me of this place, the little secret flower garden in Trondheim’s centre. In an attempt to savour the moment, as the light gently fades, I pick a flower, one singular yellow, small, polite, unpretentious flower (whose kind I do not know), and place it upon the page where I detailed the quietude of the early hours of summer in Trondheim. 
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ECHO PARK, UNITED STATES By: Sarah Harwell Laying in the cool shade of the infamous park that my biological father once called his “kingdom”, I’ve come to reclaim this pristine park’s festivities, blowing smoke of nicotine he was notoriously known for, soft rock humming softly in my ears, I feel as if his presence is here. I may not be a part of his kingdom, or may never be the princess that I always longed for, but I can reclaim the throne for myself. Coming to the park on my own has made me realize how much my longing to belong to someone made no sense now, this place is my own. Brainstorming for my new magazine, reading poetry - every part of being myself has never felt better. I have grown to love myself in a way that is void of my issues of constant reassurance, watching the lake constantly spewing a strain of water into the air, the same stream that my dad gazed at; I realize that is my only connection to him. I feel as if I’m not living through him, but instead creating something that he never thought to imagine. My constant feeling broken, halffulfilled heart of not having someone to love first, has been filled with myself loving me more than anything. I feel as if I’m living la vie en rose, everything is happier, lovelier, more peaceful. I have made peace with myself in a way that I never thought would be ever possible.
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CREATIVE WRITING The art of word.
“AUTOBIOGRAPHY” By: Hannah Kirk My edges have always been softer than yours, and this no longer warrants my apology.
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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: CASSIE BRISTOW By: Cassie Bristow “There’s A Limit To Your Love” joined are my lips in hopes to stop the bleeding wound that is my tongue speaking of its pain; the only love i’ve felt was silent. i’ve learned to ignore the rumblings of thunder i drown out the volume of its warnings with a siren’s song of denial. lured by madness, dancing feet find their way to stomp on the cyclops eye of a hurricane succumb once more, succumb once more— dark clouds hunger to take a bite of foolish flesh, circling like vultures, their touch could be “Enlightening.” tendrils of smoke curl around a sunken frame, was a single taste enough to satisfy? here i am again, reality has brought me to my knees. its truth is sharp. its truth is quick. its truth is always painful.
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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: CAROLINE MANG-MANGER By: Caroline Mang-Manger you are allowed
to break out of the old you
if it constricts you like a pair of too tight jeans you don’t keep pressing yourself into them you go and get yourself new ones that fit because your body keeps changing and so does your mind so who cares if you had long hair all your life and everyone likes your long hair so very much take the scissors and cut them off who cares if you’ve been doing this for years but are curious for something else now drop it and sign up new you are not your past self you don’t have to keep her alive to satisfy other people’s expectations you are allowed to kill her every evening before going to bed
and rise anew from her ashes the next morning
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step by step i am trying to dismantle all the versions of myself i have glued onto my body to comfort other people it’s a process it will only come off in pieces but i will be here underneath celebrating every tiny victory because with each layer being removed my heart feels a little less heavy and my lungs find it a little easier to breathe - growth 
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there are words imprinted on my skin but they’re not my tattoos they go way deeper it’s everything you said to weaken me at my core and you almost won i had stopped looking in the mirror to avoid seeing everything you think of me only saying what you want to hear from me to free myself from your hands on me i have lit myself on fire everything has burned off of me i almost started thinking it was a mistake i almost called to ask for your advice but beneath all the burning flesh new skin started growing untouched without your opinions all over it and now i am smiling as i say i can finally start anew 
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CREATIVE WRITING FEATURE: HARPER WAYNE By: Harper Wayne “Clouds Hold Density” I’ve Never felt more Unlike myself While working the hardest On me Uncertainty Focused on The one I am certain of Who is The girl Marching through the motions Of a seven am To seven pm Day Do I see her Or see what I could make of her? Molding clay Without water Are my hands still warm? What is this unmarked form?
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No one knows My name Or the place I came from My mouth could have molded myself Only in their eyes But the truth stiffened The spine Of my Creation Mouth exposing the sides hidden from The vulnerability of being Who You are In a world of Created identities only Looking like fame Has induced
Sculpting of my brain Creating a future In someone who Feels Like the past and the future But nothing of the present Eyes not the same Ties undone Life remade 18
I am officially With an old name Meet me Hidden in shame I live My new name Unwritten But still, I look the same New world Old me New me My heart grew On a tarmac When the plane Kissed the clouds Things changed 
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“See Through Lifestyle” I’m a messy individual Labeled a way I can't read my writing It doesn’t come out that way You cant see my thoughts Or feel my brain My heart Beats out of my chest Walking to class Trying to pass The city individuals I can only guess Labeled like me In tune with the pace The hustle And bustle I’m a messy individual But you don’t know me like that yet
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“27” By: Molly Stewart I was only 7 when he died. Mom piled everyone into the van and we drove to Moe’s. I thought it was because kids eat free on Tuesdays but later found out, it was to keep everyone’s spirits up. After we got back home from dinner, everyone was brought to the couch and sat down with a box of tissues already placed in the middle. Mom and Dad started talking about how Uncle Jamie and Grandma were always fighting and were having a lot of trouble. Ava was five, and her first thought was “Please don't tell me Jamie’s moving in here.” It’s ironic to look back at all the things that could’ve been. What happened was the absolute worst possibility. “One night, after a big fight, Jamie went out on the back porch to try and ease his tension with drugs like he had been doing for a while. Well, he took too much at one time, and he died,” Mom said as her voice began to crack and the box of tissues became of use. I didn’t cry. I walked upstairs to my room to finish my drawing while everyone watched me from the couch. I heard people crying downstairs, but I didn’t get it. I didn't get how he was just dead that easily. I didn't even get who he was if this was the kind of epilogue he got. So I didn't care. I’d only ever met him twice, and the first time I was only a few months old. I didn't feel anything towards what had just happened, because I didn't understand anything about what just happened. When Mom told me Jamie was addicted to drugs, I asked her what drugs were and she told me they were like medicine we take, but when people take too much. So I always pictured the vitamins and dayquil in the medicine closet in Mom’s bathroom, and Jamie swallowing them when he had a cold. But instead of reading the dosage information, he just took two and moved on. 21
Jamie was cremated. Grandma said she didn't think that anyone would come to his burial if he had one because not many people liked him. Most of his impressions and relationships were based on drugs, vandalization, and jail. She almost didn't even have a funeral, but the family convinced her. What she originally thought would happen did, and the crowd in the church was mostly family with a few junkie friends spread out in the back, wondering if this would be them someday soon. We got to stay in the bridal room of the church. We stood in front of the pretty mirrors with big round lights above them and danced like princesses, rubbing off the ample amount of makeup the moms had put on us. When we went out into the chapel, the front row was reserved for Jamie’s family, so I sat there by my cousin and my older sister. They started the ceremony by playing a recording of one of the songs he wrote and passing out the lyrics, then continued by saying a collection of things that I’ll never remember because they’d never be saying such nice things about him if he were still alive. What I do remember is Grandma. I remember her face when she was sobbing uncontrollably in the pew while some of the men of the church tried to console her. I remember wondering how all of the rehab visits and all of the days he had worked to stay clean for meant nothing because his addiction had still torn them both apart. I forgot about him. It wasn’t important to me. 7 years later, I saw my friends start thinking about experimenting with drugs like Jamie probably did before he started using. I started to think about him again and remember who he was. Then, I developed a fascination. I then began to slowly find out more. I found out he had been clean for a while before his overdose. I guess his tolerance had gone down, and he was just pushed too far one day and went back to his old habits, but his body wasn't used to it anymore. I found out he wanted to be a journalist. He was studying journalism in college before he got kicked out. I did research, read obituaries (which only really talk about the family and 22
the funeral), listened to his music, and finally found something that gave me a better insight on him and his thought process: his Facebook page. I was never allowed to be Facebook friends with him when I was little because he said too many bad words for me to see, even though my status updates were only shared with family and close friends. I started to search through pictures of him and his many status updates - most about his friends, drugs, or song lyrics. He and his friends would go back and forth talking about their plans to be like Bonnie and Clyde and live extravagant lives, drinking wine and reading literature on underground trains. But the one that always stuck out, he posted a few months before he died. contentment finds me with a grateful soul...so much to look forward to if i just focus on the task at hand. My revolution has started. With hope in my heart and a brick in my hand, i will break free. And I think that’s the worst part about it all. That things were looking up for him, and he was looking up himself. Because that's how horrible addiction is. That even if he was still alive today, drugs would always have a grip on him. That it’s not a quick fix, and no matter how many rehabilitation stays there are, it will always be a part of him on this Earth. And then again, there’s the good side. He’s not on Earth anymore. Maybe there’s somewhere where heroin doesn't exist and drug addiction doesn't happen. And that’s the kind of thing that’s worth it to hold onto, that maybe things kept looking up for him. Maybe his revolution is happening right now. Maybe he did break free.
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CULTURE Stay woke.
WHY I TRADED IN MY “FINSTA” FOR A GOOD OLD FASHIONED JOURNAL By: Nicole Cier It’s 2018 and nobody keeps a diary anymore -- at least, not in the traditional way. We each have a “finsta,” a “fake” Instagram account that exists without the rules, etiquette and limitations that society usually employs with social media. But this is not news. The concept of a more private, alternate account in addition to one’s main Instagram has been in action for years now. Think of it as a combination of both a blooper reel and a digital diary. On our “real” accounts, we post filtered, perfect images that convey the perfect life. On our “fake” accounts, we post anything else that doesn’t fit the standards of the typical Instagram post. This includes unedited or imperfect photos (think “the ones that didn’t make it to the ‘Gram”), long and personal captions, funny memes and anything else our hearts desire. What started as an outlet to post funny photos privately became what the kids of our generation considered a safe space to share our innermost thoughts and feelings, go on the occasional emotional rant and connect with peers on a more interpersonal level. It all seemed so exciting, the ability to curate our own little community of carefully selected friends and share things that mattered to us. But as time went on and our posts developed into more personal matters resembling diary entries, the concept of a “finsta” changed -- at least for me. Over the span of a few months, I noticed that I was conforming too much to what I thought my 64 followers would like to see. Everything I posted had to be funny or profound or aesthetically 24
pleasing, and that is not always what life is. Even in this world where -- supposedly -- no expectations or judgment existed, I was still tempted to create an alternate reality to the one I was actually living. Yes, I genuinely love my life and am filling it with things that make me happy, but nobody lives a totally perfect life day to day. Things happen, we feel upset at times, we need to share our thoughts and emotions with people we trust. I recalled the days of my childhood when I felt free to write anything I wanted in my actual diary, a pink fluffy journal with a lock on it. If this account was supposed to resemble a diary, why was I censoring myself? I felt trapped with the thoughts that I couldn’t type out, for fear of oversharing. Suddenly this oasis for personal expression was preventing me from doing just that. The girl behind the account didn’t feel like me anymore; it was like an overly optimistic, semi-filtered, flawless skinned alter ego was posting for me instead. We can’t control much in the universe, but our social media presence is one thing we can. The image I was projecting was starting to feel unauthentic, which is when I decided to take a step back and reassess my values. I began to remove some followers from my list (a relatively new feature on IG that allows you to let people stop following you, without blocking or notifying them), and then some more, until only my closest friends remained on the list. At that point I thought, “if these are actually my best friends, can’t I just share my feelings and ideas with them face to face?” And so I did. I also turned a trip to Target into a trip down memory lane, where I bought a good old fashioned marble composition book. This journal has become a more efficient way of recording and expressing things that matter to me. It’s filled with song lyrics, personal thoughts, poems, inspiration and ideas. It doesn’t require ideal selfie lighting, filters or a certain amount of likes. It 25
just requires a pen, a few spare minutes and an open mind. Our generation barely knows the definition of privacy. We overshare, overpost, we feel the need to document almost everything we do and share it online. Why? To project a certain image to people we went to high school with, or impress followers we don’t even know? This journal is something that is truly private, for my eyes only and whoever I choose to share it with on my own terms. After all, sometimes paper listens better than people can.
STOP TRYING TO LOOK LIKE US By: Sarah Harwell and Destiny Hodges Introduction Last month, our Culture Editor wrote about cultural appropriation on Halloween; little did we know that the disgrace of our ethnicities would become someone’s face, a face that they put on because white women find it “attractive” or “trendy”. For years, we were told that our features were not “attractive”. With larger representation of our ethnicities in media, the superior can’t help but see our ethnic features as something that they can steal. There are multiple Instagram influencers that use heavy makeup of a darker shade, and edit their creases out of photos - all the while having the privilege to go back to society’s beauty standards, and being able to get the jobs that we deserve, not experience the oppression that we encounter, not hear the hate that is yelled at us. On Black Women An un(wise) person once said: “I do think that people should not be so quick to call everything cultural appropriation. They should be flattered when people take things from their culture. Culture is shared. Everyone takes something from someone. And it’s like that time-transcending idiom: Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” - Katrice Perkins 26
Let’s makes this very clear once and for all; culture is not something that can be simplified to mere exchange between those who choose to take from it. “Culture refers to the cumulative deposit of knowledge, experience, beliefs, values, attitudes, meanings, hierarchies, religion, notions of time, roles, spatial relations, concepts of the universe, and material objects and possessions acquired by a group of people in the course of generations through individual and group striving.” When you borrow from another culture to achieve some trendy aesthetic, you are disregarding the history and experiences behind your taking for your own benefit. “What’s the big deal anyway?”, many say. Let me give you a prime example: Imagine being the most disrespected person in America, the Black Woman. Imagine that notion being imbedded in your culture not because that’s what your people wanted, but because that’s how history played out. Imagine your women being mocked, raped, sexualized, trivialized and made profitable for the same traits that white women reconstruct their entire physical appearance for. And no, not all of our people possess the same physical traits, but it is evidently apart of our identity. We keep shouting cultural appropriation when we see it, because when you take from us, you don’t see us, you see an opportunity. You hate us but you want to look like us. We’re deemed as less than human when you take from our identity as if it just an accessory. Our lips, our butts, our hairstyles, our music, our fashion, our vernacular, our darker skin are made trends and disguised as “flattery”. You love all of these things, but God forbid you take a stand against police brutality or wage gaps. And of course, you have those that say, “I don’t see race”. Well guess what, if you don’t see race you don’t see us either. You probably aimed to resonate with some sort of deep comment that transcends 27
what we know to be true, but really all you did was admit to being ignorant to racism. “Race is such an ingrained social construct that even blind people can ‘see’ it. To pretend it doesn’t exist to you erases the experiences of black people.” If you choose to not acknowledge what makes someone different from you, then you are also choosing to not fully appreciate and understand them. If we’re being honest, maybe we wouldn’t keep shouting cultural appropriation if we were respected for our lifestyle, defended against the harsh discrimination we receive in America, and seen as more than just pop-culture. We are not just another privileged person’s next plastic surgery inspiration. You cannot wear us all day, and hang us in the closet when the day’s over. And we definitely aren’t here for you to leech off of us at your convenience. Whether you participate in the leeching or not is ultimately your choice, but consider the long-term damage that could wreak havoc on young, maturing, black girls who you cause to see themselves as less than; as an object. Be human enough to actually see us for us, and watch the world follow. I’m not insinuating that people should be forbidden from any inspiration that may spark from the black woman, but realize your place and position; proceeding respectfully, responsibly and mindfully. On Asian Women Being Asian in a mixed family, I told people that I was half-white when I wasn’t - it was to preserve my family’s history, to keep private parts of my life, private. But this would become the downfall of me hating my Asian features. Half-white, half-Asian girls would tell me that I did not look half-white, and pride themselves in their white features, telling me, “your hair is too dark”, “your eyes are too small”, “your nose is too wide”. This would lead to me hating parts of myself that made me distinctly Vietnamese. It took years of loving myself and years of accepting that this was the way that I was born, 28
and is still a struggle that I encounter almost everyday. Society, my family, the girls who loved their white features more than their Asian ones, made me hate who I was. The audacity for a white girl, a girl who fits society’s standards of beauty, to choose to look like me is beyond any struggle I could imagine. I wake up and look like this. I used to wake up and hate what I saw in the mirror. What these white women do to their eyes to make them smaller is not appreciation of my own. It is using my ethnicity as something that is “cute”, when really, my eyes have been something that society has told me that I am not good enough - not good enough to be taken seriously, not good enough to be strong and independent. My eyes tell stories of fetishization, tell stories of men looking down at my small stature and thinking of it as something they wished to conquer. My eyes hold anger and frustration of constantly seeing people being surprised that I was capable of doing something on my own, capable of speaking up, capable of not being so submissive that it catches them off guard. Someone’s first impression of me is that I am small and quiet, until I speak up. Until I tell them that my small eyes, my wide nose, and my dark hair do not determine who I am. For someone to wish to look like me, take advantage of the fetishization of my entire ethnicity and be able to go back to society’s beauty standards whenever they wished, disgusts me. I am born this way. I am stuck with the constant oppression and the constant disrespect from my own peers. I do not get to wake up one day and have all of that vanish, or decide when I get to look that way. The way Asian women are treated, with the assumption that we are obedient, is continuously present for me everyday. For a white woman to rebel, there is no thought, she is allowed to. For me, people get angry. People don’t understand why and how this could have exploded from me. Why? Because of the features that lie on my face that give away the bias that I am compliant, docile, weak. A weak girl who will never speak up, never fight for what she wants. But despite my fraile traits and features on my face that were told were ugly - I fight through it all. Daily, I fight the bias that was held against me that no white woman would ever be capable of understanding. 29
VALIDATE YOURSELF.
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Lunch Break Featuring Isabella Mente
Lunch Break is a monthly segment in which we interview icons, creatives, and influencers from marginalized groups. We ask them to take us to their favorite lunch spot to talk about their background, their creative process, and what it’s like being on the job. Isabella is an artist, poet, and author currently based in Los Angeles, California. On her 20th birthday she self-published her first book 7,300 days before beginning her Creative Writing degree at the University of Southern California. Her love for storytelling began at a young age. She grew up listening to her father, a Danish immigrant, read her Scandinavian folk stories every night. Her grandmother, an Italian immigrant, put paint brushes in her hands as a little girl. Poetry is her most natural form of selfexpression, and she also explores photography, painting, film and illustration. Her thematic focus highlights femininity, sexuality, identity and consent.
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BTC: I know that you’re vegan, has being vegan affected you in any way of being more aware of your ethical decisions? IM: Being vegan has opened a door for me, like a light turned on. It was just a door of empathy, compassion, and also thinking about how everything you do in your life has causation, such as: your words matter, your choices matter; which is very evident in our political aspect of where we are right now, which is very connected to that. Being a vegan and being a writer is so intertwined for me, like it’s an identity. BTC: You recently went to Europe. Writing in a different country with a completely different level of security than being home must have been a new experience for you. How has it affected you as a writer, and how has it affected your writing process? IM: It’s interesting, writing for me is such a mirror of where I’m at - writing is an evolution of growth. In each place that you are, it’s almost like a mirror of that place. At the beginning of this year and last year, I was living at USC (University of Southern California, located in downtown Los Angeles) and I spent my time writing in the corner of my room. From there, I was all over Europe. To go from that very solitary practice to then open it up to the world was so exhilarating but also my balance was off because I didn’t have a routine with my writing - I would be in a train station, accessing thoughts and triggering myself, and then being thrown into the vortex of not knowing where I am. It was wild, but so fun. BTC: For sure! Like when you’re writing, it’s so easy to get into it and not even paying attention to what time it is or what’s going around you. IM: Now I know why the famous poets and writers lived in Paris. The month that I was there I kept thinking, “how am I gonna leave,” but at the same time, I had to leave because I know I kept accessing thoughts and I had to change it up or I’m gonna get stuck here. Have you heard of Virginia Woolf’s A Room of One’s Own? BTC: No, I haven’t!
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IM: It’s basically the discussion about how women and female writers need their own room in order to create, because we’re always under social pressures to have all of the different identities that we hold, and to have your own room that basically holds the whole essence of who you are. That’s how I felt this summer, because I didn’t have my own room for three months, and I was going crazy. I didn’t have my own sense of space, my own sense of time. So that is the main thing about the sense of superiority - I didn’t have one, and I had to create it. My room is so essential, that when I put you in my brain, I put you in my room. To be a writer and not have that, it means to not have that superiority and safety of your own mind. BTC: What’s your standard writing process, no matter where and when? IM: I did have a standard writing process before I left: it would be to come home, take a shower, and since I’m an air sign, water really helps my process because it grounds me and is also very freeing. Anyway, after a shower, I would light a candle, make dank food, get into bed, put on headphones, and just go for it. Now, I kinda just go for it. I’m not so much into a regimented routine with it. Which is definitely not how I would prefer it, and this year is so intense living at home, I’m writing another book, painting, have seven jobs; nothing is solidified. BTC: Your writing consistently has themes of womanhood and self-identity. Did you grow up secure and confident with yourself, or was it something you learned and would like to teach others? 33
IM: I would definitely say that I’m a thematic writer. Womanhood and self-identity is where I began, and where I’m still touching on, but I think over time, in trying to preach empowerment, I lost it for myself. Which is weird, but it became something that was expected of me, and I began to lose that feeling. So this year, it’s been me trying to reconnect with those themes. I think as we grow up, we didn’t learn to become secure and confident with ourselves. All I’m trying to do with my art is to communicate with one other human being. Not to forcefully feel in any certain way, but whatever way is safe for them, because I don’t think we have any time during the day to ever feel. Nobody ever just sits us down and asks, “tell me how you’re feeling right now”, like “look me in the eye, express yourself”. So, in the act of exploring my womanhood and my identity, I’m hoping to call upon the viewer to do the same with me in a safe environment. BTC: Even on your Instagram, you let people write a poem in the comments, and the caption usually has something that sparks a follower to write something. IM: That’s it! That spark! I don’t think that there’s enough things in the media right now that spark us in positive ways. In magazines, in movies, what messages are sparking you that are authentic to your own self? And that’s what’s scary, to be that difference means making people feel in a way that they’re not used to feeling. They’re used to not feeling, seeing, or hearing in this way that allows them to be themselves, they’re used to being taught that they’re not enough, and I want people to know that they are enough. In life, we have to make choices: fear-based choices and fulfillment-based choices. Fulfillment based choices are more work, but you want to do it. When you follow your fear-based choices, you’re just doing it because you’re trying to see the future so far in advance, it’s filled with anxiety, and you can’t even access yourself. My biggest advice would be to give yourself the permission to feel and to create. BTC: And finally, we know you have a new book coming up. Could you tell us about some of the upcoming themes that we could look forward to?
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IM: 7,300 Days was “the roots”, the existence. This new book’s biggest goal is that I’m trying to analyze the people around me, and how they have formed me into the person that I am, and our existence is based on the people that have guided you, and who has gotten you here. It begins in very dark times, and I’m trying to arise from that. The biggest theme is empowering women, specifically young women, and that they have the voice to say “no”. Consent is a huge theme, and how that interconnects to your relationship with your family; consent is something that needs to be taught at a very young age, specifically with little kids, and that’s gonna arrive out of that. So, the biggest theme would be consent and validity. BTC: Thank you so much, Isabella!
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MUSIC We hear you.
MUSIC FESTIVAL SURVIVAL GUIDE We’ve each had our fair share of music festivals, so for the rest of 2018, whatever music festival you have coming up, here’s a list of the essentials that you’ll need. You can thank us later. 1.
WATER. Dancing outside in the cold, in the sun, either way, you’re gonna get sweaty. I don’t know how many times I’ve been to a show and my leg started cramping because I’m dehydrated and all of the jumping in the mosh pit. It also comes in handy when you have dirt on your face.
2. SOCKS. Love yourself and don’t wear sandals. You can even keep your cash, a blunt, a JUUL, whatever you like, in your socks. 3. PORTABLE CHARGER. Keep a fanny pack with you to hold onto it, honestly it’s more handy than you think. When your favorite artist is the last set and you have 5% battery left, you’ll be extremely glad you brought it with you. 4. FOOD. You can’t usually bring food, but either way, eat. With everything going on and back to back shows, find at least half an hour where you can get something in your stomach. You’ll forget to eat because of the adrenaline, and its best to enjoy your festivities without being hungry. 5. MARK YOUR LOCATION. If you didn’t get an Uber or Lyft, mark your location of where you parked just in case you forget. You might even be at the venue for 12 hours, and remembering where your car is is unlikely. Use Apple Maps to mark your location. Have fun and stay safe! 36
PHOTOGRAPHY An instant out of time.
PHOTOGRAPHY FEATURE: AVA PUCILOWSKI By: Ava Pucilowski
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About Ava: When I was younger I would take photos simply because it was something I enjoyed, I was fearless. I take photos now because it’s the final step in expressing something I feel, have felt or want to feel. Freshmen year of high school is when I had my 1st boyfriend. He told me he thought I was only doing photography because it was the current trend. I was hurt because it showed he didn’t understand that photography is my genuine passion. Once we broke up, writing down my ideas and feelings and turning them into photos was empowering and natural. I was aching and the only thing that got me through it was to start expressing myself though photography. I’ve always been a horrible communicator. Photography allowed me to express every part of myself that I was scared to say; my thoughts, feelings, and ideas. Photography healed me, it gave me a way to express my feelings that I was too scared to say and incapable of efficiently explaining. Photography saves me. 42
POLITICS Are you with us?
WOMEN IN THE MIDTERM ELECTIONS On November 6th, our country elected a multitude of intelligent, groundbreaking women of color in our government system. Here is a few that have made history. • Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez: The youngest person ever elected in Congress. • Ayanna Pressley: The first black woman elected to Congress in Massachussetts. • Ihan Omar: The first Somali American Muslim woman in the house, and first woman of color to be elected to Congress in Minnesota. • Rashida Tlaib: The first Palestinian American Muslim woman in Congress. • Sharice Davids: The first elected Native American woman in the House of Representatives and first openly gay lawmaker in Kansas. • Jahana Hayes: First African American woman in Connecticut elected to Congress. • Veronica Escobar: Second Latina woman to represent Texas in the House. • Deb Haaland: First Native American woman elected to House in New Mexico.
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SOCIAL ISSUES For the sake of society.
THE GREY By: Moon Aziza I wonder, does everyone have a story about that time they had sex when they didn't really want to? When they did it for lack of a hassle as opposed to the fact that they actually wanted to be close to this person in this moment‌ And if so are they as affected by it as I am? When you have... one human being, and you have another human being, and you have these energies, these two bodies. And you have something as personal and as fragile and as intimate as sex... every single time means something. I don't think it matters if you've been having sex with this person for two weeks or two decades, if you've had sex with them 20 times or 2000 times. When another human being takes control of you, takes ownership of your most cherished parts... it steals something from you. It's been weeks, maybe months, I can't get it out of my head. I can't see it any dimmer, I can't feel it any less, I can’t distance myself from that night. He probably doesn't even remember what night it was. Is it easy for you? In, out, in, out... like a workout routine. I can't wash myself clean of you. I can't erase the feeling of dirtiness. I wanted to earlier that night. I wanted you so bad. We had decided that we wouldn't discuss anything heavy until tomorrow, that tonight we would just be happy and in love. I couldn't help it though, I brought it up on the street car ride back to my house. You got angry, and you got distant. And I felt 44
alone, you were right there, still touching me, yet again, I felt completely alone. And so we got back to mine, not saying much, and we got inside and I could tell you still wanted to pretend... you started kissing me, and touching me. And I was half-assed at first, I wasn't good at pretending. Not like you... I didn't know how to lie to you. You brought me back to my room and you sat me on the bed and you undressed me and before I really knew what was going on... I think I was still a bit high, a bit tipsy, a bit sad, you were on me, and then you were in me and I remember looking around... it's like everything slowed down, except for you, you were still there in and out, in and out. But I looked past you and I looked through the ceiling and I could see the night sky... I could see stars, lots of stars and I could see dark clouds. I could feel a breeze on my face. And then you came. And you pulled out of me and you rolled over and you went to sleep. And I laid there feeling so alone, and so gross and used and empty. I kept opening and closing my mouth. I wanted to talk to you, I wanted you to make me feel better. I told myself not to bring it up because he was sensitive about the fact that he didn't last long, that he didn't mean to make me feel this way. I wanted to run away, I wanted to leave this boy who was supposed to love and care for me in my bed and I wanted to go anywhere but there. The thing is I didn't say no. I was practically begging him all night before that. But I didn't say yes. I didn't say anything. My thought process was that we'd done it hundreds of times before, this one time if I didn't really feel like it wouldn't matter. 45
It wasn't rape. It was just... a grey area? Since that night I haven't stopped feeling alone. And since that night I haven't looked at my body the same. I've looked at her with hate... and with anger. I'm supposed to protect her. I'm supposed to listen to her. That was never his job. I was never meant to hand it over to him, to let him take the reigns. I understand the body's initial response to be to curl up in bed, to wrap yourself in your blankets, not wanting a drop of sunlight present in the room. My body no longer feels like home. I haven't felt safe for weeks. I feel like all my organs are spilling out, unprotected. Like they’re walking on the shoulder of a highway. I don't want to see myself. I don't want to see what’s been done to her. How I've let her down. Who are we if not ourselves? It's no longer that I don't know who I am without him, but that I don't know who I am without myself
MENTAL HEALTH DURING THE HOLIDAYS By: Cuong Hanh Nguyen This month is about the grateful things in our life; family, friends, and the beautiful country we live in. However, during this time of the year I would like to encourage everyone to keep their own mental health and wellbeing in check. Around the holiday season, there is an increase in depression and mental health problems as said by Randy Hillard, MD, “The fact is, however, that fewer people report to 46
psychiatric emergency rooms just before Christmas than at other times of the year [...] My study in 1981 [...] shows that hospital admissions, suicide attempts and completions, and even letters to advice columnists go down just before Christmas, then go back up immediately afterwards: (Hillard, MD). Dr. Hillard correlates this spike in depression and suicide attempts to the social pressure of family obligations, having people to spend the holidays with, and the fact society is pressured to feel “happy” emotions when others are not experiencing these emotions at all. As a person diagnosed with bipolar type 2, I encourage everyone to ask how one another is. Even the people who seem like they are on top of the world can still be falling down. My own father was on top of the world, and if talking to therapist and getting true diagnosis did not have an extreme negative stigma, maybe his life would have ended differently. I encourage anyone facing these dark thoughts that: you’re not alone; please seek help, seek counseling, seek family, seek actual professional help from your local hospital make sure your own mental health is on top of your to do list; the stigma is not over but we will be the generation to end it. We live in a society that doesn’t value mental health, but rather expectations and success. I want everyone dealing or not dealing with mental health issues to do something that makes you happy and actually learn different mental disorders and symptoms - media portrayals are quite inaccurate. For those feeling like they are alone in this battle: trust me, I was there. Talk to a doctor. Getting my diagnosis was scary and I definitely was in denial, but it helped me realize who I truly am. This November, I encourage everyone to be kinder and research the different types of mental disorders and realise the stigma these disorders hold. Also, if you are experiencing a crisis of any kind it does not have to be as extreme or life threatening as a suicidal episode please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline 1-800-273-8255 . Happy Holidays.
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CLOSING By: Sarah Harwell This piece is a short prose, a love letter almost, to Malibu, California. I scrolled this in my little red journal a week before the Southern California fires that devastated Los Angeles County, while sunbathing and napping on the beach. Little did I know that the beloved beach city would be consumed by heartbreak. My dearest sincerities to those who have been affected by the fire. California in November - where the sun still beams as if it’s May, where in one state away, there’s gloom and clouds. Every November, there’s a heat that still dooms over Southern California, a heat every Californian despises. But in an afternoon in Malibu, everyone comes to the sleepy town to enjoy the warmth. A warmth that not only touches the skin, but the heart. Malibu is a place I used to not enjoy because of the strange ease and carefree attitude everyone had. Little did I know I longed for the warmth and the clean atmosphere of it all. Being in Malibu brings old memories of old love, old memories of lounging in the cool shade under the pier, but also new ones: new memories of happy playing, hand holding, and sleeping under the sun. Warm memories, warm heart filled to the brim of affection. The Sun that I hated so much began to feel comforting, and made me smile to my toes - the feeling of scrunching them into the sand, cold water rushing over my feet. A love that wasn’t deep, but wasn’t difficult to wake up and see the sunshine. A love that was so easy, it felt like a Friday afternoon in Malibu. If you would like to donate to those affected by the fire, you may donate to these links: - supportLAFD.org
- unitedwayla.org/en/give/disaster-relief-fund/
- calfund.org/wildfire-relief-fund/
- hsvc.org/donate
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NEXT BEYOND THE COMMONS ISSUE Issue No. 3: December 2018
Thank you for reading! Instagram: @beyondthecommons Submit your writing: submit.btc@gmail.com Inquiries: beyondthecommons@gmail.com
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