playlist past lives // local natives moon river // audrey hepburn i don’t wanna be funny anymore // lucy dacus no rest for the wicked // lykke li good looks // girlyboi wait // nobme jungle // tash sultana blood on me // sampha don’t let the kids win // julia jacklin btstu // jai paul manhattan // kings of leon childs play // sza
TABLE OF CONTENTS
I. MORE THAN A PRETTY FACE LAUGHING IN THE FACE OF DEATH MIX AND MATCH
II. BARE IT ALL KNIGHT IN SHINING ARMOR JUSTICE FOR EVE
III. LOUD AND CLEAR POWER OF WORDS GLITCH
Child Play The Self-Discovery Issue
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR “You know kid, these are the best years of your life and you gotta appreciate them while you still can. One day you’re gunna look back and it’ll all be over.” I can’t count how many times I have heard these words, or a variation of them, spat out by an older relative from the lips of a smug smile. And I agree with them, I know I will never be this fortunate ever again; with my location, with my background, with my opportunities, with everything in my current situation, I am privileged. I acknowledge and am so grateful for this, but sometimes, I just want that pressure of constantly saying my blessings to cease so I can simply exist. These are important years, no one is arguing that, but they’re years meant for us. They aren’t meant for others to pass judgments on what we are studying, how we identify ourselves, or the extent of our 5-year plan. We need space to igure out who we are and who we want to be and in order to do that, we have to tune out all the external bullshit. Otherwise, if you don’t, you’ll be constantly checking your watch and looking over your shoulder, waiting for the prime of your life to expire. For this issue of Childs Play, I focused on three things that help center yourself around your own development: existing without a sole descriptor infringing upon you, living as uncensored and unapologetically bold as you want to, and indulging in all of what social media has to offer. This time period, fresh out of high school but not fully in the real world yet, is life limbo. It is confusing and painful and there will be moments of heartbreak but it’s ours. And we owe it to ourselves to live as authentically as possible and exist upon our own accord.
Emma Childs
I. PLURAL CATEGORIES
MORE THAN a PRETTY FACE
hen I irst watched Breakfast at Tifany’s, I fell in love. I learned the ukulele with the sole goal of learning Moon River. A poster of Holly Golightly with her extendo cigarette in hand and seductive smirk on her face (look at the corresponding page for reference) hangs on my bedroom wall. he fashion, the apartments, the city, the lifestyle, etc., I was enamored with it all. his classic New York fashion lick is the root of my Audrey Hepburn obsession. Ever since her graceful presence lashed onto my screen with technicolor joy and elegant nonchalance, I became fascinated with all things Audrey. She is the epitome of iconic. Her cat-eye liner and bold eyebrows caused a global revolution. Her acting and modeling talent will forever live on as legendary standards for young individuals. And in the peak of my Audrey obsession, I dove completely in. And that means more than memorizing her ilmography on IMDB; I learned her whole life story. And amidst this research, my deinition of her became increasingly more complex and describing her as just an actress seemed so feeble in comparison to her other triumphant accomplishments. During World War II, she survived a Nazi invasion in her hometown. She worked for the Dutch resistance by carrying secret messages in her ballet slippers. She performed in secret ballet shows to raise money for the rebels. At the age of 16, she was a volunteer nurse in a Dutch hospital. And later on in life, she donated all her salaries earned from her later movies to UNICEF, giving back to the organization that aided her when she needed medical relief ater the war. She was a hero. Yet, she is continuously identiied as just an actress or reduced down to her contribution to the rise of the LBD (little black dress). She was so much more than just a pretty face on the big screen. She was a hero and these actions need to be recognized in addition to her accomplishments in the world of ilm and fashion. She was an actress, a model, a nurse, a heroine, a survivor. Audrey Hepburn cannot be pinned down to one category. She is indeed an icon, but in so many diferent realms and in more ways than one.
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like my jokes like a good cup of tea: strong, bitter, and very, very dark. Nothing gets me chortling like a solid joke about our inescapable and possible immediate mortality. So lucky for me, my generation has recently become obsessed with death. If you eavesdrop on a conversation between any tense looking gaggle of millennials, I guarantee you’ll eventually pick up on a fatalist joke or a twinge of dark humor between the lines. For instance, one might hear someone casually mentioning wanting to hurl their body of of a bridge due to their taxes or maybe them wanting to assume the fetal position and wither away into dust because they stuttered in front of their crush. his element of comedic morbidity has become so intensely woven into our lives, as a defense response to stress, that these jokes slide under the radar and no longer cause guidance counselor’s to whip out their dusty Signs Of Suicide pamphlets. Our palpable level of skepticism and desensitization to tragedy have manifested and become integrated into our daily lives and comedic habits. It’s become our generation’s morbid and disturbing calling card But why us? Why does our particular generations have an overwhelming manic obsession with dark, morbid comedy that peeks his ugly head out in
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response to stressful or melodramatic situations? Maybe it’s because we, as a generation, have faced tragedies coupled with the rise of social media, allowing an abundance of impersonal outlets at our ingertips. Maybe it’s because, with the bombardment of peril and violence in our daily lives, we had to latch onto any coping mechanisms we could get our grubby hands on. And that just happened to be about longing for the sweet relief of a stampede. It is a unique dependency we’ve crated, us relying on ghastly quips about our hopeful, urgent deaths. And it is inarguably diferent from those before us. It may be alarming and sickening but if you have to laugh to get through the pain, then giggle, chuckle, gufaw, and snort as loud as you must. It makes sense that our jokes are cynically laced with cyanide and razors: it’s how we cope as the skeptical, cynical, obnoxious generation we are. When the going gets tough, we turn to our memes that mock our will to live. As an ode to our kooky compulsion towards death, I thought I would honor those who indulge in dark humor. In loving, fake, comedic memoriam, I honor our generation’s morbid jokesters who have recently expressed their desire to become acquainted with the Grim Reaper.
IN COMEDIC MEMORIAM: Claudia Westby Claudia had been looking forward to curly fries all day but when she went to the dining hall, they had steak fries instead. Unable to cope with the grief, Claudia took a nap on the subway tracks. She went gently into the good night.
Gina Taddeo Gina was scrolling through Instagram and found Adriana Lima’s latest bikini selie, featuring her crisp V-cut and chiseled six-pack. Gina uttered her last words of, “Are you kidding ME?! I want to die,” and then promptly keeled over.
Callaghan Bartlett He was so distraught that he couldn’t aford the new Versace silk bomber that poor Callaghan, in a consumerist haze, teetered into traic on 5th ave. We hope his closet in heaven is as big as his heart was.
Josh Castillion Sibel Iskender
Drew Haste Justina Tran Sophie Guimaraes
mix & match ompared to the vibrant futures of my friends that shine with mahogany courtrooms and sterile operating tables, my dream of being surrounded by clothes and cameras tends to fall rather low on the list of respectful careers. heir occupations have immediate impacts and their beneits to society are easily observable. Whereas fashion is seen as less impactful, more trivial, and, possibly, an element of a vicious part of our society. But I take ofense to this way of thinking. Fashion is a direct relection of our societal position and it gives hope and outlets to countless individuals And the latest movement is a direct example of all its beneits. Completely changing the gender norms from yesteryear, men are being sent down runways in skirts and women are forgoing feminine silhouettes. he recent popularity in androgynous fashion is raising awareness and increasing representation for individuals who have not received the publicity they deserve. And to me, that is worthy of respect. Androgynous fashion goes deeper than the normal trends you can read about in Cosmopolitan. Gender nonconformity is not a passing fad; it’s an identity. And
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while the increase in popularity from the fashion world is helpful in making it more accessible and spreading acceptance, it should never be trivialized to the point of choker necklaces and crushed velvet. From a fashion standpoint, there is a trend aspect to these ideas (boyfriend jeans, baggier silhouettes, etc.) But the movement as a whole represents a group of people who cannot be disregarded, reduced, or capitalized upon. Greed and aesthetic may be key motivators for certain fashion campaigns who wish to take advantage of the androgynous trend but its direct link to a category of people cannot be forgotten about. In theory, clothing is nothing but mere dyed ibers strung together. No matter the style or article, with any piece of clothing, a similarity (a common thread, if you will) can be found that unites them all: they’re all just assembled strips of fabric. Everyone can live and dress themselves anyway they please, whether gender conforming, nonconforming, somewhere in between, or a collage of it all. Explore the boundless options from any wardrobe, wear whatever the hell you want to wear, and respect everyone’s choice to express themselves accordingly.
II. UNCENSORED
bare it all was twelve when I was irst cat-called. The summer had just kicked off and I was at the beach wearing my sister’s hand-me-down, blue and white polka dot bikini. I had a towel tied around my waist and was walking to the ice cream truck to get a snow cone with my friend. A van of young men pulled up to us, blared their horn, and one of them threw their head out the window and screamed, “Hey ladies, how much!?” I heard booming guffaws as they peeled out of the parking lot and carried on. I looked down at my body, confused. The only skin that was showing was my pale, unblossomed chest, because, like I said, I was twelve. My body was far from sexually desirable and I was so confused as to why those men had chosen me and my gangly body. We returned to our beach chairs on the sand, having completely lost our appetites for the refreshing snow cones. Unfortunately, this was not an isolated innocent. Copious shouts of “Looking good!” have been thrown at me or, from those who are a little more shy, taunting car honks which translate to their salivating approval. And now, living in New York City, it’s almost routine to receive prolonged stares through car windows or exclamations of endorsement thrown at me from sidewalks. Once a man insisted he was only trying to sell me a bottle of water because I looked “so damn hot” and then continued to follow me for two blocks. It, infuriatingly enough, is part of the city experience as a woman and my examples are comparatively mild to what other women have gone through.
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And this threat of potential commentary, unfortunately, has seeped into my own self-perceptions. It’s an everyday battle to be proud of my body and to be comfortable in whatever I wear, regardless of the opinion of others. But luckily, I have found a great source of ammunition in this tumultuous war: a group of inspiring females who are brazen in their selfexpression, constantly surrounding and inspiring me. And for me, Bessie Rubinstein is my greatest weapon. Sometimes when you meet a certain person, it’s like everything clicks into place. You look at them as a sense of overwhelming familiarity loods through you and start to forget what it was like without their presence in your life. It feels incredibly familiar, as if you are taking the route of an old drive, recognizing the twists and turns along the way. That was my irst impression when I met Bessie. It was hot and sweaty, peak college orientation madness. We bonded over our similar Spotify playlists and swapped our favorite SNL skits, the signs of a great friendship from the start. In addition to her bold humor and bright energy, one of the things that I found so compelling about her was her outit: a red A-line skirt and black crop top. She was baring her midriff even though her stomach adorned a particularly prominent scar that split her torso in half. She was unapologetically having it peek through, a subtle way of lipping off the typical standards for a crop top. Her outit was a challenge. In fact, her whole personality is a brave jest, daring anyone to interfere with her philosophy.
It feels incredibly familiar, as if you are taking the route of an old drive, recognizing the twists and turns along the way. That was my irst impression when I met Bessie.
She lives accordingly to her own objectives and thus dresses that way as well, without concerning herself with other’s perceptions. Bessie embraces her body and all its history and her outit on that day was a challenge. In fact, her whole personality is a jest. She lives accordingly to her own objectives and thus dresses that way as well, without concerning herself with other’s perceptions. Months have gone by since our initial introduction and her ierce nature has continued to inspire me to live and dress solely on my own accord. So, I urge anyone who has let others affect your self-expression to reconsider. And if someone spits out their
unasked for thoughts and has the impudence to believe their ideas matter, remind them that they are irrelevant and the only opinion that matters is your own. My battle is one of the many in the crusade of self-appreciation for women everywhere. It’s a tiresome effort but something we can never give up because our bodies are beautiful and uniquely our own. If women keep joining forces and the army of inspiring women continues to grow, a triumphant, self-loving victory will be in our collective future.
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Knight in Shining Armor
t 2 a.m. on a Saturday, you’re ready to go home, and who could blame you, it’s been a long night. You and your group miraculously make your way to the Broadway-Lafayette station, its emerald sign acting as the Gatsbyesque beacon of hope you need. You and your friends stumble and shuffle down the sticky steps, holding hands and counting the steps outloud as you go. You pull out your yellow metrocard that was sandwiched between your Sephora gift card and an old receipt for hot chocolate. You look down at your golden ticket and the map of the subway system flashes in the back of your mind. The unyielding power of one swipe quite easily goes to your head: With one swipe of $2.75, you can go almost anywhere on your beloved island and within the thrilling boroughs. “Should we go to Brooklyn? Brooklyn is fun,” you think to yourself. “Wait, what? No, Emma. It’s two in the morning, go home.” You shake off that idea and instead, toy with the idea of jumping the turnstile. You’re so broke that the thought of shelling out more funds from your dwindling bank account physically hurts. But you remember how the last time you ungracefully attempted to sneak below the silver contraption, it did not go well and now you owe the Transit Adjunct Bureau one hundred dollars. You begrudgingly swipe through and wait along the track with the other dutiful citizens. All you want to do is sit down and unstrap your glitter heels but the benches are filled with young boys who are up way past their bedtime and singing a song so horrendously off-key it’s almost endearing. And just as your faith wears dangerously thin and your messy bun droops to a new low that crosses the line between purposefully chic to rat’s nest hot mess, your knight in shining armor arrives. You and all your station comrades usher into the car like dutifully children following mother’s orders.
Its tricolored decor and peeling maps give you a sense of ease, reminding you that someone else is in charge now, you can grab onto the pole and just rest. You can press pause and forget about the buzzing hubbub above ground. It’s hissing lullaby soothes and shushes your worries as it sends you safely uptown. There is a mysterious phenomenon that occurs on any ride over ten minutes and soon enough, a spell settles itself upon you. With each station it passes, the subway cunningly whispers in your ear, “it’s okay, I’ve got you. You can close your eyes.” Surrounded by the energy of drowsy strangers and feeling the rhythmic motion of the car zooming to your destination, your eyelids flutter as a sleepy haze envelops you. You almost let the peace overwhelm you but the rational fear of falling asleep and waking up in Harlem, far from home, keeps you alert. After what was either fifteen minutes or an hour, (time isn’t quite linear underground), you pull into your station. You exit the metallic tube, make your way up a different set of stairs that are still just as unsettlingly sticky, and inhale the smell of doughnuts, soap, and something else you’d like to pretend to ignore. As you climb out of the station, a swift gust of wind envelops you, perking you up and fully lifting the trance that settled itself upon you. As you and your friends march home, you reflect on the night and mentally thank your silver savior. The beloved BFF of New York City, always acting as the designated driver whenever, to wherever, without any questions asked. The subway serves its city well. Our valiant hero navigating through the complex underground, safely getting herds of individuals to where they need to go. You are the hero New York City deserves, and the one it will always need. Our not-so-silent guardian, our watchful protector that sticks to a loose schedule. Our Silver Knight. Thank you, subway. Keep serving your civic duty and until next sloppy weekend.
You are the hero New York City deserves, and the one it will always need.
Justice for eve
Models: Chloe Grifith, FI Morgan McDaniel, Marina Laprade ll it took was one bite. One little morsel of forbidden fruit and she became the symbol of shame and root of sin for humankind. Destroying their innocent haze, God made Adam and Eve become aware of their nakedness and therefore, ashamed of their own nature. As her punishment, God said onto to her, “hy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee,” dooming her and the countless generations of woman ater her to a lifetime of patriarchal oppression. Meaning all the Eves ater her would encounter horrendous discrimination, barbaric cruelty, unoriginal “Get back to the kitchen!” jokes, and so much more. So needless to say, it has been hard for Eve. Censorship, objectiication, discrimination, you name it, she’s dealt with it. Yet, some Eves have had it worse than others. he translucent, pale Eve painted upon the stained glass windows of churches has had it rough, no one is arguing that she hasn’t, but the Eves who don’t share her white, privileged skin have had it worse. While all Eves make 77 cents on Adam’s dollar, African-American Eves make 64 cents on his dollar and Latina Eves make only 54 cents. Of those afected by LGBTQ-based hate crimes, 78% were
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people of color, and transgender people are 27% more likely to experience hate violence than compared to cisgender people (glaad.org). Not all women experience the same diiculties and in order to make men and women equal, we have to destroy the ‘one size its all’ feminism that pursues a common good that isn’t inclusive for everyone. We have to go out of our way to help our sisters who don’t have even footing in this race so they can catch up to those in the privileged lead. We have to be our authentic, beautiful, natural selves and be unapologetically proud of our womanhood. We, as an extension of Eve, as bold women, will not be threatened with subservience or shame anymore. It’s time to exterminate the viliied persona of Eve because with that little bite, she brought forth knowledge and reality. he paradise found in the Garden of Eden was an illusion and the trance needed to be broken because the ictional wonderland was unobtainable. However, we are getting closer to a realistic one. A land of equality for every gender is within our grasp. And we, as the unapologetic Eves that we are, are ravenous and don’t mind taking more bites of fruit in order to obtain the paradise we all deserve.
with separating “Theraceissue and gender not only
undermines claims of intersectional feminism, it also undermines basic feminism. Feminism, by defnition, is the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political,social, and economic equality to men.
If we think of this exactly how it is written, we neglect the fact feminism should also be grounded in the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social and economic equality to other women.- Morgan McDaniel
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“In
a non-sexual context, female nipples shouldn’t be sexualized. The desexualization of female nipples is actually a lot more sigFI niicant than many think;
it decreases the objectiication of women’s bodFI ies and therefore decreases violence against women in general. -chloe griffith
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III. SOCIAL MEDIA
LOUD AND CLEAR never considered myself a political person. At the dinner table, in history class, on the bus, whenever the passionate conversations started and the opposing aisles became apparent, I held my tongue and daydreamed of a more peaceful topic. It’s not that I didn’t care, I just didn’t know how to eloquently express how I was feeling. hings were complex and as shameful as it is to admit, I never was compelled to ind a reason to make sense of it all. But this year was diferent. his time, as a newly turned adult, I understood the massive importance of it all and found reasons to get involved. And on November 8th, when I watched the TV with tears in my eyes, I knew something had changed inside me. With purposeful actions, our nation had just elected a man whose main campaign components were threats and hateful rhetoric, deeming these bullying tactics as permissible within our country. he horriic, unimaginable had just happened and it is not normal. And it felt as if our nation was on ire. Later that night, a group of friends and I joined one of the many protests that our streets were hosting. We fell into a rhythm with the other protestors beside us and soon, we became part of the collective unit chanting into the night. hat feeling, of being completely immersed in unadulterated passion will be something I never forget. People of all ages
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and backgrounds were actually taking initiative and vocalizing their concerns with physical action. hey were making history and I was fortunate enough to be apart of it. And for the whole time I was there, everywhere I looked, people were ilming and documenting the night. hrough the aid of smart phones, digital cameras, and the ease of social media, this night was able to be shared and spread with thousands. It was a night purposefully made to be unforgettable. hese pictures from that particular night, the undeniable proof of passion, helped those who could not attend, or those who feigned deaf to the national unrest, become aware of the fervorous noise. However, in regards to protesting, social media can be a double edged sword. Disingenuous people jump onto movements through easily accessible platforms to perfect their online personas as trendy, which is ofensive to the cause. If you want to post that beautiful picture of your body with the politically charged caption, #PussyGrabsBack, do it. But don’t do it as an excuse to show of your latest matching set from Aerie and to score more likes: do it to furthermore prove that you, and only you, are in charge of your body and want to contribute to the movement. If you are going to post it, make sure you mean it, stand behind it, and are willing to defend it.
When I let those rallies that night on November 8th, my ears were ringing with the chants from the passionate strangers marching beside me. And the photographic evidence created an unignorable echo ringing throughout the ears of our entire nation. his is a sound needs to continue to be heard and it doesn’t just have to be from loud herds in the streets. here are countless methods of reminding everyone that what is happening is not acceptable and that it will not be normalized.
Regardless of how you protest or what you do, be loud. Make art. Have discussions. Research and stay informed. Declare your adorations with pride. Stand up for your passions. Love yourself unapologetically and be bold in doing so by sharing it for many to see. We can use social media to our advantage to keep the conversation going. Because we cannot let the noise die out. We must continue to use every tool at our disposable and be as loud as we must be in order to be heard.
... August 2nd 2016: It was two days before my 18th birthday. The wind was whipping sea salt into my hair and my feet were submerged in sand when you told me you couldn’t do another year. Of being together, apart. I stared at the ocean and longed to be a ish so I could dive fathoms below into a world where distance wasn’t something to be scared of. At 11:11 later that night, I wished to be whole again. September 9th 2016: You asked me how New York was. I typed out four diferent responses but deleted all of them and settled on silence. I perfer the conversations in my head where only the ghosts of your old messages reply. November 14th 2015: “I am crazy in love with you. At a time when I’m thinking about the future and how important it is, I can’t picture mine without you.” September 25th 2016: It’s 2:30 am and I can’t stop looking at the pictures from France. Do you think about me? Do you regret what you’ve done to me? Do you even know what you’ve done to me? I wonder what my tarot cards would say about me now. October 10th 2015: “Maybe I’m young and in love and crazy about you but I think we really have something amazing.” October 10th 2016: I went home for a weekend and decided to clean my room but you were everywhere. My box of you is growing into a vicious monster with teeth. I shoved it under my bed but it bit my ankles when I slept. I moved it up to the attic and put it next to the Halloween decorations. May 5th 2016: “It was just 11:11 so I made a wish, and I know I can’t tell you because then it won’t come true, but it was about us so I just wanted to mention it.” November 30th 2016: I saw the back of your head at my favorite restaurant and the world shifted beneath me. I hyperventilated in my car for 12 minutes afterward. I was mostly upset because I had caught myself in a lie; my internal mantra of “it’s ine, we are friends now” was revealed to be false on all accounts. December 7th 2016: “I love you to all the universes and back.” December 3rd 2016: I miss laughing together and all the comedy specials we’d watch. You’d hug me close and when you’d laugh, it would echo in my ear. When I concentrate, I can still hear it but it doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t hurt so much when I think about you at all. May 11th 2015: “I was just wondering what you think about us? I know I’m going away to college in September but I do really like you and I think we should give it a shot (even though I don’t really know what that means), what do you think?” January 18th 2017: Our song came on the radio at work today. It made me smile. Thank you for cutting the rope that would’ve strangled me once I jumped into my new life, it was for the best. At 11:11, I wished that you were happy.
MODELS: KATE HE, ANDREW BUDISAK, VIENNA SKYE
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ike most people my age, I start my day of by snatching my phone of of my night stand and scouring over every social media platform, quenching my thirst to know what happened in the world when I was asleep. My morning then becomes illed with everyone’s careful online personas of themselves. hese curated presences of my friends, old acquaintances, and idols have become my breakfast. And that is a very unhealthy, unbalanced meal because these projections are usually false. hey’re usually edited or staged or taken out of context in order to create the exact image the user desires. Additionally, I am a blatant hypocrite as well because I subscribe to this obsession. I contribute by posting and sharing snapshots of my life that appear great in the context of an Instagram feed. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, to wisely choose how you want to appear to your followers, but to have a constant stream
of manipulated and contrived material polluting your mind can lead to unhealthy ideas. To buy into them as if they’re an accurate representation of that human is toxic. No one is constantly surrounded by a squad of support or looking consistently camera ready. And I willingly allowing myself to be bombarded with these personas which, oten times, are lies. It is so easy to forget that these pictures of people online are not a holistic representation. Social media is an art form and an outlet of expression but there are elements that can fuel unhealthy habits. We have to remember that it consists of falsehoods or else we will end up comparing ourselves to ictional entities. Social media portrays the highlight real of our lives and while I strongly believe it is a valuable outlet, it is a fantastical, unreliable lie. No one’s life is perfect and to believe that someone’s is of of a few pictures and a tweet is a glitch.
Dear New York,
You are the best friend I’ve ever had. You are the one I’d call at 3 am when I would just need to hear the comfort of a loved one’s stable breath. Your jutting skyline is the toothy grin that stabilizes my world, giving comfort with every glance out the window. Your sidewalk cracks act as directional arrows around every corner, reminding me I’m going in the right direction. Your honks, hisses, and howls are my jazz sound track scatting along with my footsteps. You are everything I need in a partner in crime and I am tremendously indebted to you. You have been my support system away from home, mirroring my loved ones. I see my father in the massive oaks amongst Central Park. I see my mother in the colorful window displays. I see my sister in the relecting sunlight on skyline window. I see my oldest friends in the joyful dogs trotting along the sidewalks. My darling city, I am so honored to have been welcomed into your bounds. In hopes of re-
paying all that you’ve done for me, I’m going to keep collaborating and contributing. I’m going to keep taking pictures, even if I look like a millennial fool. I am going to keep writing. I am going to keep making art. I know I will never be this fortunate ever again but I am going to commemorate everything within my power to honor your wonder. Not every moment is beautiful and I know I am optimistically naive, but I am so lucky and have no other option but to be hopeful. With my location, with my background, with my opportunities, with everything in my current situation, I am privileged. I am unfathomably fortunate for how you have refreshed, recharged, and rejuvenated me in a way I have never expected. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you for how you have mended and transformed my soul but I am incredibly grateful. My wallet may be verging on empty but my heart has never been this full and I thank you New York.
Love, Emma
All photos, edits, and words were created by Emma Childs