DIG MAG Winter 2022

Editor’s Note

Dig Your Style: Thrift Flipping

Photo Story: The Artists Stand

Mind Your Health: Women Rising After Roe v. Wade

Hidden Figures: Black Artists of Long Beach

Report Card: Art Films

FEATURES

20 23

Righting Historic Wrongs

BY KELSEY BROWN

The NAGPRA committee at CSULB is committed to restoring and returning Indigenous remains and artifacts. But with hundreds of boxes of material to sort through, the committee needs more support in order to complete its goal.

The Balancing Act

BY WINSTON TRAN

One writer reflects on forging identity outside of one’s culture, insecurities about cultural differences, and important life lessons learned from these moments of vulnerability.

The Problem With the Clean Girl Aesthetic

BY NADIA RAMOS

WHO ARE WE? - MEET THE TEAM

DIG MAG is the insider’s guide to Long Beach for the CSULB community, inspiring readers to immerse themselves in the Long Beach lifestyle through in-the-know stories about the latest in food, arts, entertainment and culture; indepth features about people and trends on the campus and in the city; poetry, fiction and literary journalism written by students; and beautiful photography and design. Published by the Department of Journalism and Public Relations at CSULB, it is produced entirely by students.

Editor-In-Chief

Vittina Ibanez

Senior Editor

Kelsey Brown

Features Editors

Sofie Parker

Olivia Peay

Art Director

Natalie Barr

Graphic Designers

Phillip Nguyen

Kim Vo

Photo Editor

Emily Chen

Consultant

Gabby Gobaton

Online Editor

Laila Freeman

Assistant Online Editors

Emily Cain

Vanessa Page

Multimedia Editor Reyn Ou

Video Editor

Justin Castillo

Podcast Editor

Rachel Livinal

Social Media Editor

Hanna Pierini

Assistant Social Media Editors

Sabrina Gobaton

Becky Tran

Faculty Advisors

Robin Jones

Jennifer Newton

THE RECLAMATION ISSUE

DEAR READER,

Happy winter. I, personally, love winter.

It’s the holiday season — the giving season. And while it makes me feel all warm and giddy, taking me back to the days of elementary school holiday parties and family feasts, I also perceive it to embody a ferocity: something to fear. But not always negatively.

It seems that there’s been a movement happening the past couple years.

And I feel like I’ve seen it in every industry, for every cause, in every part of the world. When thinking of a theme for this upcoming issue, I wanted to do something about this change I was seeing: the ferocity of people. I wanted to highlight how the masses everywhere were finally being assertive and aggressive (as they well should be). I just didn’t know how to put it into words or, much less, a singular theme.

But then, the lovely and oh-so-sharp Kelsey Brown, DIG’s senior print editor who will be dearly missed after she graduates this fall, proposed this for our winter issue: Reclamation.

“People are reclaiming their lives, identities, and futures from the limited scopes of those (colonizers) before us; freeing themselves from the colonial gaze, constricting binary concepts and roles. Think taking back power, uplifting marginalized voices, rising above expectations, breaking free of limits, REAL freedom, REAL liberty.”

Narratives are shifting. We, the people, are standing up for what we deserve; speaking out and reclaiming respect, liberation, equity and, maybe most important, our stories.

We’ve seen it happening with the MeToo movement, BLM, the protesting in Iran for Mahsa Amini, for abortion rights, and even on our own campus.

The marginalized are morphing and restoring their places with a riveting ferocity. And in this issue, we are spotlighting that.

So, here I present to you our winter issue: reclamation.

We hope it inspires you and reminds you to stand up for yourself and your identities, should you find yourself in such a position. Here’s to your triumph — your glory.

Sincerely yours,

Vittina Ibanez

THRIFT FLIPPING: CREATING UNIQUE FASHION

PHOTOS & STORY BY CAMERON FLORES

Everyone is on the hunt for unique clothes at a reasonable price, often scouring local thrift stores for rare and vintage pieces. But what if there was another way of making your thrifted items more tailored to you and your style?

Thrift flipping, or upcycling thrifted clothing to wear or sell, is a trend that has increased in popularity over the past year. From cutting a shirt to sewing patches onto pants, thrift flipping is a way to rework clothing purchased from a local second-hand shop.

“I feel like thrift flipping is a great opportunity to just be able to create something that’s your own — that’s unique and won’t harm the environment,” said CSULB student Jasmin Mizen, a member of the Students in Fashion club on campus.

Thrift flips allow a new way to wear clothing, but they are also beneficial for the environment. According to Business Insider, wearing clothing for longer could reduce one’s carbon footprint anywhere from 20 to 30 percent. Not only does thrift flipping produce a different and distinct garment, but it is also cost-effective and extends the period of wear.

An easy thrift flip idea for anyone interested in beginning the process is painting a pair of denim jeans. Once you gather materials like acrylic paint, paint brushes, and masking tape, your jeans become a blank canvas for any design you can come up with yourself or through a quick Google or Pinterest search.

For Mizen, the process of painting and repurposing a pair of thrifted pants is a major achievement because she is able to create something personal. Thrifting a pair of inexpensive jeans is one thing but being able to customize and flip it is even more rewarding.

Whether you’ll be painting a couple of hearts or stars or an original design, this thrift flip can completely transform an old pair of pants into something new and exciting. The finished product will be both fulfilling and fashionable.

“For anyone that wants to try thrift flipping, just enjoy the process because there’s no right or wrong way to do it,” Mizen said. “Everyone has an artistic ability within them, and it’s worth a try. Why just go out and buy something at the mall when you can go to a thrift store?”

“THRIFT FLIPPING IS A GREAT OPPORTUNITY TO JUST BE ABLE TO CREATE SOMETHING THAT’S YOUR OWN – THAT’S UNIQUE AND WON’T HARM THE ENVIRONMENT.”

Photo Provided by Jasmin Mizen

STORY & PHOTOS BY

THE ARTISTS STAND

Long Beach State has one of the highestranking fine arts schools in the country, but in their buildings, there’s no air conditioning, ceilings are falling, and sanitation is subpar. Earlier this fall, fine arts students began to

advocate for themselves after a heat spell left their classrooms nearly uninhabitable. They continue to demand that the university listen to their issues and remedy the conditions they say make it difficult to learn.

KELSEY BROWN OLIVIA PEAY VITTINA IBANEZ

CSULB’s Fine Arts buildings, located on the university’s upper campus, were constructed in the 1950s. Photo by Kelsey Brown.

Carolina holds a piece of her artwork under a hole in the ceiling. Multiple spots in the ceilings of the hallways of the Fine Arts building have gaping holes. Photo by Kelsey Brown.

Estefania Ajcip, a fine arts major at CSULB who mixes 3D mediums and painting in her artwork, was encouraged by a community college professor from Pasadena to come to CSULB. The tuition is significantly higher yet the conditions are subpar, which has been a disappointment.

“My professor was like, ‘This school is really awesome,’” Ajcip said. “And then, my first semester was the opposite.”

She said her community college provided her with more supplies that CSULB does, and the classrooms at her community college had better ventilation. Photo by Kelsey Brown.

Since the air conditioning is often broken, students and professors resort to using box fans to cool their facilities. Ajcip said though students were offered four to five fans, the studio space is divided into about 14 cubicles. Soon students began expressing that “this is not enough.”

“It’s really hot here,” Ajcip said. “Even with the windows open.” Photo by Kelsey Brown.

Ajcip said that many students work with highly flammable paints that aren’t supposed to be exposed to high temperatures. Some materials used in Ajcip’s 3D art, like foam, were deformed by heat exposure. Photo by Kelsey Brown.

Jo Lin, a sophomore and pre-illustration major, is one of the fine arts students who use the studio space to create. The rooms have no central A/C and usually rely on box fans or window A/C units for cooling. Photo by Kelsey Brown.

On Sept. 28, 2022, a group of art students held a protest at the Go Beach sign by the university’s roundabout. Crowds gathered to hear their stories, taking away attention from a nearby alumni event. Photo by Vittina Ibanez.

Student organizer Luis Ortiz (center) demanded that the university’s administration compensate and provide relief to the art department. Photo by Olivia Peay.

Signs protesters held up during the Sept. 28 art protest emphasized the students’ cries for justice. Photo by Olivia Peay.

Allison Kaemingk, a fine arts student, discussed the protest with other art majors.

Protesters filled the escalator by the USU, chanting for the resignation of President Jane Close Conoley for overlooking their struggles.

Protesters and fellow students marched through upper campus chanting about their cause. They are still waiting for progress to be made. Photo by Vittina Ibanez.

Photo by Vittina Ibanez.

Photo by Olivia Peay.

WOMEN RISING AFTER ROE V. WADE

STORY & PHOTOS BY VANESSA PAGE

Following the overturning of Roe v. Wade on June 24, 2022, each U.S. state gained the right to change state law and govern abortion. California has kept the right intact and is striving to make the right to choose abortions and contraceptives part of the state’s constitution. Other states, however, have enforced bans and restrictions on the procedure.

During this time of great uncertainty, the local feminist group LB/OC Women Rising seeks to provide information, as well as outlets and resources for those stepping up to challenge these threats to abortion rights. After the 2020 U.S. presidential election, Lisa

“WE CANNOT FEEL LIKE WE ARE IN A HAVEN BECAUSE WE’RE IN CALIFORNIA. WE’VE GOT OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS IN THE REST OF THIS COUNTRY WHO ARE GETTING THEIR RIGHTS TAKEN AWAY.”

Del Sesto started LB/OC Women Rising, a local Women’s March circle.

“We cannot feel like we are in a haven because we’re in California,” Del Sesto said. “We’ve got our brothers and sisters in the rest of this country who are getting their rights taken away.”

Del Sesto and the members of LB/OC Women Rising are using their time to support and advocate for the right to abortion, as well as other human and women’s rights. The group has grown from a supportive role at marches and events organized by other local groups, such as the Long Beach Resister Sisters, to a force on its own.

“That’s what you get when you get a bunch of feminists together,” Del Sesto said. “This is cooperation, not competition.”

After the overturn of Roe v. Wade, Del Sesto noticed an influx of interest and membership in the LB/OC Women Rising.

People were messaging Del Sesto saying they were angry and needed an outlet. The group offers many, from participating in protests to volunteering at registration drives.

Two impassioned volunteer members of the group have assumed leadership roles. Ashley Brady, the communications coordinator, welcomes new members and informs members of events; Jennifer Cohen, the outreach and social media coordinator, produces the majority of the group’s social media content.

In addition, a legislative team within LB/OC Women Rising works to manage and update a spreadsheet of state and federal bills restricting abortion rights, which Cohen transforms into infographics to reach members and beyond.

For LB/OC Women Rising, the overall goal is to motivate people to vote and get involved in their community. Del Sesto stresses

that the efforts made in California will not matter if bills banning or restricting abortion pass in the U.S. Senate. She urges Californians to not be complacent.

For those looking to get involved with efforts to protect women’s rights and access to abortion, Del Sesto advises looking inward.

“We all have the overall desire for a feminist future. But what is it that’s inspiring to you?” Del Sesto said. “That’s your personal passion.”

A few of the local organizations Del Sesto recommends include Planned Parenthood, Stonewall Democrats, Resistance Coalition, NARAL Pro-Choice California, Give A Damn and Long Beach Resister Sisters.

“Activism is not a one-size-fits-all, and we want people to find their people,” Del Sesto said. “We want people to find the group that sings to them, so that more people will get involved and more people will become active.”

THREE CREATIVE MINDS: BLACK ARTISTS OF LONG BEACH

STORY BY

PHOTOS BY OLIVIA PEAY

A CREATIVE MYSTERY SHYBUTFLYY

ShybutFlyy knew she wanted to be a performer starting in high school. A friend was surprised by her talent after hearing her sing and encouraged her to try out for the talent show. When she got on stage, Shy said, “That's when the magic happened.”

ShybutFlyy is a Black female artist, but she doesn’t believe her identity influences her music in any way.

“I don't like to box myself in any aspect of my life,” Shy said. “I'm an artist, I'm pursuing something I love, and regardless of what color [I am], I'm still going to be the same person and do the same thing.”

Shy grew up with music. Her parents let music from their records flow throughout the rooms of her childhood home. Records from Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald inspired her, and despite her shy tendencies, she decided to express herself through singing, and eventually, writing. Shy said she got into poetry by reading a lot of poetry books and writing frequently.

ShybutFlyy is shy, but not on the side of timidity. She may divert eye contact when not on stage, but under the spotlight, she embodies a different side. She’s in her element. “On stage is my natural habitat,” Shy said. “That's when I feel the most free so I'm able to express myself. I know what I'm doing.”

Shy is currently pursuing singing and spoken word. She has a band, Shybutflyy and the Allstarz, she gets hired to sing with Groove Empire Orchestra, and she organizes events in Long Beach, like open mic nights at Roxanne’s on Mondays and at DiPiazza every second Thursday of the month.

“I DON’T LIKE TO BOX MYSELF IN ANY ASPECT OF MY LIFE. I’M AN ARTIST, I’M PURSUING SOMETHING I LOVE, AND REGARDLESS OF WHAT COLOR [I AM], I’M STILL GOING TO BE THE SAME PERSON AND DO THE SAME THING.”

“ON STAGE IS MY NATURAL HABITAT.”

SHE’S UNAPOLOGETIC, BUT UPLIFTING UMA LEONI

Uma Leoni was majoring in biology before the pandemic hit. Like many others, Leoni used the pandemic as a way to reconnect with old hobbies. Leoni is currently a content creator and sells her art, but not just on a canvas. She makes custom jeans, t-shirts, and even mugs. Not only does she aim to make women feel beautiful by adding her paintings to colorful and flattering clothing, but she also wants to uplift the Black community.

Her approach? Unapologetic.

“Eventually, people started wanting to buy it off of me,” Leoni said. “It just built from there.”

Growing up, Leoni’s family was never in one place for a long time. As she physically traveled throughout her childhood, so did her childhood mind. Leoni said her fields of interest ranged from medical to sports. When she got to college, she knew she had a purpose.

”I just really wanted to help other women feel beautiful,” Leoni said.

“Even before I was into art, just being in spaces I had to be very much myself and not be sorry about it,” Leoni said. “You can see that in a lot of my art. It’s really abstract. I feel like it’s made me want to advocate for other artists [Black creatives], which I’m trying to do now — I feel like my platform is very based on me, but I’m trying to move it so that I’m helping others.”

She plans to create a recurring event for Black creatives in the L.A. area. Leoni said being a content creator who also has a business is a “weird middle ground” that she thinks others may be confused about. With the event, she said, “We can help each other grow and navigate this space together.”

“I JUST REALLY WANTED TO HELP OTHER WOMEN FEEL BEAUTIFUL.”

EQUANIMOUS WITH A PAINTBRUSH CARMEL KATUMBA

Zonky: it’s the combination of a donkey and a zebra. Otherwise considered a name for someone odd. Who is Carmel Katumba? A visual artist self-proclaimed “THE ZONKY GIRL.”

Katumba is a Black female artist who says her identity inspires her to lend a helping hand to knowledge and community. What started as a love for pottery became a friendship with her notebook, drawing, and painting. It’s become a passion that she uses to share her story. Her art, an array of “teary-eyed abstract portraits,” are the vessel.

“As much as I am Black, I’m not African American,” Katumba said. “It’s allowed me to be a bridge to people who want to find their home back in Africa. Just telling those stories and showing the reality of what it’s like to be African and growing up in Africa — it’s allowed me to share my culture and where I’m from.”

When initially moving to Long Beach, Katumba described herself as “zonky.”

Katumba was born in South Africa, but she and her parents are Congolese, from D.R. Congo. Katumba’s youth was spent between the two places before she went to boarding school in Canada. When deciding where to go to college, her decision got narrowed for a simple reason.

“I ha[d] never been to L.A., and the only thing I’ve seen about it was on reality TV,” Katumba said. “I went to Long Beach because I thought to myself, ‘Who goes to California and does not live by the beach? I have to go.”

She dormed in the International House on campus, where she lived with people who were also from different countries. After graduating from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in hospitality management, she remained in Long Beach for six years. Now fully immersed in the city, Katumba is a fine artist, a visual artist, and a DJ.

“...TO BE A BRIDGE TO PEOPLE WHO WANT TO FIND THEIR HOME BACK IN AFRICA.”

“HOWEVER YOU FEEL ABOUT DEATH AND YOUR FAITH AND YOUR SPIRITUAL BELONGING, MOST PEOPLE BELIEVE THERE SHOULD BE SOME FINALITY TO END OF LIFE, AND RESPECT AND DIGNITY GRANTED TO THOSE PEOPLE...

...IT’S UNFATHOMABLE TO ME THAT THERE CAN BE DISPUTES IN PERSPECTIVES ABOUT WHAT THE RIGHT WAY TO DO THINGS SHOULD BE.”

Dr. Theresa Gregor, a professor in American Indian Studies, has been involved with NAGPRA since 2016 and was recently nominated as the head facilitator for the lab and the committee.

RIGHTING HISTORIC WRONGS

STORY & PHOTOS BY KELSEY BROWN

The walls of the Native American Grave and Repatriation Act lab at Cal State Long Beach are lined with storage shelves crammed with beige boxes, each labeled with archeological trinomials. Inside are Native American remains, artifacts, and other burial-related goods.

Cindi Alvitre, the NAGPRA coordinator, estimates the Committee on Native American Burial Remains and Cultural Patrimony has about 600 boxes of cultural material, including ancestors who range from 100 to 500 years old. The committee aims to restore and return every item to affiliated tribes.

When asking Alvitre, a full-time lecturer in American Indian Studies at CSULB, why NAGPRA at Long Beach State hasn’t received more attention, her answer is simple.

“The skeletons in the closet?” Alvitre quipped.

Despite CSULB residing on Puvungna, a sacred village site for local Indigenous tribes, the lab is a modest room in the Liberal Arts 5 building. The space consists of a makeshift photo lab and a DIY light box, where 300- to 500-year-old bowls encrusted in shells and coral await to be studied. Though Alvitre says the committee has 60 to 70 pieces of pottery, they aren’t staged because there isn’t space.

Passed in 1990, the Native American Grave Protection and Repatriation Act is federal legislation requiring federally funded institutions or agencies to return Indigenous human remains and other cultural items removed from federal land to affiliated tribes. Since 1996, the Committee on Native American Burial has existed at CSULB. However, no official, full-time NAGPRA positions exist.

“Being here by myself and having allotted time, which is less than half time, and to oversee everything that has to be done—

there’s no way possible I could ever go into a box-level inventory of over 600 boxes,” said Alvitre, who is Gabrielino-Tongva. “It really requires a team.”

The committee consists of Alvitre and her 11 colleagues. Alvitre has the anthropological experience, museum training, and collection experience to do the bulk of the work. However, restoring and repatriating the collection requires osteologists, archaeologists, and researchers.

“There’s a lot of resistance, budgetary resistance, and that slows us down,” Alvitre said. “The biggest challenge is campuses don’t know how to deal with something as sensitive as human remains…something that [has] a tragic history and trying to recover from that.”

Beyond the sensitivity of the work they do, the process is overly complicated. The committee must complete inventory in consultation with the tribes, who ultimately have control. They instruct the committee on how they want their ancestors treated — with minimal handling or examination by an osteologist — and how they are stored. The committee must go through all the inventory to ensure no human remains have been misplaced.

When Alvitre took over the lab in 2014, she was confronted with “human remains in old, dirty boxes” collapsed on one another. Boxes were filled with human fragments — hundreds of femurs, tibias, and other bones — thrown carelessly together. Through the use of archeological, cultural, and historical evidence, the committee works to analyze the individuals’ biological sex, age, and pathologies present at the time of death before returning them. After determining which tribes they will repatriate to, they file paperwork and initiate the legal process.

About 600 boxes of cultural material line the shelves at Cal State Long Beach’s NAGPRA lab. American Indian Studies faculty look for more support as they work to restore and return the items to their affiliated tribes.

Alvitre sees the committee’s work as healing “transgenerational unresolved historical grief.” Putting an ancestor in the ground is sending them home. Alvitre says that this is an opportunity for the university to demonstrate to other universities, tribal communities, and the public that CSULB is committed to righting historical wrongs.

On average, the College of Liberal Arts gives $50,000 to $60,000 to the committee for assigned time, according to Dhushy Sathianathan, the vice provost for academic planning at CSULB, though this varies based on the work the committee is doing. This year, Sathianathan says they’ve spent over $100,000 to hire a contractor to help the university comply with the audit mandated by California Assembly Bill 275, the Native American Cultural Preservation act. Sathianathan explained that because the committee is a Senate subcommittee, none of which have a fixed budget, faculty work is on a volunteer basis.

Dr. Theresa Gregor, an American Indian Studies professor from the Santa Ysabel Indian Reservation, believes the university is acting with a minimal amount of compliance and resources.

“We’re at a really big institution in a really wealthy city, county, and state,” Dr. Gregor said. “There should be no source that’s not offered until this is fully resolved.”

This is part of the university’s legacy, and Dr. Gregor explained that though “none of the people in administrative positions today are the ones who acquired the ancestors or items, as an institution of higher learning, we should know better and do better.”

Dr. Gregor has been involved with NAGPRA since 2016. She was recently nominated as the provost designee, acting as the head facilitator for the institution and the committee. Dr. Gregor describes their work as supporting human rights, social justice, and restorative justice for Indigenous people.

“Most people believe there should be some finality to end of life, and respect and dignity granted to those people,” Dr. Gregor said. “It’s unfathomable to me that there can be disputes in perspectives about what the right way to do things should be.”

Sathianathan shared that he believes inhibitions of success of the committee are based on lack of time, not resources. According to him, the financial needs of the committee have been met and “it depends on the faculty’s willingness to work on these projects.”

“It’s not just throwing money at it,” Sathianathan said. “It’s really the commitment from the people involved in order to make it happen. It’s not only resources. Resources alone can’t solve this. We need to have people who are really determined to do the work.”

Dr. Gregor mentioned how accomplished the committee is despite its small size. Only a few people are doing the heavy lifting. All the work, like the reburial of 2016, is credited to the dedication of people like Alvitre. Dr. Gregor said it’s a shame that people don’t see the “breadth, scope, and impact of their work.”

A resolution to the lack of time would be a full-time NAGPRA position at CSULB, which Alvitre sees as an investment and a commitment. An actual repository and a hired team to assist them would ease their workload. Though space and money are sought-after commodities, the committee needs them to continue and complete their work.

“This country was built on the blood and calcium of [African Americans and Native Americans],” Alvitre said. “There’s a lot that needs to be done to correct the violence and the tragedies that were imposed onto the people that the descendants of those survivors, and the people that didn’t survive, still suffer from.”

“THERE’S A LOT THAT NEEDS TO BE DONE TO CORRECT THE VIOLENCE AND THE TRAGEDIES THAT WERE IMPOSED ONTO THE PEOPLE THAT THE DESCENDANTS OF THOSE SURVIVORS, AND THE PEOPLE THAT DIDN’T SURVIVE, STILL SUFFER FROM.”

Cindi Alvitre, the NAGPRA coordinator, is also a full-time lecturer in American Indian Studies.

THE ACT BAL NCING

BY WINSTON TRAN

I awoke from the gripping clutches of my warm bed, as groggy and overslept as a newborn baby. As my stomach grumbled to the rhythm of my alarm, my mind was fixated on one thing only: food. The great thing about living with my parents was that Má’s hot meals were readily available at any moment in the day, as it was a well-kept routine for her to cook every morning before leaving for work in the afternoon. Hoping to sink my teeth into a fatty bowl of beef phở or some face-scrunching, sweet-and-tart papaya gỏi, I skipped to the kitchen to bother Má minutes before she left for the rest of the day.

“Hôm nay con sẽ ăn cơm với cá,” my mother said immediately, as if she could read my mind. My face, initially lit up in anticipation of my supposedly scrumptious lunch, grimaced in disappointment. Not rice with fish again, I thought. As I stood quietly, still attempting to figure out ways to softly decline her food, Má somberly suggested I just go out to eat with friends instead. Pleased by her proposal, my face gleamed brightly before hearing her parting words.

As Má glanced around to look at me, she asked, “Tại sao con không ăn thức ăn Má nấu nữa?” Why don’t you eat my food anymore?

My life as a second-generation immigrant had granted me the gift of cultural adaptability and awareness. I was born five years after Má moved to Santa Ana from Vietnam. She grew up in an inseparable family of seven, where daily tasks and activities were seldom carried out individually, contrary to typical American culture. Family was all that

“Má”: Mother

“Phở”: Beef-broth noodles

“Gỏi”: Vietnamese-style coleslaw

LÀM TẤT CẢ LÀ VÌ MINH.”

she knew, so naturally, she stayed glued to them for the next 11 years, passing all of their Vietnamese practices onto a young version of myself.

My childhood reality existed within the walls of our small apartment, where the walls were coated with Vietnamese-styled calendars and vigils decorated with baskets of fruits for loved ones who had passed away. There was no reason to go out and nowhere to go, so many of our days were spent trying to entertain each other from the comforts of home. The conversations around me were only spoken in Vietnamese, as my mother and her sisters found English to be too difficult to be worth practicing. “Minh nhìn ngon à nha,” said my ông ngoại, who often complimented me with elusive, colloquial Vietnamese phrases.

There were little to no changes to our routine — why fix what isn’t broken? We ate rice with different proteins and a side of vegetable soup everyday, with the exception

of soup noodles served on weekends. Weekdays consisted of me confusingly watching cải lương with my bà ngoại, wondering how such shrieking and pitchy singing could be perceived as serene music by my relatives. Saturdays were reserved for family dinners, where I would sit at a massive dining table between Ba and Má, waiting for one of them to cut my noodles into bite-sized strands. And Sundays were for the Lord, since the Catholic church, aside from one another, was the only familiar thing in the U.S.

Despite being born here, I was raised as if I was fresh off the boat. My body lived here, but my soul resided across the seas, in Vietnam, only familiar with our original customs.

The curse of assimilation soon manifested. School was an absolute culture shock. As per usual, I was bullied for the Vietnamese foods I ate for lunch. “Look at how nasty his sandwich looks,” squealed my peers

about my bánh bao I would roll my eyes until I got dizzy at such remarks. It’s so yummy, though, I thought as I delightfully scarfed down the rest of it.

I never cared about fitting in because I was authentically myself in my Vietnamese way. My confidence in my upbringing lasted until the end of elementary school, where I realized being distinct and self-assured granted me piercing gazes instead of flowers from my peers. My years of living in peaceful seclusion, to being hurled into an environment of pure socialization, was a hard pill to swallow. I couldn’t grasp that others’ contempt was due to prejudice, but blamed my history for inciting such malice upon me.

My high school days marked the point of no return for me. Desperate to form connections that mirrored the ones I had at home, I longed to be wanted and cared for, a desire that fueled my metamorphosis into an all-American boy. I figured I could find more

“MÁ

The author’s 2nd birthday, surrounded his family.

The author and his parents in Vietnam. “Minh nhìn ngon à nha.”

You look so handsome and bright. “Tại sao con không ăn thức ăn Má nấu nữa?” Why don’t you eat my food anymore?

“Hôm nay con sẽ ăn cơm với cá.” Today you will eat rice with fish.

EVERYTHING I DO, I DO IT FOR YOU.

in common with those my age if I was more proactive in immersing myself in the American youth culture — bonding through planning day trips, nights out at restaurants, $20 shopping sprees in thrift stores, and coffee runs at sunset.

I grew fond of the independence I nurtured during this era and was proud that I had seemingly left my nest. I was a bird taking my first flight, and I didn’t want to stop flying. My soul had finally made its way back to my body.

I didn’t consider how my fated assimilation would affect my family until I was in my 20s, when my days spent with them during the pandemic felt oddly similar to my childhood behind my Vietnamese walls. However, things were not the same. Bà ngoại had passed away, Ông ngoại was too old to carry on conversations, my closest cousin was thriving in college away from home, and my

parents and I barely exchanged words due to our conflicting schedules.

Besides, my Vietnamese had deteriorated from the long years of perfecting English, and I could speak no better than a 10-year-old and understood even less. I was cold and lonely in the arms of my own family, and I blamed myself for willingly disconnecting from my roots.

Truth be told, while I hated how my obedient, dependent, and curious Vietnamese self shrank in suppression from assimilation, I also loved how it transformed me. I grew more confident in social spaces, in my style, my sexuality and my body. I learned about the importance of camaraderie and the beauty in cultivating like-minded friends. My hobbies expanded to represent my latent interests and hidden character. But most important, my writing developed into a skill that I hold so dearly to my heart, a true testament of how well I have adapted to the U.S.

There are still parts of life that I fear my assimilation will interfere with. I worry my children may never learn how to speak to their grandparents, that they might hate how my food tastes, or the possibility of embarrassment from cultural displays, just as I had.

But when I look at my growth and intellectual development, I think, I have grown quite impressively. I am trying to be more eager to practice Vietnamese by talking to my parents and consistently eating at home. Má is very proud of my revelations, as she would always tell me for reassurance: “Má làm tất cả là vì Minh.” Everything I do, I do it for you.

My journey in identity has just been a balancing act. I learned that identity does not only consist of culture but merely dawns from it. Now I lay my head to sleep with a satisfying smile on my face, thinking, I am exactly where Má wants me to be.

THE PROBLEM WITH THE CLEAN GIRL AESTHETIC

BY NADIA RAMOS

When you open your Pinterest feed, you may be familiar with the trendy aesthetic of women gelling their hair back into a middleparted bun and accessorizing with gold hoop earrings. This aesthetic is called the “clean girl” aesthetic or the “off-duty model” look. It has been popularized by models like Bella Hadid and Kendall Jenner and replicated by many influencers and creators. But before TikTok and influencers deemed this “new” aesthetic as “clean girl,” this look was a staple for Black and brown women, especially during the 1990s.

Society often associates beauty with Eurocentric features or styles. When white people hop onto a trend that originated from women of color, they are often applauded and seen as having original style, even though women of color have been denigrated for the very same style. While there have been many instances of white women appropriating styles like cornrows and dressing up as Native

Americans for Halloween, in recent months makeup and hairstyles that stemmed from Black and brown communities are being credited to white influencers.

“Am I surprised? No, because the fashion industry always tends to appropriate or put their ‘twist’ on things that not only originate from the Black and POC cultures, but when we created it and did it, it was deemed as ‘ghetto,’ ‘unkempt’ or ‘unprofessional.’ But when other people do it, it is ‘the new wave,’” said CSULB student Jada Knight.

In a story in the New York Times, Yekaterina Barbash, associate curator of Egyptian art at the Brooklyn Museum, stated that hoop earrings originated in Africa from a civilization called Nubia (present day Sudan). The hoop earrings were also used for non-royal Egyptians to enhance their beauty in the afterlife. More recently, hoops were associated with “cholas,” a subculture within working-class Latinx communities. They were often stigmatized for their hoops and categorized as “ghetto,” the opposite of the glamour surrounding the “clean girl” aesthetic.

This also applies to the recent makeup trend dubbed the “brownie lip.” Hailey Bieber popularized it when she posted a TikTok about her favorite lip combo: dark brown liner topped off with gloss. People on TikTok then started calling it “the Hailey Bieber lip,” but this discredits the women of color who would line their lips the same way back in the 1990s. TikTok creators made both trends seem new when they were really influenced by the Latina and Black communities.

Today, the beauty industry has a larger color palette to match a variety of skin tones, but before makeup brands were inclusive, women in the Latina and Black communities lined their lips darker because of cosmetic brands’ lack of color range suited to darker- and warmer-toned skin. Women would use brow pencils and eye liner because they were darker shades that were more flattering to their skin.

Many people will see these trends as a form of cultural appropriation, the unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the customs, practices, and ideas of one people or society by members of another, typically more dominant people or society. CSULB sociology professor Oliver Wang, who studies race, ethnicity and popular culture, differentiates the concept of borrowing and appropriating from a culture.

“All cultures borrow from other cultures; that’s been true since the first human settlement encountered another human settlement. We’re always trading cultural ideas with each other and those can’t all be problematic,” he said. “So, to me, when we talk about cultural appropriation it’s really helpful to be more specific. Is it just the act of borrowing, or is there something deeper? If there’s something deeper there, then we should be able to specifically name what is it that makes us uncomfortable. Not all forms of borrowing are treated as problematic.”

Hailey Bieber showing off her “brownie glazed lip” on TikTok.

“The ‘Hailey Bieber lip trend’ has been around in Hispanic culture for years and they were considered ‘ghetto-looking’ for it but when Hailey did its people saw it as cute and trendy”

He states that borrowing from a culture becomes problematic when it falls under either the categories of denigration, exploitation, and/or erasure. He explains that denigration is appropriating something with intent of making fun of or ridiculing it; exploitation is taking an element from another culture and finding a way to profit off of it, whether that is money or status; and erasure is when someone is unknowingly doing something that is influenced from another culture and erasing the origins of the creation.

“So, I think when appropriation falls into one or more of those categories, that’s when people are understandably upset about it as opposed to any example of someone borrowing something from someone else,” he said.

Some people do not see the issue in the cultural appropriation of these trends. In the comment sections on TikTok regarding these beauty trends, some people stated, “Oh no, another thing to gatekeep,” or “It’s not that serious.”

But many people, such as CSULB student Yasneli Onofre, find it offensive that

these trends are popularized because a white person is accepted when implementing them.

“The ‘Hailey Bieber lip trend’ has been around in Hispanic culture for years and they were considered ‘ghetto-looking’ for it, but when Hailey did it, people saw it as cute and trendy,” she said.

It is also society’s ignorance and lack of recognition to the POC communities that people find frustrating.

“You cannot buy culture,” Knight said. “It’s part of one’s identity and roots. I think just acknowledging and attributing the history of it is the first step, but what’s frustrating is that within the Black community, we can’t ever have anything that’s just for us. Historically we’ve had so many things taken from us or got ridiculed for saying or doing certain things like having long nails or the way we dress.

“But when someone tries to replicate our culture, it makes our skin crawl because we’ve been bashed for our culture, and it’s not a costume.”

How do we as a society avoid cultural appropriation but practice cultural appreciation? According to CSULB sociology

professor Michael Wang, we should ask ourselves the following questions to gain a better perspective on the situation.

“Are you partaking in the culture of another group? What are you taking, are you taking their identity, an object, or a ritual? Are you benefiting or profiting from that groups expense?” he said. “Are you a member of the dominant cultural group? That question puts yourself into context.”

We can also avoid cultural appropriation by reminding ourselves that when we are participating in another person’s culture, we are a guest, Oliver Wang said.

“Culture, I think, lends itself to being this open tent which invites as many people that want to participate in,” he said. “The metaphor I have is when you go into somebody else’s house, you’re a good houseguest, you respect their space, you respect the work they put into that space, you’re not putting your dirty shoes on somebody else’s couch. I think at minimum that appreciation, the acknowledgment, the awareness of that history is the least that you could do to counter all these decades of appropriation that went unchallenged.”

Cyan Granillo (left) and Natalie Rojas (right) representing the style that the “clean girl” aesthetic is based off of. Photos provided by Granillo and Rojas.

“WHEN WE CREATED IT AND DID IT, IT WAS DEEMED AS ‘GHETTO,’ ‘UNKEMPT’ OR ‘UNPROFESSIONAL.’ BUT WHEN OTHER PEOPLE DO IT, IT IS ‘THE NEW WAVE.’”

CSULB student Jada Knight paying homage to 1990s styles that have informed the clean girl aesthetic. Photo by Emily Chen.

ART FILM: THE INDUSTRY OUTSIDERS

BY VITTINA IBANEZ

Many art films are produced independently and outside the major film studios, thus, making them the outsiders of the film industry. This allows them a certain liberation. Art films do not endure the mainstream pressures to make money in the box office, so they are able to provide underrepresented artists with a space to tell their stories in a way the studios might not. Here are five films that have allowed auteurs to reclaim their narratives as storytellers, artists and human beings.

HIS HOUSE (2020)

REMI WEEKES 2 A

“His House” by Remi Weekes beautifully and horrifically captures the anxieties and trauma of the refugee experience. This BritishAmerican film focuses on a South Sudanese couple who have crossed the ocean to live in the U.K. Weekes explores the theme of assimilation, which he experienced growing up around diverse, marginalized communities in North London. Highly metaphorical, this film is gripping and is as political as it is terrifying. Where to watch: Netflix

MUSTANG (2015)

DENIZ GAMZE ERGÜVEN 3 A-

“Mustang” often gets compared to Sofia Coppola’s “The Virgin Suicides.” Deniz Gamze Erugven’s film, like Coppola’s, centers on a group of teenage sisters struggling to grow up in a conservative community. However, the sisters in “Mustang,” inspired by Erugven’s personal experiences as a teen, take power over their story, unlike Coppola’s characters. The film explores womanhood, becoming, and sisterhood with nuance and references to culture — the director’s love letter to her Turkish roots.

Where to watch: Tubi (free) and Amazon Prime (rent)

THE LOVE WITCH (2017)

ANNA BILLER 1 A+

Anna Biller’s “The Love Witch” is a true hallmark of auteur filmmaking. Biller, a mixed Japanese Caucasian filmmaker, studied film at UCLA and CalArts. The film was a sevenyear project for Biller; she wrote, directed and edited it and was in charge of set design, costume design and cinematography. It is a subversive feminist take on the serial killer horror genre that reclaims the sexploitation horror movie trope through the female gaze. Think “Jennifer’s Body” but witch-ier and Old Hollywood.

Where to watch: Tubi, PlutoTV, Peacock and Vudu

DANIEL KWAN 4 A+

EVERYTHING EVERYWHERE ALL AT ONCE (2022)

On the mainstream end of the art film genre stands Daniel Kwan and Daniel Scheinert’s scifi dramedy about the multiverse, the motherdaughter relationship, and the Asian American identity: “Everything, Everywhere, All at Once.” A highly ambitious piece, the film is about the journey of a middle aged Chinese-American mother who owns a laundromat (inspired by Kwan’s grandfather, who owned a laundromat) and has trouble filing her taxes. Ridden with hot dog fingers, rocks, and references to Wong Kar-wai and “Ratatouille,” this film depicts a unique take on the Asian American experience that acts as a reminder that you are exactly where you are supposed to be. Where to watch: Amazon Prime (rent) and Youtube (rent)

5 A+

PAIN AND GLORY (2019)

PEDRO ALMODOVAR

Pedro Almodovar’s “Pain and Glory” is perhaps his most impressive work. Representing both the LGBTQ+ and Spanish communities, Almodovar’s semi-autobiographical 21st feature film revolves around the life and legacy of Salvador Mallo, a gay film director, played by Antonio Banderas. Both queerness and Spanish culture are so prevalent and, yet, subtle in this film. Nothing is forced. The representation of these identities feels so genuine because it lacks the melodrama most films communicate, which makes the film so remarkable.