prime Winter Issue 2018

ARTs

Non-art majors discuss the lack of available creative spaces on campus PAGE 6

CULTURE

BY THE DAILY BRUIN

WINTER 2018

Former ESL students help UCLA employees break the language barrier PAGE 24

LIFESTYLE

Photo gallery: The trashiest street in Westwood PAGE 36

becoming

bold

how students and staff learn to accept and express themselves

letter from the editors Dear reader, This issue of prime focuses on individuals becoming proud of who they are. A theater student faces his insecurities by performing in drag. UCLA employees learn English to succeed in the American workplace. Daily Bruin staffers reflect on being biracial, coping with sexual assault or entering UCLA as a first-generation college student.

We often doubt our paths in life and become our own harshest critics. This quarter, students wrote about pushing past a variety of challenges – financial insecurity, emotional trauma, strict bureaucracies – to come to terms with their sexuality, race or past experiences.

UCLA should be a place for students to indulge their passions, from painting to playing video games. It should be a place for us to learn about ourselves and develop self-confidence in our identities and abilities. prime regards,

William Thorne

Lindsay Weinberg

William Thorne [ prime director ] Lindsay Weinberg [ prime content editor ] Umbreen Ali [ prime art director ] [ writers ] Rupan Bharanidaran, Hannah Burnett, Christi Carras, Axel Lopez, Olivia Mazzucato, Emily McCormick, Hanna Rashidi, Lindsay Weinberg [ photographers ] Hannah Burnett, Quanzhao He, Kristie-Valerie Hoang, Stella Huang, Dayoung Lee, Axel Lopez, Keila Mayberry, Mackenzie Possee, Ken Shin, Lindsay Weinberg, Aubrey Yeo, Michael Zshornack

Umbreen Ali

[ daily bruin ] Mackenzie Possee [ editor in chief ] Madeleine Pauker [ managing editor ] Emily McCormick [ digital managing editor ] Jeremy Wildman [ business manager ] [ assistant managers ] Caroline Dillon, Peyton Sherwood [ advertising sales ] Ali Cazel, Elia Doussineau, Jessica Behmanesh, Danielle Renteria, Pau Bremer

[ illustrators ] Hanna Rashidi, Angela Song, Qingquing Su, Ludi Zhu

[ advertising production ] Nina Roman, Tara Afshar, Dylan Skolnik

[ designers ] Bilal Ismail Ahmed, Umbreen Ali, Mary Anastasi, April Ding, Megan Le, Winnie Liu, Aileen Nguyen, Edward Qiao, Angela Song, Megan Tobias, Callista Wu, Michael Zhang

Abigail Goldman [ editorial adviser ]

Simran Vatsa [ copy chief ] Sang Ho Lee [ assistant copy chief ] Amy Baumgartner, Rhiannon Davies, Anush Khatri, Jessica Kwan, Amanda Tsai, Rachel Wong, Grace Ye [ slot editors ] Michael Zhang [ online editor ] Nathan Smith, Hongyi Zhang [ assistant online editors ]

The Daily Bruin (ISSN 1080-5060) is published and copyrighted by the ASUCLA Communications Board.

All rights are reserved. Reprinting of any material in this publication without the written permission of the Communications Board is strictly prohibited. The ASUCLA Communications Board fully supports the University of California’s policy on non-discrimination. The student media reserve the right to reject or modify advertising whose content discriminates on the basis of ancestry, color, national origin, race, religion, disability, age, sex or sexual orientation. The ASUCLA Communications Board has a media grievance procedure for resolving complaints against any of its publications. For a copy of the complete procedure, contact the publications office at 118 Kerckhoff Hall. All inserts that are printed in the Daily Bruin are independently paid publications and do not reflect the views of the Editorial Board or the staff.

To request a reprint of any photo appearing in the Daily Bruin, contact the photo desk at 310-825-2828 or email photo@dailybruin.com.

Table of contents

Arts 6

A painter without an easel An illustrator seeks spaces outside the art department to practice her passion.

10 The leading woman A student uses drag to embody the queer imagination.

COVER PHOTO BY

MACKENZIE POSSEE

16 Gracias Mamá A first-generation college student’s tribute to his mother’s sacrifices.

20

culture

More Than a Survivor

A photographer looks ahead after remembering her sexual assault.

24

Breaking the language barrier Former ESL students give back by tutoring UCLA employees.

32 reclaiming our heritage A biracial writer reflects on her and her sister’s differing experiences.

lifestyle 36

Wastewood How to solve Westwood’s trash problem.

40 a league of our own Student gamers hope to turn their virtual escape into a career.

44

testing the tastemaker Can you dine at a food critic’s top picks on a college budget?

a painter without an easel WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY HANNA RASHIDI

T

here is one question all college students dread hearing: “So what do you want to do with your life?”

In that moment, the real question we are faced with is, “Who are you?” The only answer that has ever come easily to me is simply, “I’m an artist.” It wasn’t until very recently that my answer has come into question.

My passions in life have always been somewhat ephemeral. I have been a high jumper, a brown belt in karate, a harpist, a flutist, a painter, a poet and a soccer player. None of these titles lasted very long, except for one – artist.

I cannot remember a time when my hands were not stained with vibrant inks of all shades, or when I left the house without at least two Rapidograph pens and three watercolor brushes in my bag. I think I would be hardpressed to find a pair of jeans without paint smudges on them.

Art is the one area of my life in which I have always felt comfortable.

What I create as an artist is uniquely mine. It is an extension of myself and a chance to exert control in a way that is absent in other aspects of my life.

The emotions and the meanings of my work are in a language that only I can speak, and so I can choose which part to share with others. When I find that the English language fails me, I always have my own to fall back on.

As integral as art is to my life, when it came time to seriously decide on a path of higher education, I didn’t apply to the UCLA School of the Arts and Architecture. Instead, I am a first-year political science student – for now, at least. I believed that by not majoring in art, I would be able to explore both my love of art and my other academic passions freely. However, my experience attempting to integrate into the art community on campus has been disheartening and frustrating.

The UCLA School of the Arts and Architecture opens some lower-division courses to nonmajors – but they’re lectures, not hands-on studio classes.

For nonmajors like me, the process to get into upperdivision and studio courses that are only open to majors can require students to contact the department or the professor to request permission. Because of class size restrictions, there’s no guarantee I can enroll – I once observed about a dozen non-art students visit a professor in person to try to request this special access. I’ve yet to get

into an art class at UCLA. UCLA’s art school understandably prioritizes the enrollment of art students, so they can complete their coursework on time. A statement from the school explained that the in-demand studio courses are kept small because they require a lot of space and equipment, and are meant for students who have been accepted into the selective major. The school encourages nonmajors to get involved through research or by attending public events like exhibitions and performances.

With this limited access to studio art courses, I searched for an extracurricular that might fill the space. At the Enormous Activities Fair in fall quarter, I scoured through the different booths and found the illustrations department of the Daily Bruin. Finding an organization that encourages me in the actual creation of art, rather than just exploring theory, was a huge relief. Being an illustrator reminds me how important it is as an artist to be surrounded by other creators who challenge you. Just as there are echo chambers in politics, so too there are in art.

Juliette Le Saint, the Illustrations director of the Daily Bruin, has pushed me to consider new techniques and skills in my work, which I am incredibly grateful for. Before this year, I was solely a traditional artist, meaning I had never touched digital media. I have since learned to incorporate digital elements into what I create. Having a community of artists with different styles and aesthetics has helped me become inspired to grow again, even without a class setting.

There are, however, some gaps that illustrating for the Daily Bruin cannot fill. My primary medium has always been oil paint, but the materials required for oil painting, such as turpentine, are often toxic and should not be used in a dorm room. They produce fumes, so ventilation is always a concern in a space that is not meant for oil painting. And setting up an easel, a canvas, brushes, Liquin, turpentine, a palette and an array of paints is difficult, to say the least, in a small room with two other roommates.

UCLA’s art department grants its studio

“ Art is the one area of my life in which I have always felt comfortable.

What I create as an artist is uniquely mine. “

6

ARTS

WINTER 2018

7

space to art students, so there isn’t space available for artists like me.

It is heartbreaking to be inspired to paint, but not have the means to do so. While it is understandable art students should be given priority in these studios, I feel there aren’t any other viable places to set up materials, which is frustrating.

I never imagined that the presence of art in my life would be uncertain, and especially not because of my transition to UCLA. It is particularly ironic considering that, as college students, we are supposed to be discovering ourselves and exploring our passions.

These emotions and frustrations are by no means unique to my own experience.

First-year undeclared life sciences student Fudda Ababseh’s interest in art started when she was very young, inspired by her artistic family members.

“At first, I never thought I was good at art,” she said. “It was just something I liked to do casually, but my teachers in middle school and high school started saying ‘You have a talent and we really believe in you.’”

Art became vital for her peace of mind. One of Ababseh’s pieces from

8

ARTS

her time in high school depicts an eye with a waterfall flowing from it, exploring the need to express emotions freely without containing them too harshly.

At UCLA, Ababseh often finds herself in need of an outlet to express herself and relax. Art provides a medium for her to move away from the stresses of everyday life.

“I like to focus on emotion and

“ I never imagined that the presence of art in my life would be uncertain, and especially not because of my transition to UCLA. “ nature,” Ababseh said. “I use art to express how I’m feeling when I’m not able to with words. … It’s a lot of natural feelings and figures.”

Ababseh searched for the same outlet she had experienced in AP Studio Art in high school, but was unable to find it when she first arrived at

UCLA. “I don’t have an art class that can bring me down to earth and calm me down and relieve my stress,” Ababseh said. “I don’t really see an art community. I feel like it’s very secluded. … You have to go through a lot of work on campus to actually physically create art.”

Ababseh looked for a general art club to help her find a community, but mainly found clubs with specific focuses, such as animation, that didn’t fit her interest in painting and drawing.

The struggle that Ababseh and I have gone through parallels the experiences of first-year undeclared humanities student Mateo Cameron.

When Cameron sat down to speak with me under the dappled sunlight of Kerckhoff patio, the well-loved camera he carried with him never left his sight.

Cameron couldn’t recall what initially inspired him to begin making art, but he has a distinct memory of his first experience with it. Late one night while he was in sixth grade, he drew his own hand in pencil, not expecting anything extraordinary.

When he was done, however, he was fascinated with what he had created.

He sketched out his hand over and over, experimenting with different positions and lighting, captivated by the work he never knew he had the skill to execute. By the time he was done, his hands were covered in smudges of graphite,

and he had found a path to a new world.

“Art is central to being human,” Cameron said. “And I feel it’s very necessary.”

He explained that he has learned so much, both about himself and the world around him, by viewing life through the lens of an artist.

With art, he is able to see meaning in things that would otherwise be overlooked.

“It’s like another plane of existence,” Cameron said. “I feel like I couldn’t live without it.”

Since his first experiments, Cameron has expanded his artistic interest to photography. One of his favorite photos he has taken was from two summers ago, shot from the top of Mount Tamalpais near San Francisco.

It depicts a misty peak and two figures partially hidden by grass, with the whole image framed by branches and leaves. The photograph captures how carefree he was in that moment and the majesty of the nature around him.

After coming to UCLA, Cameron found he was unhappy with the lack of access to some sort of art community.

“I didn’t know of any groups that (don’t) have a very specialized purpose,” Cameron said.

Without a group of artists to collaborate with, Cameron felt isolated and unmotivated.

“So much of art is community and creating with people while bouncing ideas off each other,” Cameron said. “Being held accountable by other people is a way to keep myself motivated when I’m connected to all these other people.”

“ Regardless of the classes we take or the words on our diplomas, we are all artists, and we deserve a chance to develop our skills freely. ” One option is applying to the School of the Arts and Architecture.

However, in the past five years, all five art majors combined have only admitted about 35 changes of majors per year, according to a statement from the school.

Cameron plans to apply. He feels it is the only way to remain connected to his passion.

Julia Feng, a fourth-year physiological science student, uses art as an emotional outlet and a method of communication. In high school, Feng created a portfolio of paintings and drawings in AP Studio Art that delved into the emotions of growing up and the disillusionment so many face as they grow older.

“Art is the most honest form of history,” Feng said. “Any type of art is a reflection of the politics or whatever social issue is happening during that period of time. Even more than that, art is how you express and show what you care about.”

When she first came to UCLA, Feng was interested in minoring in art, but discovered that there is no art minor offered. The limited access to resources for non-art students means that Feng has not been able to stay as connected to art as she would have

liked. The lack of studio space on the Hill hindered her ability to paint. Feng has since moved into an apartment, and is able to paint again.

UCLA provides an incredible environment for its students, but there are times when I have felt that exploring multiple paths or attempting to create my own is not encouraged. Humans are messy and complicated creatures; none of us can claim to have only one passion in our lives. Our multifaceted nature is something that should be supported

by UCLA. I appreciate the many opportunities UCLA has opened up for me and the other students here, but there are also some limitations that need to be addressed. We are all trying to find what we truly love to do, which is difficult enough as it is. Regardless of the classes we take or the words on our diplomas, we are all artists, and we deserve a chance to develop our skills freely.

WINTER 2018

9

THE

LEADING WOMAN WRITTEN BY EMILY MCCORMICK PHOTOS BY MACKENZIE POSSEE

L

orelei, like many works of art, emerged at the hands of heartbreak and insecurity.

But she won’t shy away from speaking or singing about overcoming her struggles.

Lorelei’s one-woman show, “Lorelei: I’m Coming Out,” a comedy drag-show musical melange, brought her autobiography to center stage. Nothing – sexual history, body image issues, Grindr profile – was too personal to share.

Sashaying across the makeshift stage of Macgowan 101, a classroom transformed into a cabaret for the evening show at the end of January, the drag queen was in her element. Decked out in platform heels, a vintage purple pantsuit and a brown wig teased to the size of a small mammal, she opened the show with one of her go-to jokes.

“I’m so excited to be here. I’m feeling really good because I just had this new form of acupuncture today. Basically, they just prick you with a needle, and it relaxes your whole body,” she said. “I think they call it something like – heroin?”

Moving away from abrasive humor and insult comedy – “Oh, you’re a lesbian? Could you go fix that lightbulb with your teeth?” she said to one audience member – her narration took a more

intimate turn.

After dealing with a rough breakup last year, Lorelei said she started going to nightclubs in Los Angeles – out of drag, initially. But being there among what she considered to be “a lot of really hot gay friends,” Lorelei grappled with feeling less-than.

“They’re the five-star burger and I’m the polite side salad,” said Cooper Reynolds, the second-year theater student behind the lashes and makeup, in an interview. “Nobody wants to eat the salad, and that’s how I felt when I went out to gay bars.”

But add makeup, hair and wardrobe, and suddenly Reynolds wasn’t fading into the background.

During her show, Lorelei described one pivotal moment when she went out to TigerHeat in West Hollywood in drag. An established drag queen came up behind her and said she looked gorgeous. After telling the story, Lorelei began to lip-sync the aptly titled number “Gorgeous” from the musical “The Apple Tree” to illustrate her newfound confidence.

“I feel as though now (Lorelei is) an extension of who I am,” she said in closing at her show. “I’m happy knowing that even if I stopped doing drag for whatever reason – and I’m not planning to anytime soon – that doing drag would have made me a better

“I ENJO THE D OF GE 10 ARTS

person.”

*** I met Reynolds before I met Lorelei. He greeted me at 9 p.m. on a Saturday night in his Canyon Point dorm, apologizing for the mess as he waved his hand toward a spotless room. He wore grey sweats, striped socks and a taupe shirt. A regular college kid.

Reynolds had been up since 5 a.m. that day, moving back to campus and rehearsing all day for Bruins Care, a cabaret-style show produced by UCLA’s Act III Theatre Ensemble that he’d be hosting as Lorelei the weekend of Jan. 13.

After we sat down, Reynolds launched into an overview of where he was from – San Clemente, California, “a beach city for conservatives and retired people” – and why he initially chose to study in the directing track at the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television. Although he also studies acting, he said he felt he had more artistic control in directing. “(It’s) like putting the puzzle together instead of being a piece in the puzzle,” Reynolds said.

Lorelei is the latest incarnation of a persona Reynolds has been cultivating since the first time he performed in drag in eighth grade.

She has tested out a multitude of monikers – Priscilla Perfect, Arsenica Gold, Violet and Viper, to name a few.

Lorelei was the name of a friend’s sister; it stuck because it was also the name of a siren, which are mythical maritime creatures that lead sailors to their deaths with their voices.

Reynolds wanted his drag persona to have an edge to her, and Lorelei captured that vibe.

Reynolds appeared as Lorelei at Hedrick Hall’s drag

show in 2017, which he helped organize with the hall’s resident government council. Lorelei has also performed at 340nightclub in Pomona, California, and more recently, at her one-woman show in Macgowan Hall.

Reynolds laughed when I asked him about his first drag performance.

Compared to Lorelei, Reynolds said, his first ever drag look in eighth grade was rough. He paired an unfussy black frock from Goodwill – the first dress he ever wore onstage – with purple eye shadow that went up to his eyebrows, bright red lipstick and a costume store plastic wig. He was performing in a scene study of the musical “Chicago” as Matron “Mama” Morton, a role traditionally played by an adult woman.

“I shaved my legs and I shaved my armpits; I was a real trooper about it,” Reynolds said. “I looked atrocious.”

Reynolds knew about drag at the time – he’d been watching “RuPaul’s Drag Race” since he was in middle school and, as early as preschool, he donned dresses to play with his friends.

“I’ve always been a little queer when it came to gender expression,” Reynolds said. “It wasn’t because I felt like a woman. ... I enjoyed the duality of gender, and being able to express both in a way that felt comfortable and healthy and fun.”

Reynolds identifies as gay and queer. He defines the latter as a way of seeing the world from an outsider’s perspective.

“I think drag is kind of like an embodiment of the queer imagination,” Reynolds said. “Drag queens exemplify an absurdism that queer people understand from functioning in a world that isn’t made for them.”

Reynolds reclined on top of a “The Nightmare Before

OYED DUALITY ENDER” WINTER 2018

11

Christmas” throw blanket lying on his bed. He fidgeted with a corner of it in his hand.

He pointed to a figurine of Jack Skellington sitting on his desk. Parts of Reynolds’ drag personae are inspired by the cartoon characters he watched as a child, and from Tim Burton movies that depict fantastical worlds.

“Jack Skellington is my queer icon, which is weird because he ends up with a woman at the end,” Reynolds said. “He was very career-driven, but he was also not restricted by any rules of masculinity. ... He was very flamboyant.”

But Lorelei has her real-life inspirations, too. Cyd Charisse and Ginger Rogers, vintage icons Reynolds watched in movies as a child, now serve as source materials for the tap and musical theater numbers Reynolds performs in drag.

Reynolds also draws inspiration from his mother, Beth Eagleson. She wears the pants in his house, and Reynolds has infused her strength and assertiveness into Lorelei.

“I think every drag queen’s persona is inspired by their mother, at least a little bit,” Reynolds said. “I’ve always been inspired by really powerful women.”

Eagleson helped him buy his first bra – a 32B from Target – and now gives him earrings and bracelets from her own collection. A gallon-sized plastic bag filled with her jewelry sits in one of his drawers. She even offered him her Bob Mackie wedding dress for Lorelei to wear in performance.

“I was like, ‘Let me put a hold on that,’” Reynolds said, laughing. “‘If you really want to give it to me later, I’ll take it.’”

Cooper Reynolds’ father, Jim Reynolds, took him to

12 ARTS

Goodwill to help him pick out his first black dress before his eighth grade “Chicago” performance. He was also partially responsible for getting his son started in theater to begin with.

When Cooper was about 10 years old, Jim forgot to sign him up for junior lifeguard, which was normally how he spent his summers.

While driving by their local playhouse, a sign-up for auditions for a summer youth theater workshop caught Jim’s attention.

“I looked at Cooper as we were driving by and I said, ‘Cooper, do you think that’s something you’d be interested in doing?’ And he said, ‘Yeah, I’ll try it.’”

Cooper attended the Orange County School of the Arts through high school. One of Jim Reynolds’ favorite pictures of his son is of him graduating, in cap and gown, wearing a pair of high heels.

Cooper said he recognizes how fortunate he’s been to have parents who support his pursuit of drag.

“I will not stop fighting for queer rights until every kid has the same privilege that I had growing up,” he said.

As Cooper’s interest in drag developed, Jim watched episodes of “RuPaul’s Drag Race” with his son, listening while Cooper explained what he loved about each of his favorite performers.

“One of the things that I learned is that there’s much more to it than simply a guy putting on a dress performing,” Jim said. “There’s an incredible amount of work that goes into creating your own character that you’re in, and how you make that character your own.” *** For Reynolds, being a drag queen means working as a

full-time designer, hairstylist, makeup artist and performer, all in one. The thrill of drag comes from this artistic autonomy. Performers decide how they want to bring together functionality, fashion and style to create their own personae.

Every drag queen’s aesthetic is different – Reynolds knows queens who will pour blood onto themselves onstage, and others who will coat their entire bodies with glitter.

“I consider myself a vintage clown,” Reynolds said.

“I kind of like playing that housewife on the verge of a nervous breakdown.”

I watched Reynolds become Lorelei in the comfort of his dorm room before the closing night of Bruins Care 2018. Lorelei had been asked to host the show and run the auction for the annual musical revue, which took place at the Northwest Campus Auditorium on the Hill. The proceeds went to Broadway Cares/Equity Fights AIDS, a national nonprofit AIDS fundraising organization. The student producers of Bruins Care decided incorporating Lorelei would help bring the cause to the forefront.

“We thought it’d be really fun to expose people to drag performances; and it also came to mind that we wanted to represent queer voices,” said Nicolette Norgaard, a thirdyear theater student, co-director and co-producer for this year’s Bruins Care.

Norgaard had never seen Reynolds perform as Lorelei before, but she had seen him play the young playwright Con in a UCLA production of “Stupid F#@king Bird,” an adaptation of the Russian play “The Seagull” by Anton Chekhov. When Reynolds acts in male roles, he is generally

typecast as a tortured artist or rebel.

“I was never the leading man and I’ll probably never be the leading man,” Reynolds said. “What Lorelei gives me the opportunity to do is at least be the leading woman.”

When it comes to getting into character as Lorelei, Reynolds likes to take his time. He budgets about two hours to apply makeup, and another hour to get into costume.

Standing in his dorm bathroom in an oversized T-shirt and no pants, Reynolds patted on the initial layers of Lorelei’s makeup. He wore a blue baseball cap turned backwards to keep his mane of brown hair away from his face.

Reynolds spent a few minutes gushing over his go-to Kryolan foundation intended to prevent sweat from coming through during Lorelei’s performance. He packed powder onto his face and left it to set for 15 minutes. Beauty gurus call it “baking,” Reynolds explained.

He drew two arched creases over his eyelid with a Mac lip pencil in “Nightmoth,” a dark, vampy hue.

“People tell me you’re not supposed to put red by your eyes, but they’re not fucking doctors,” Reynolds said.

Layering on eye shadow, contour, eyebrow pencil and two intense black strokes of cat eyeliner, Reynolds assured me that his goal isn’t to transform completely into a woman.

“There’s this misconception that drag queens want to be women. ... That’s not true,” he said. “I think I look pretty in drag but I don’t look pretty as a woman. ... Like, I’m not fooling anybody.”

After flicking on a double coat of mascara, Reynolds

WINTER 2018

13

14 ARTS

deemed his face complete, save for the false eyelashes he was waiting to apply until right before he went onstage.

He paused a moment to admire his work, then sped out the door toward Northwest Campus Auditorium. He was already late for call time.

More often than not, when Reynolds applies Lorelei’s makeup, it is followed by a trip to one of his favorite venues: 340nightclub. In November, Lorelei won $1,000 at the club’s “DragConic” competition after performing a song from the musical “Heathers” and a vintage-inspired tap number to a mashup of “Candyman” and “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy,” originally by Christina Aguilera and The Andrews Sisters, respectively.

Katya Zamolodchikova, one of the biggest queens to emerge from “RuPaul’s Drag Race,” guest-judged the performance.

No one was surprised when Lorelei was announced as the winner, said Bryce Inman, who performs drag under the name Stacia. Lorelei’s numbers were carefully choreographed, and she’d even brought along backup dancers. Inman had one word to describe the winning performance: iconic.

“Lorelei is going to be a major star,” Inman said. “She beat some of the most well-known queens at that club, queens who have already won pageants.”

Inman remembers meeting Lorelei at 340nightclub in May 2017 on a night Stacia was performing. They’ve been friends ever since.

“I saw this gorgeous, tall drag queen. ... She was wearing tinfoil, pretty much just tinfoil on her nipples and nether regions,” Inman said. “I was like, ‘Dang, this girl is fierce.’

Like, I could never.”

Reynolds prepared several similarly daring outfits for Lorelei’s Bruins Care performance. The first, which Reynolds put on in the men’s bathroom when we arrived

at the Northwest Campus Auditorium, consisted of a black catsuit and studded harness. Lorelei had once worn the same outfit to TigerHeat. She had painted her skin purple that night.

But for Bruins Care, Lorelei would be using the suit to perform in the show’s opening number, a rendition of “Time Warp” from “The Rocky Horror Picture Show.”

“I think I’m a little less approachable in drag,” Reynolds said, hiking the shiny black catsuit up over plastic prosthetic hips he’d made himself.

But when Lorelei is on stage, she’s all about connecting with her audience. Reynolds envisions Lorelei as eventually becoming the first drag queen late-night talk show host. The show would be called “Under the Influence with Lorelei.” A dream guest would be actress and transgender activist Shakina Nayfack, he said.

More than anything, Reynolds wants to keep performing drag to share what he feels the craft is all about – leaving fear and insecurity behind. Drag, he said, is uninhibited; it is present.

“No baby is born with insecurities, and that’s the message I want to state with drag,” he said. “With drag, you can let all that go.”

Reynolds proceeded to apply inchlong, bat wing-like lashes to each eye. Drag is all about proportion: The wide eyes and voluminous hair solidify the impression of femininity. The line between Reynolds and Lorelei lies in the lashes and the hair.

“The face looks smaller, everything just looks more womanly,” he said.

Reynolds spiked his hair into a foot-tall mohawk for the “Time Warp” number.

Lorelei smiled at her reflection in the mirror.

The look was complete.

“NO BABY IS BORN WITH INSECURITIES, AND THAT’S THE MESSAGE I WANT TO STATE WITH DRAG.”

15

GRACIAS MAMÁ WRITTEN BY AXEL LOPEZ

PHOTOS BY KRISTIE-VALERIE HOANG

T

he startling sound of my alarm jolted me awake. I opened one of my eyes and saw my mom throwing on her faded red Gap sweater.

She gathered her spray bottles and her rippedup cleaning towels, bundling them all together in her bag to use later for scrubbing floors and wiping windows. She looked at me and playfully said, “¡Levántate flojo! Ya son las cinco de la mañana. ¡Nos vamos a perder el bus!”

I sprung up the moment I heard it was 5 a.m. There was no way my mom and I were going to wait an extra half-hour for our bus in teeth-chattering 40-degree weather. I walked over to our shared closet and put on my Element hoodie – a hand-me-down from my cousin – some khaki shorts and my ripped-up Vans, which I used as work shoes.

Before leaving, I always made sure to lock the door to the tiny room we called home, which was about the size of a classic double in a UCLA residence hall. A short balding man with a peach-fuzz mustache was renting it out to us, and he had a history of walking in and looking through our stuff. We knew we couldn’t trust him – but since moving somewhere else wasn’t an option, we started locking the door.

The bus stop was about a mile away from where we lived. I used to complain about waking up before the sunrise, but I gradually learned to enjoy the quiet of those 5 a.m. walks with my mom. We walked by Troys Donuts and Burgers to grab our favorite breakfast: fresh glazed doughnut holes and a warm latte, which we

shared on our three-hour bus ride.

The trip to her Friday client’s house consisted of three different buses and a 2-mile walk up a hill. As we began our steep climb, I wondered why my mom insisted I help her clean houses every time school wasn’t in session.

“I want you to be better! I don’t want you to suffer when you’re older like how we’ve suffered,” she said. “I know you’re only 13 right now, and you may not understand, but I know you will be incredibly successful one day. I know that you will be accepted into college and become a professional in whatever you choose. I know that you will give yourself and your future family a much better lifestyle than the one I’ve been able to give you.”

Achieving a more comfortable life for myself means the world to my mother, who immigrated to El Monte, California, from Acapulco, a seaport city in Guerrero, Mexico. She arrived in the early 1990s as an ambitious 20-yearold, ready to dive into the pool of opportunities that weren’t available in her poverty-stricken and dangerous hometown. Unfortunately, she struggled to find a career and her savings quickly ran low, so she had to clean houses to survive.

I was too young at the time to understand what success or a comfortable life meant, but I was old enough to understand what suffering was, and I wanted to avoid it when I grew up.

The small room we lived in at the time was the most stable home I had had in more than four years. Before miraculously finding that

“I don’t want you to suffer when you’re older like how we’ve suffered,” she said.

16 CULTURE

room for $550 a month, we lived in my mom’s friend’s living room in Duarte, California.

All our belongings were stuffed into the corner of the living room, and every night, my mom tucked me into her friend’s comfy couch and kissed me good night, promising to make things better. I could never fall asleep because I was always eavesdropping on their conversations in the kitchen. I was worried about my mother and how she was dealing with her recent breakup from an emotionally abusive relationship. I would often hear her crying, which would make me cry as well, remembering the last words her boyfriend had said before kicking us out of his house and ending things with my mom.

“Listen!” He exclaimed in a voicemail he had left for her.

“I don’t care how you do it, but you have until tonight to pack your things, grab your son and get the hell out of my house!”

My mom seemed so hopeless in that moment. “Mo–,” my voice broke as I started sobbing, “Mom, listen to me.

He doesn’t want us anymore. We’ll figure out where we’re going to sleep later, but for now, we have to pack up our things and leave. We will get through this. I know we will.”

Remembering those difficult times as we carried our cleaning supplies up the steep hill brought my mom and me great pain. However, those same moments filled us with a powerful motivation to climb our way out of poverty and improve our circumstances. We didn’t know how we were going to succeed, given our recent hardships – all we knew was that we were going to succeed.

For us, success meant me becoming the first in our family to attend a four-year university.

But I chose to goof off and not pay attention in class, and I barely passed my freshman year of high school with a 2.7 GPA. I had to repeat Algebra II that summer.

“Do you really want to end up like me?!” my mom said.

18 CULTURE

“Do you really want to wake up at 5 in the morning, go on a three-hour bus ride and clean some rich person’s house? Or do you want to live comfortably enough to the point where you don’t have to worry month-to-month about the rent, food and clothes?”

I had to start making academic changes and focusing on the one goal my mom and I were determined to accomplish together: getting into college.

After-school tutoring at the school library became a part of my daily routine. I stopped doodling and started studying late into the night. I still found time to joke around with friends, but I paid full attention to my teacher once class started. My GPA improved from a 2.7 to a 3.5 during my sophomore year. I earned above a 4.0 GPA every semester from that point onward, and ended high school with a 3.9 overall. My school counselor recommended I apply for the Hispanic Scholarship Fund’s Youth Leadership Institute, a three-day college preparatory camp at UC Davis that took place the summer before my senior year.

I had never been on a college campus before, and I had never been surrounded by so many students with similar backgrounds and dreams. Hispanic CEOs, lawyers and doctors all came to this program to share their experiences. Most of them were first-generation college students who, with hard work, had achieved what my mom and I dreamed that I would accomplish.

“We didn’t know how we were going to succeed, given our recent hardships – all we knew was that we were going to succeed.”

On the long bus ride back to LA, I remember thinking to myself, “A four-year university isn’t enough. It has to be a top four-year. I know I am capable of it and I know I will accomplish it. I can do this.”

The first admission letter I received was from California State University, Long Beach. Being accepted to my first four-year university was incredibly exciting and I felt grateful that I was going to college, no matter what the next two months of decision letters would bring. Four acceptances followed and every single one brought incredible joy to my mother. However, we were still waiting to hear

from UCLA. It was a Friday. I was sitting in my AP English Literature and Composition class and all the students were talking about receiving UCLA decision letters later that day. After school, I went over to a friend’s house and took an hourlong nap. I woke up at 6 p.m., grabbed my phone, and immediately logged in to my application portal.

“CONGRATULATIONS! You’re #UCLAbound!”

I couldn’t believe it. I quickly read through the entire letter just to verify whether it was true or not. It was true. I had been accepted to the most applied-to school in the nation. I fell to my knees and started crying. As I was crying, I immediately called my mom.

“Mom! I got accepted to UCLA! We did it! I can’t believe this!”

To my mom, getting accepted to any college was a huge accomplishment. I had to explain to her the significance of what UCLA meant. She couldn’t hold back the tears.

“I’m so incredibly proud of you! With this, I can forget about all the suffering and pain we went through together.

With this, I know that it was all worth it.”

Not one day at UCLA goes by when I don’t think about

my mom.

*** I enjoy running around UCLA’s perimeter twice a week, and I always notice the gated houses with beautiful front gardens on Hilgard Avenue. As I run by these elegant houses with chandeliers visible through the windows – similar to the ones my mom used to clean – I think to myself, “Wow. I really am here. This isn’t just a dream anymore.”

Other times, when I’m studying, I look at a picture in my dorm of my mom and me from my high school graduation, and I start daydreaming about graduating from UCLA and being able to hug my mom and whisper in her ear, “Everything we went through. Everything we had to deal with. All the hardships that came our way. And we still made it here? Thank you for always believing in me. I love you so much.”

My story started out as a dream an immigrant parent had for her only child. I now get to live that dream every day, and I will never forget the sacrifices made and the tears shed throughout this journey.

Gracias mamá por todo. Te quiero mucho.

more than a survivor WRITTEN BY HANNAH BURNETT PHOTOS BY HANNAH BURNETT &

KRISTIE-VALERIE HOANG

A

lone in the hallway of an emergency room, with vomit in my hair and makeup running down my face, I learned I had been sexually assaulted.

Unlike many other women who have stood in the same place, my assault did not happen the previous night. It did not happen the week before, or even the same year. My assault took place 14 years ago, when I was 5.

But I didn’t remember it until February 2017.

I was at a friend’s apartment party when I blacked out halfway through the night. I was gurneyed away by an EMT and woke up in an empty hallway covered with a hospital gown, with an IV in my arm and my pants undone – why were my pants undone?

I did not know why I was there, but my open zipper made me assume the worst. After sitting there for what felt like hours, but was actually only five minutes, an emergency room doctor approached me. Her words – “Do you remember what you said last night?” – are still carved into my mind.

During my blackout the night before, I had shouted, “I was raped.” An EMT, whose face and name I cannot recall, stopped wheeling me and asked if it happened at this party. No, it hadn’t.

The memory began spilling out of me like liquid spills out of a jar that’s shattered on the floor. A man I was close with had sexually assaulted me when I was 5 years old.

The trauma of the experience had forced my mind to push the memory to the deepest corner of my subconscious in an attempt to protect me from the damage of the event. That night of excessive

drinking had unlocked the repressed memory, allowing me to finally make my long-awaited outcry and begin my healing.

Remembering my assault years later did not make dealing with it any less traumatic. In order to start healing, I had to force myself to remember.

Part of me feels like I should have known what I had experienced or remembered sooner. At about age 7, my body started to try to make me remember. I remember standing in the middle of the cereal aisle of a Pavilions grocery store when I dropped to the floor because of a knifelike stabbing sensation in my vagina.

I endured this pain hundreds of times for the next 12 years. I went to countless gynecologists who could not pinpoint the cause, giving me diagnosis after diagnosis: overactive cervix, endometriosis, ovarian cysts and pelvic floor spasms. No diagnosis ever stopped the pain.

I tried to come to terms with the pain and the constant visits to the doctor by making art about my experience, trying to understand what my body was going through. But my body continued to battle me until I made my outcry.

Once I remembered my assault, the stabbing sensations stopped. I realized I was experiencing phantom pain of my assault, similar to how amputees feel pain where their limbs used to be. My body wanted me to remember, but I just couldn’t.

As my body came to terms with the assault, I tried to do the same emotionally. At the advice of a friend, I tried group and personal therapy sessions.

However, this meant I needed to relive the assault over and over to recognize it had happened.

+ Remembering my

+

+

assault years later did not make dealing with it any less traumatic.

In order to start healing, I had to force myself to remember.

+

WINTER 2018

21

I found it difficult to participate in group therapy.

Even though I was surrounded by women recounting assaults of their own, I felt isolated and alone. The women in my group had more recent experiences and remembered every painful detail. No one had an experience like mine, and I felt so alone.

I would like to say that my situation is special and different, but it is not. My one-on-one therapist helped me recognize that I am not the only one who was assaulted as a child. My discovery was just unique, she said.

I knew my attacker; I spent countless hours in his company and I trusted him. He exploited this trust and took advantage of a 5-year-old girl who did what she was told. I could reveal his name and how I knew him, but this is my narrative, and he does not hold that power over me anymore.

Telling my family was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do. I did not want them to see me as weak and someone to be pitied. I also knew they would each blame themselves, but there isn’t – and wasn’t – anyone to blame but my abuser.

Each of them took it differently. My mother cried when I told her over the phone, but she pulled herself together to be what she thought I needed: a rock. A month later, she finally broke. She called me crying and said she hoped I did not blame her for what happened. She said if she had known, she would have protected me. I hope she knows I would never make her take on the burden of fault, or even think of

22 CULTURE

blaming her for my assault.

My sister’s reaction was completely different. I only found out very recently that, at the time, she never really grasped what I was saying. When she did, she broke in a different way. A kind of anger I had never seen before overtook her. She was mad at herself for not protecting me from the world. She said it seemed that nothing ever went in my direction. I am always sick, I was bullied in high school, and now, this. She told me that every time I came close to what she saw as strong and thriving, the world seemed to push me down.

But I am thriving. I am strong. Vocalizing and living through the abuse will never change that. I am not ashamed to admit what happened to me, and I am not afraid to talk about it anymore.

For others, finding out about my assault has shifted the way they see me. The people I tell always give me the same response – the sad eyes, the “I’m so sorry that happened to you” and the arm touch or hug.

After disclosing my experience to the people closest in my life, I have learned they classify me in one of two ways: survivor or victim.

Those who have seen my battles with mental health over the years tend to classify me as a victim.

They like to believe that my assault is the root of my problems and that I suffer at the hands of the residual effects of the trauma. They use the label “victim” as an explanation for my mental health.

seen for the art I produce and the person I am, rather than as a victim or a survivor. Words like these lock us in our pasts and force us to relive the abuse we sustained. Why do I need to be defined by something that happened so many years ago? We should not be giving power to our abusers by selecting labels that correspond in some way to our assault.

I am not going to say that learning about and emotionally moving through my childhood sexual assault has not changed me. I am more aware of my surroundings and still go to therapy once a week, but I am still me. I still practice my art and drink copious amounts of coffee.

My mom and I argue about the cleanliness of my room, and my sister tells me I watch too much TV. I do not identify as a survivor or victim, because I act the same as always. If I do not see myself in either light, then why should the rest of the world?

I just want to be me.

+

+

When I first discovered my assault, I called myself a survivor; but in order to move forward, I needed to shed this label.

+

My trauma did not make me depressed or promiscuous or anxious. Depression and addiction are so deeply rooted in my family history that even if I had not been assaulted, I would be in the exact same position.

I get called a survivor by people, mostly women, who want to make me feel powerful.

They want to make me triumphant, to make me the victor, to make it seem like I have come out on top of my abuse. But what happened to me was not a contest or a battle in which a winner could emerge. I will admit that when I first discovered my assault, I called myself a survivor; but in order to move forward, I needed to shed this label. By staying a survivor, I would be stuck in the past, unable to move forward and heal.

I do not want to give the man that harmed me so many years ago that kind of power over my life. I want to live my life the same way I have done for the past 19 years. I want to keep being

Why do I need to be defined by something that happened so many years ago? We should not be giving power to our abusers by selecting labels that correspond in some way to our assault.

WINTER 2018

23

+

breaking the language

BARRIER WRITTEN BY CHRISTI CARRAS PHOTOS BY AUBREY YEO, AXEL LOPEZ & DAYOUNG LEE ILLUSTRATIONS BY QINGQING SU

C

arla Cruz Medina was a star student growing up in Guarapo, Mexico. A picture of her hung inside the front doors of her elementary school building, celebrating her top-of-the-class status.

But when her family immigrated to Sacramento, her third-grade classmates didn’t consider her bright. They laughed at her accent whenever she raised her hand in class to ask permission to get up and drink water. She listened to them speaking around her, but she understood nothing.

“You feel like you’re a little deaf and a little mute at the same time,” Cruz Medina said.

She aced her exams in Guarapo, but in Sacramento, she failed every spelling test. She received English tutoring every day from her assigned English as a second language teacher, Ms. Carmen, who she remembers as a kind Mexican woman with light skin and curly hair. However, those lessons came at a price.

As her peers filed into the classroom at the start of each day, Cruz Medina followed Ms. Carmen to a separate room near the front office. She only reunited with her classmates for math, which was considered a universal language. While she appreciated the one-on-one help, she couldn’t help but feel even more ostracized.

Cruz Medina is now a third-year Spanish and biology student at UCLA. She volunteers as a tutor and serves as secretary for Students for Progress in Employee

24 CULTURE

Language Learning, or Project SPELL, a community service organization that pairs UCLA student tutors with UCLA employees who want to learn English as a second language.

For both the tutors and the learners, the program provides an opportunity to break down the language barrier, which can make transitioning into the American workforce and education system terrifying for non-native English speakers.

Project SPELL Program Director Stephanie Youngblood decided to become an ESL teacher after she witnessed children and adults bullying young non-native English speakers. While working in Bridgeport, Connecticut, Youngblood tried to keep her students from feeling excluded.

Other children would use her students’ lack of confidence as an excuse to be cruel. Bullies often pulled at one of her pupils’ school uniform skirt. The 9-year-old girl cried every day.

“When someone doesn’t understand the language, I think people think that they can take advantage of them,” Youngblood said. “They don’t realize the impact they’re having.”

Youngblood said she believes some of her students dropped out because the system was stacked against them. Not completing their education left them financially unstable, and a few asked her for money because they

LOVE MEXIC O

E G A U G N LA

HARD

SC HO OL A CC EN T

RRYY T T N N U OU C CO

couldn’t afford clothing for their children.

“They don’t always go down the path you want them to,” Youngblood said. “You have them for a year, and then they’re not yours anymore.”

Seeing students surmount many obstacles, like Cruz Medina has, makes teaching ESL rewarding for Youngblood.

Though she speaks English fluently and has lived in the U.S. for 12 years, Cruz Medina said she thinks some people still don’t consider her American.

Chatting with Cruz Medina at UCLA’s Volunteer Day in 2016, a first-year student interrupted their small talk to ask her where she was from. She couldn’t

place Cruz Medina’s accent.

“All of my life, I’ve worked really hard to get rid of it, and I thought I didn’t have one anymore, so it really hit me,” Cruz Medina said. “I may try as hard as I can, but there’s just some things you can’t control.”

Through her work at Project SPELL, Cruz Medina hopes she can help others who continue to feel they don’t belong because of the language barrier.

“I just want to pass it on, because it’s so important for people like me, that come from another country, to see that you can make it,” Cruz Medina said. “It is hard, but it’s not impossible.”

WINTER 2018

25

NERVOUS

D ND AN RSSTTA DEER U ND UN

SPEAK

ENGLISH

Santos Argueta’s paperwork to join Project SPELL looked like it had been completed during an earthquake, Youngblood said.

English is not his first language, and his shaky penmanship reflected the anxiety that struck him whenever he had to write or speak English.

Argueta works as a custodian at the UCLA Center for Health Sciences and is now enrolled in Project SPELL. He meets with Cruz Medina twice a week to develop his conversational English skills so he can understand and communicate with his co-workers.

Argueta moved to the U.S. permanently from El Salvador in 2004 in search of work, but he struggled with job applications that included unfamiliar words with dual meanings. When an employer asked for his previous job “title,” did they mean the title of a book? A movie? The ambiguities built into the English

26 CULTURE

SCHO OL

language frustrated him.

“I decided, ‘I need to learn English if I want to get a better job,’” Argueta said.

Youngblood said her conversations with Argueta have become more relaxed since he started working with his tutor, Cruz Medina. When Youngblood first met Argueta in September 2014, he shook with anxiety while speaking with her.

Now, Argueta takes pride in his ability to converse with his co-workers and offer lost students directions to different locations on campus. He fondly remembers his first successful conversation with his boss at the health center.

“It was nice because I knew she was understanding me,” he said. “You know when someone is not understanding you. You can (see) it in their face.”

Argueta joins Cruz Medina every Tuesday and

CE N A CH

ISH N A SP

SPEAK

INTE RVIE W

PR AC TIC E

JOB

Wednesday for a lesson on a paid break in his workday.

Cruz Medina structures each lesson according to Argueta’s evolving learning needs and progress. Together, they pull books from Project SPELL’s library and read them aloud. Argueta reads from a history book on Martin Luther King Jr., and the pair pauses each time he stumbles on a particular word or phrase, and they repeat the section back to each other.

“I know how difficult it is for people, especially (the) working class, to be successful in this country without knowing English,” Cruz Medina said. “Someone helped me learn English, and I have to help someone, too.”

WINTER 2018

27

Mirna Velasco remembers falling asleep in her third-grade class while her teacher was reading a book. The book was in English, and the hum of foreign sounds lulled her to sleep. She woke up to her classmates’ laughter. They were laughing at her.

Velasco, now a third-year psychology student and materials manager at Project SPELL, said her mind often wandered during her early elementary school lessons in Gilroy, California. She had just emigrated from Oaxaca, Mexico, and found it difficult to stay focused on a curriculum taught in a language she didn’t know.

“Even though you are physically in the room, you’re not there,” Velasco said. “What was the whole point of listening when you can’t understand anything?”

Eventually, her teacher decided to allow Velasco to learn English through programs on the classroom computer while the other students participated in daily lessons. By fifth grade, Velasco was bilingual.

During her freshman year of high school, Velasco used her mastery of both English and Spanish while volunteering for a nonprofit that helps non-native English speakers and writers prepare for their U.S. citizenship tests. She continues to aid those learning English as a second language through

her work at Project SPELL. Velasco has tutored four UCLA employees who work in facilities management and food services on campus and the Hill. She tailors her lessons to each of her learners’ specific goals, such as building the English vocabulary necessary to comfortably navigate an airport or converse fluently with other English speakers.

“I resonated with them because when I first came here, I didn’t know the language,” Velasco said. “I know how much you struggle to learn a language, how much it is to understand something that you don’t know.”

As a third-grader, Velasco had trouble connecting with her classmates. Aside from laughing and staring when she dozed off in class, the other students never acknowledged her.

A shy, self-conscious girl, she wondered if it was because she looked different or couldn’t speak English. Everyone had already solidified their groups of friends and no one was willing to welcome a new member, regardless of their language abilities.

“One of the hardest things was even though there were kids there who knew how to speak Spanish, they wouldn’t approach me,” Velasco said. “They would just ignore me.”

While the other kids ran to the playground for recess,

“WHAT WA POINT OF LIS YOU CAN’T ANYT

Velasco stayed behind after every lunch period, helping the janitors pick up milk cartons. Unlike many of her classmates, the janitors spoke Spanish. “(The janitor) would ask me, ‘Why aren’t you playing?

It’s time for you to go play,’” Velasco said.

But each day, she skipped playtime in favor of their company, explaining she had no one else to talk to.

During her first month at her new school, she only conversed with the janitors and her teacher, until one of her classmates approached her in the lunchroom and asked her to play.

At the janitors’ insistence, Velasco accepted the offer and joined the girl and her friends on the playground.

Instead of using Spanish, the native English speaker communicated with Velasco through the universal language of candy, coloring books and Barbie stickers.

“It made me realize that someone does actually care about what I’m feeling, or that someone just wants to be my friend,” Velasco said.

Velasco no longer relies on stickers and coloring books to make friends – but she hasn’t forgotten the girl’s kindness.

“I couldn’t understand her, and she couldn’t

understand me, but she was the first person who approached me – who actually played with me – after three weeks of being alone,” Velasco said.

Though she now speaks English fluently, Velasco said she still feels self-conscious in social situations. She sometimes worries she won’t be understood because she feels like she still has an accent, and occasionally struggles to understand certain words her professors say in lecture.

“That kind of pushes me back, not to be sociable,” she said. “Even in classes or discussions, yes, I’m physically there and listening, but it’s hard for me to give my opinion.”

Looking back on growing up with a language barrier still pains Velasco, but if she could, she would tell her third-grade self that she would be capable of overcoming that obstacle when nobody else could – not even her parents, who did not have the English language skills to help her with her schoolwork.

“If you want to do something ... let no one stop you,” Velasco said. “If you don’t fight for yourself, no one will. … Just go for it, because fear is going to keep you stuck where you are, and it’s not going to let you move on.”

AS THE WHOLE STENING WHEN UNDERSTAND THING?”

WINTER 2018

29

EE V V O O R R MPP IIM

OPPORT UNITIES

N O I T A I C N PRONU

STUDY LAU GH

S K O BO

In 1991, Evicente Santillan received a letter signed by Bill Gates. He took one look at the words on the page before throwing it in the trash.

Having spent much of his life in the Philippines, Santillan, a UCLA food service worker, was unfamiliar with Gates’ name and accomplishments. But after he made Los Angeles Trade Technical College’s dean’s list three consecutive times, Gates took notice of him, inviting him to take a computer networking class in Glendale, California.

Santillan saw the $6,000 tuition listed in the letter and assumed someone was trying to scam him for money.

Almost 30 years later, he still wonders how his life might

30CULTURE

N A I C I N H C TE CLA

ASS

N R LEA

have played out if he had responded to the letter.

“There’s a saying that when opportunity comes, it’s only once,” Santillan said. “If you don’t grab it, you lose it. It will not come back.”

While his prior knowledge of American public figures may have been limited, Santillan was relatively comfortable with English when he came to the U.S. in 1989. English lessons are built into the education system in the Philippines, and much of the native population is fluent in both English and Tagalog. Even presidential addresses are given in English. Despite his fluency, Santillan saw Project SPELL as an opportunity to improve his pronunciation of certain

words, which caused obstacles for him transitioning into the American workforce.

“Everyone should have a general knowledge of English if they go to school, but no one really tells you how to pronounce words,” Santillan said.

When he first started working at Bruin Café, Santillan said he could tell students laughed at him for mispronouncing order numbers. He often replaced “f” sounds with “p” sounds, saying “pour” instead of “four.”

After work, Santillan went home and practiced saying numbers over and over, mimicking how they were pronounced in TV programs or YouTube videos.

“When they laugh at me, I try to improve my pronunciation,” Santillan said. “Maybe in three years nobody will laugh anymore.”

Santillan is no stranger to studying toward a goal. He earned a bachelor’s degree in electrical engineering while living in the Philippines and took classes at LA Trade Tech with the intention of becoming a computer technician.

Since then, he has been presented with opportunities to enter the engineering field, such as an offer from a federal administration to work in the airline business. But obtaining such a job requires U.S. citizenship, and the process of becoming a citizen can be daunting for a non-native English speaker.

“Aside from the education not being equal, it’s also the language that makes it harder for them to come here and get a job that they studied for,” said Marinell Pancho, Santillan’s Project SPELL tutor. “They could have another profession, but since the language barrier exists, they don’t really grab the best opportunity. They grab what’s the most accessible.”

Pancho, a fourth-year political science student, became an ESL tutor in part because her mother has faced similar obstacles searching for jobs in America. Her mother studied for her degree in accounting in the Philippines, but instead of becoming a bookkeeper, she now works as a housekeeper because of her discomfort with English.

Like Santillan, Pancho’s mother primarily struggles with pronunciation. Pancho and her sibling used to mock their mother for her accent, but now she helps her mother overcome it by gently correcting her mispronunciations. At school, she does the same for Santillan. “(Santillan) made me realize that maybe my mom is, deep inside, really embarrassed that she’s pronouncing words different from her children,” Pancho said.

Santillan said he rarely draws laughs from students anymore, but he still wants to become more effective at communicating to help other food service workers perform more efficiently.

Santillan often notices his co-workers at Bruin Plate fixating on a particularly difficult task, like scrubbing a foodcaked dish, which prevents them from advancing to the next task. He wanted to advise them to approach the work like a seasoned exam-taker: Save the harder problems for the end.

Santillan hopes to eventually make his expertise accessible to others by writing and lecturing about both engineering and food service work in English and Tagalog.

“I want to improve my pronunciation, and maybe someday I can write something interesting and somebody will read it,” Santillan said. “I notice that when you want to relay something, you need to make your own books, so somebody can look over it – so you can contribute.”

Although Cruz Medina and Pancho received ESL lessons as part of their education in America, both said they wished schools and workplaces would make more of an effort to support non-native English speakers.

Cruz Medina considers herself lucky because her elementary school offered ESL lessons not only for immigrant students, but for their parents as well. Conversely, Velasco’s elementary school had no formal ESL programs or staff, leaving her to learn the language through computer games while her classmates studied the core curriculum.

In addition to incorporating ESL programs in more schools, Pancho wishes more workplaces offered opportunities like Project SPELL for their employees. However, she does believe the stigma surrounding non-native English speakers’ intellectual capabilities is slowly eroding, leading to a more effective, community-based approach to breaking the language barrier. Those who have experienced the pressures of the language barrier firsthand can now offer insightful help to others in similar situations. Immigrant tutors like Pancho, Cruz Medina and Velasco are part of that change.

“Before, a lot of people thought that you can’t teach English if you’re not born here or if you’re not a native English speaker,” Pancho said. “Now, I think we’re realizing that even ESL students can be ESL teachers.”

WINTER 2018

31

reclaiming our

WRITTEN BY OLIVIA MAZZUCATO PHOTOS BY STELLA HUANG

G

rowing up, my sister Julia and I used to attend the Japanese Obon festival, honoring the spirits of our ancestors. We dressed up in kimonos and tried our best to follow the dance movements of our greataunt.

Other times, at my grandmother’s Orange County home, we’d help make polenta and gnocchi, and after dinner, we’d play Italian card games like Briscola and Scopa.

That duality felt normal when we were younger. We grew up with it; it was part of our lives. But as we both became teenagers, our perceptions of ourselves began to change.

My sister and I are biracial – Japanese on our mother’s side and Italian on our father’s side – but we look nothing alike. I’m somewhat ethnically ambiguous in appearance and Julia is white-passing – even though we share the same DNA, most people assume she’s just white.

During recent conversations with my sister, however, I found we’ve faced many of the same hurdles when it comes to identity and belonging. We both hope that fostering a larger conversation about biracial identities will help society normalize biracial people, not treat them with curiosity.

One thing Julia and I have bonded over is something we’ve termed the “racial guessing game” – when complete strangers make a game out of guessing where we’re both from.

I’m used to being asked, “What are you?” No matter how many times I hear it or any variation of it – “Are you mixed?” or “Where are you really from?” – it catches me off guard. One time, a man I’d never met stopped me on the streets of Westwood to take a guess. I’ve gotten everything from Latina to Greek. For some reason, people seem to love speculating about why I look the way I do.

Julia, as I found out, experiences the same thing.

She runs a beauty YouTube channel and regularly fields questions about her ethnicity in the comments, so much so that she adds an FAQ section to the

32 CULTURE

description on each video. Now, in between questions about using cruelty-free makeup and how to pronounce our last name, she includes:

Q

What is your ethnicity?

I am 50 percent Japanese and 50 percent European (a blend of Russian, Italian and a little German).

A

When I asked her to show me some of the comments she receives, she told me that wouldn’t be possible: She deletes all of them because they make her mad, which I understand.

While most people probably have good intentions, there are only so many times one can tolerate such intrusive yet casual scrutiny.

However, there is one notable difference in the guesses Julia and I receive when we become unwilling participants in the racial guessing game. People typically only guess European countries for Julia, and are often skeptical when she tells them she’s actually half Japanese.

Julia is quick to recognize that she comes from a position of relative privilege in terms of race – perhaps the biggest discrepancy between our experiences.

“I realize that I am afforded so many things because I look a certain way,” Julia said. “I acknowledge the privileges that come with being white-passing, and I have not had the same experiences as you have. I haven’t been racially discriminated against because I’m Asian, like you have, because you appear to be Asian.”

As someone who is often perceived as an Asian woman, I have experienced several different forms of racial prejudice and discrimination. The most memorable experience for me was when someone on a dating app called me an “Oriental motherfucker” and a “dumb fat Asian,” and asked if I ate dog. Charming.

This brand of racism is luckily not an everyday occurrence for me, but it is something that I have had to contend with, while my sister has been able to avoid it. In some ways, though, I find it much easier to dismiss vitriolic racism than some of the subtle microaggressions my sister and I have both experienced.

Like me, Julia grew up blissfully unaware of the confusion our identity could create until she entered high school.

While I went to a performing arts high school, Julia attends a public high school in Irvine with a deeply competitive atmosphere. In the past year, the racial demographics of her surroundings – Irvine is about 40 percent white and 40 percent Asian – have brought her identity into focus for the first time.

In her precalculus class, Julia was assigned to a table group with four other Asian students. Looking around, she noticed that the majority of the class was Asian, and commented on her observation.

Her classmates responded: Yes, except for you.

“When I told them I was half Japanese, they told me I ‘wasn’t really Asian,’” Julia said. “I was confused and they

WINTER 2018

33

said, ‘Well, you’re only half Japanese and Japanese people are the most whitewashed Asian people.’ In that moment, I just suddenly became aware of how they perceived me. I didn’t realize that they saw me as the white girl in sheep’s clothing.”

That idea that we are somehow not enough, that undermining of identity, is a consistent issue for both of us.

Julia articulated many of the feelings we share about the oddity of others guessing at our identity.

“That’s 50 percent of my genetics, that’s 50 percent of my heritage, and to have that half of my identity be denied to me was strange,” she said. “It sucks feeling like you don’t really have a place, and that goes for anything, but I guess what’s most annoying about it, especially now that I’ve become more conscious of being excluded, is that this is something that I fight very hard to acknowledge in myself.”

Even though I’m not white-passing, and I do look like I am Asian, I could pinpoint an exact moment in my life, in elementary school, when I felt the same sense of loneliness and exclusion.

My sister and I used to work as background extras in movies and TV shows. We were catalogued in a database by various specifications –

“

CULTURE

That’s

age, height, abilities and race.

One day, a call came in from “NCIS: Los Angeles.” They were looking for a featured extra, not just a human prop to place in the background. I was excited and watched eagerly as my father called in to get the details. The conversation was short, and he hung up.

He told me they had pulled up my picture and changed their mind.

They were looking for a young Asian girl, and upon seeing my face, they decided I didn’t look the part. Their exact words were that I wasn’t “Asian enough.”

Their exact words were that I wasn’t ‘Asian enough.’

I remember feeling a mixture of embarrassment and confusion. The next day, when I told the story at school, I accompanied it with a laugh and a grin. I told the story as a ridiculous joke, and that’s what it was. But no matter how many times I told the story, those words stuck with me. How could I not be enough?

Comments like these undermine my sense of identity and make me question who I am on a deeply

personal level. Julia and I have both wondered if we are “Asian enough,” with varying levels of intensity.

Despite that one experience, I’ve always taken my Japanese identity and heritage for granted, whereas Julia has approached it with more apprehension. I have, however, struggled to legitimize my Italian identity more so than my Japanese identity.

No one ever questions Julia’s Italian heritage. But when I traveled to Italy last summer, I became aware of just how different I was from my family and fellow Italians, even though my grandparents were immigrants, making my father a first-generation Italian-American.

As we traveled through the northern Italian countryside, I was hyperconscious of my differences in a way that I rarely am. At a large event with family and friends, one woman singled me out – I was the only person of color – to show me pictures of her adopted Asian grandchild.

Perhaps Julia and I both gravitate toward the parts of our identity that we feel most alienated from. I’ve made several attempts to learn how to speak Italian over the years, while Julia has always been fascinated with Japanese history. I don’t think it’s conscious,

50 percent of my genetics, that’s 50 percent of my heritage, and to have that half of my identity be denied to me was strange.

”

but it’s almost as if we do these things to try to reclaim that heritage, to make us more deserving of it.

Despite my own internal struggles with what part of my identities I claim, I’ve never hesitated to selfidentify as a woman of color. But for Julia, it had always been a question rather than a statement.

“I just didn’t really feel comfortable identifying as that, because I haven’t faced terrible acts of racism,” Julia said. “It’s just feeling like I’m not enough. I don’t have the experiences that these people have. I don’t fit every single characteristic. (It’s) almost like it would be offensive for me to claim that kind of identity, so I shied away from it for a long time, but now I’m just like, this is who I am.”

Her answer stunned me for two reasons. First, I realized that even though I’m comfortable calling myself a woman of color, I too sometimes feel like I don’t have the right to talk about my experiences because they aren’t “bad enough.” Again, the idea that there is some unspoken, unmeasurable quota that I don’t fulfill looms over me, as it does for her.

And secondly, when I asked her, she didn’t hesitate to confirm her identity as a woman of color. I couldn’t help but wonder what provoked that change. Julia said there wasn’t a specific moment when she decided to claim the identity. Instead, it resulted from a build-up of feelings and events.

“I’m missing out on a large part of who I am and I felt like I needed to reclaim that,” she said. “I needed to

embrace that, and I’ve been letting people walk all over me because they didn’t think that I was enough to be part of that community. So now, I’m just saying that’s who I’m going to be.”

Despite this recent shift, Julia still faces major mental roadblocks in fully claiming her biracial identity.

I’m missing out on a large part of who I am and I felt like I needed to reclaim that.

I asked Julia if she would go to an Obon dance now like we used to when we were children, and she hesitated before saying no.

“I would love to – I wish I could,” Julia said. “But it’s no longer, ‘Oh look, it’s grandparents taking their little white grandchildren to experience this culture,’ now it’s, ‘Oh it’s a white girl who came because she wanted to experience Japanese culture.’ I guess that’s one of the things I have to deal with. Because of all the advantages that being ‘white’ carry, the one thing that I do have to grapple with is the erasure of 50 percent of my biology.”

I was shocked. I joined the San Fernando Valley Japanese American Citizens League last year and had considered attending their Obon festival without question. This festival connects us to members of our family.

My main memories of my greatgrandmother, who has since passed

away, are deeply entwined with memories of the festival. I’ve always hoped to return to help me remember that connection with her.

And yet my sister, who used to follow me around and copy my motions as I copied those of the professional dancers, felt she couldn’t share in this significant part of our culture and our history.

In that moment, I wanted to say I would stand by her, that I would welcome her into the dance circle with open arms. But then I realized how patronizing that sounded – she shouldn’t need me to validate her presence just because I happen to look more Asian than she does.

There wasn’t anything to say, and that broke my heart. I love my sister beyond words, and yet we are divided by this nebulous, invisible line.

Maybe she’ll never attend another Obon festival again, but I do hope that one day, my sister and I will be able to dress up in kimonos and dance together, however clumsily.

The U.S. Census Bureau predicts that by the middle of the century, the country will be a majorityminority one, and recent trends show that more and more children are multiracial. Julia and I both hope that some day, as it becomes more prevalent, multiracial identity will be easier to navigate.

Our identity unites and divides us, both from each other and from the communities we tenuously call our own. We’re left to contend with this paradox of who we are.

WINTER 2018

35

wastewood WRITTEN BY LINDSAY WEINBERG PHOTOS BY KEILA MAYBERRY &

LINDSAY WEINBERG

P

arts of Westwood Village look more like a junkyard than a place fit for students to live.

Walking down Strathmore Drive is like trudging through a landfill of Starbucks napkins, empty Amazon boxes, shredded couch cushions and shattered glass. A blue Keystone Light beer can lies in the bushes and a crushed Solo cup rests on an abandoned desk chair. But who is responsible for cleaning up this illegal trash dump – students or the city?

As an initial solution, the city of Los Angeles encourages everyone to recycle furniture by donating it to charity. If you’re unable to,

LA Sanitation offers free pickup and disposal of furniture and big items, which can be requested through the app MyLA311, said Heather Johnson, a public affairs spokesperson. Simple.

Surprisingly, she said Westwood doesn’t have a greater amount of trash than other areas of LA – but that doesn’t mean it’s acceptable.

Leaving your furniture on the sidewalks is, in fact, illegal.

UCLA’s Deputy Chief Sustainability Officer Bonny Bentzin said the priority should be to first reduce consumption – don’t buy furniture you don’t need or take another plastic cup if you can

just rinse out your first one. Second, as the saying goes, reuse. Give your sofa to a friend instead of letting it rot on the sidewalk, because doing so causes others to think it’s OK and follow your lead in dumping more. You can try to repurpose it or, if it comes down to it, recycle your waste.

Bentzin believes everyone wants to do the right thing when it comes to sustainability, but people often don’t know how. But we all must play a role in keeping the streets clean.

“Everyone can be a leader in sustainability – every single person,” Bentzin said.

“

“

EVERYONE CAN BE A LEADER IN SUSTAINABILITY – EVERY SINGLE PERSON.

WINTER 2018

37

A League Of Our Own WRITTEN BY RUPAN BHARANIDARAN

PHOTOS BY QUANZHAO HE & KEN SHIN

ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANGELA SONG & LUDI ZHU

S

unny Yen had just been dismissed from UCLA, and he felt like a wall had come crashing down on him.

He’d been going through a rough patch. Yen’s mother and father were living separately, and he believed by studying at UCLA, far from his mother in Canada, he wasn’t giving her the support she needed. While worrying about his family situation, his grades suffered. The university dismissed him during his freshman year because of his low GPA. “I was in that hole,” he said.

“Nothing (was) working out and (I’d) just been dismissed from my dream school.”

Yen was born in Taiwan, but his mother didn’t get along with his father’s family, so he moved with her to Canada, leaving his father behind.

However, moving away didn’t solve all their problems – even while he was attending UCLA, weekly phone calls with his mother were filled with updates on her disputes with family

40LIFESTYLE

members.

“In a traditional Taiwanese family, it’s very money-based,” Yen said. “My mother didn’t want her children to grow up in a toxic environment like that.”

Yen tried to play video games to escape from his family troubles, but his parents forbade him from playing them at home. He would still sneak into the virtual worlds of “Call of Duty” and “The Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim” whenever he could, especially when he was hanging out with friends.

Now, Yen is back at UCLA as a fifth-year sociology student, and continues to rely on video games, specifically “League of Legends,” as a coping mechanism.

“Gaming in general has helped me get my life back together and gave me enough time to get through that moment in my life,” he said. “A lot of people say gaming is an escape ... but for me, if I don’t have this escape,

this is not going to end well.”

Yen is part of a community of gamers on campus who play video games competitively, spending hours every week perfecting their skills.

Like many gamers at UCLA, Yen started playing League after a friend introduced him to it in high school.

He was amazed he could play with thousands of others online at the same time. The game made Yen feel like he was a part of something bigger.

“I think before ‘League of Legends,’ the technology simply wasn’t there for huge multiplayer games,” he said.

“For me (the game) was just like storytelling.”

League is played in teams of five and each team member controls a particular character. The goal for each team is to destroy the other team’s nexus, which is usually located deep within enemy territory.

Although Yen wasn’t very good when he first picked up League, he

spent so much time on the game – too much time, if you ask him – that he became a relatively highly ranked player.

When he first came to UCLA in 2013, Yen looked for a League team to play on. He’d played on hockey and basketball teams growing up, and wanted to recreate the same sense of camaraderie.

“I enjoyed that team atmosphere,” he said. “We practice hard together, we suffer together, but it’s for a reason.”

But UCLA’s League team was limited to top players and there weren’t any junior varsity teams. So in 2016, he joined the Association of UCLA Gamers, which at the time was the umbrella organization for gaming clubs on campus. Yen also successfully lobbied for a junior varsity team for “League of Legends.”

However, Yen felt the association focused too much on casual gaming and not enough on competitive gaming. By the middle of the 20162017 academic year, the club had stopped being active altogether.

Over the summer, Yen made the decision to help found Esports at UCLA, an organization dedicated to competitive gaming. The club fields teams in various games, from League to “StarCraft.” Volunteers work to make the teams competitive; coaches run practices, analysts break down teams’ strengths and weaknesses, and writers recap notable matches.

Yen acknowledges UCLA has a long way to go if it wants to be competitive in college esports.

Gaming powerhouses such as UC Irvine, which provide scholarships and dedicated facilities for competitive gamers, regularly top the rankings in various esports tournaments.

“It’s a shame. A lot of the gaming clubs had died out and not really

built the community you need to be successful,” Yen said. “The mentality had always been ‘Our teams suck, we never make it past the first round.’”

Austin Quon, a second-year financial actuarial mathematics student, leads UCLA’s “League of Legends” A team. Quon said he is so obsessed with League that he wrote in his college application essay about how playing the game helped improve his social and teamwork skills.

He believes Esports at UCLA provides the gaming community on campus with the organized structure it previously lacked under the Association of UCLA Gamers.

He hopes if the teams become more successful in future tournaments, the university will recognize the esports culture on campus and provide funding for it.

UCLA’s League A team is in the

“A lot of people say gaming is an escape ... but for me, if I don’t have this escape, this is not going to end well.”

top 20 for League’s West Region college circuit, with its members ranking among the top 0.5 percent of League players across North America.

Teams who win in the college circuit can receive thousands of dollars in scholarships – players in first-place teams win $8,000 each – as well as bragging rights.

As the League A team’s manager, Quon helped select players to join the team. Quon recruited second-year computational mathematics student Curtis Xuan over the summer. They never actually met in person until a few weeks after Xuan joined the League team last year, because League matches are played remotely and teams correspond through audio communications built into the game.

“One time I was walking down Bruin Walk and I heard a voice behind, and I’m like ‘This voice sounds very familiar,’ and it was (Quon),” Xuan said. “I turn around and say, ‘Austin?’ and he says, ‘Who are you?’ and I’m like ‘It’s Curtis!’ and that was the first time I met him in person.”

Quon said the team has a good rapport, although he admits that as one of the more talkative people on

WINTER 2018

41

the team, he tends to hog the audio communications in games. While he usually calls the shots, his calls haven’t always been perfect.

During an early match, Quon was convinced one of the opposing team’s players wouldn’t use a special power she had, and urged his team to move forward. He ended up leading them into a trap.

“Within three seconds, the whole team gets blown up,” he said. “The comms just get silent.”

Mustafa Arsiwala, the team’s coach, said the League A team scrimmages with other schools twice a week, with each match lasting two to three hours. He and team analyst Jason Zhao, a first-year mathematics student, go over the recorded footage play by play to point out mistakes or lost opportunities.

Although most members of the team did not know each other beforehand, Arsiwala, a fourth-year psychobiology student, said they have begun hanging out outside matches and getting dinner together.

“If you look at our team GroupMe, there’s over 300 messages a day,” he said.

Most of the League A team players at UCLA have no intention of going pro. However, like with any extracurricular, they have to balance their time between academics and League commitments, often despite

the disapproval of their family and friends.

Xuan’s girlfriend complains he spends more time playing League than being with her, and often isn’t able to accommodate her in his schedule.

“She tells me ‘You’re always playing League,’” he said. “But I don’t know, I try to balance my time.”

One day, Yen hopes to help UCLA become as strong in competitive video gaming as it is in traditional sports.

As esports becomes more mainstream, Yen believes the university may support competitive gamers to improve its reputation.

“UCLA likes to hold up that it has a super high number of NCAA champions,” he said. “But audience numbers for video game finals can be in the millions.”

Going pro Esports isn’t just limited to college teams and players. Competitive video gaming is now a multimillion-dollar industry with major game makers, such as Blizzard Entertainment, building large centers dedicated to the sport.

The Blizzard Arena in Burbank, which opened in 2017 and seats 450 spectators, hosts competitive players of “Overwatch,” a multiplayer shooter game. The players are center stage,

their eyes glued to their screens.

Behind them, a smart wall displays the game in real time. Webcams in their computers provide close-up face shots as they play, giving audience members a more personal look at the competition. Much like typical sports stadiums, Blizzard Arena has concession stands and a souvenir store where fans can purchase team jerseys and other Overwatch-themed items.

“Overwatch” is played by two teams of six, with one team tasked with moving a payload from one end of a course to another, while the other team works to prevent them from accomplishing their task.

The arena is home to the Overwatch League, a professional game circuit that debuted in January 2018.

The league features 12 teams, each representing a different city. Although all the teams reside and play in the Los Angeles area, team names range from Seoul Dynasty and London Spitfire, to Los Angeles Gladiators and San Francisco Shock.

UCLA hasn’t yet become a force in the college esports circuit, but several UCLA students have gone on to become big players in the professional video gaming scene.

Harsha Bandi, coach of San Francisco Shock, dropped out of UCLA last quarter to coach the team full time. Bandi, who had been pursuing a degree in geology, oversees

team practices and prepares strategies for games.

Like many of his friends, Bandi grew up playing games. He said he has also always been obsessed with esports, contributing to niche gaming blogs by providing commentary on games in the professional scene. He became recognized as an expert for his commentary on blogs and videos, and when Blizzard Entertainment was putting together the Overwatch League in November, Bandi was asked to join.

“Personally, I don’t like the thought of attending a day job, just doing stuff I don’t really care about,” he said.

Fortunately for Bandi, he receives competitive benefits to do something he loves – salaries for members of competitive teams start at $50,000, and players are guaranteed housing and food. While some teams live in game houses, Bandi and the other Shock players live in the same apartment complex.

Personalities sometimes collide in gaming houses, Yen said, which helps explain why teams come together and break apart frequently in the competitive gaming scene.

“A lot of players come in super immature. They’ve never lived away from their family, and they’re young kids, like 16, 17,” he said. “Things are expected of them – huge expectations that you’re supposed to be a prodigy.”

Games in the league also feature professional commentators who, in ESPN fashion, assess teams’ strengths and weaknesses and provide live running commentary, which is also

streamed online, at the stadium.

During a recent game between the Houston Outlaws and the San Francisco Shock, commentators noted how Houston’s recent wins and strong players gave it an edge and placed San Francisco at a disadvantage.

Despite being a middleof-the-table team, Bandi is confident the San Francisco team can make the playoffs. Because all the players on the team are so skilled, most of Bandi’s coaching has to do with strategy and countering opposing teams’ plays.

“Everyone is going to be able to play the game well, they’re all going to have the skills,” he said. “The main thing is how we outcompete the other team and avoid positional mistakes.”

Teams in the Overwatch League have dedicated fans. At a recent meet and greet in a sports bar in Burbank following a game, players in the Los Angeles Gladiators signed autographs and met fans decked out in purple team jerseys.

One attendee, Jonathan Palacios, a former student at Mt. San Antonio College, drove all the way from Covina, California, to meet the players in person. Palacios had little interest in esports until he discovered

the Overwatch League online and pledged his loyalty to the Gladiators.

“They’re so real and genuine, and easy to connect to,” he said. “They’re great guys.”

Competitive video gaming may be exploding in popularity, but it is still far from being a widely accepted career path.

Bandi’s family was not happy when he told them he had dropped out of college to pursue his dream of being an esports coach. They wanted him to work in the Texas oil industry.

But Bandi used to skip classes to play games or watch recordings of tournaments, and instead of pursuing a typical 9-to-5 job, going professional felt like the right thing for him to do.

“It took lots of conversations to convince them that this is what I want to do,” he said.

Although Yen spends hours every week managing the various teams under Esports at UCLA and plans to pursue a career in competitive video gaming, he still hasn’t told his mother about what he does. However, he has been able to bond with his father, whom he wasn’t really in touch with, over his interest in esports.

The two enjoy discussing their favorite teams and the viability of the esports industry.

“My dad had heard about how successful a team in Taiwan had been and he asked if this is what I wanted to do,” Yen said. “I think he respects my decision.”

Even though pursuing a career in esports is a difficult, unpredictable path, Yen always keeps in mind how video games have helped him deal with his personal problems. He hopes they continue to help others as well.

“At the end of the day, it is just what I want to do because of that episode in my life,” he said. “But I’m here now. I have a wonderful team, a wonderful group of friends. It’s just so amazing.”

“It took lots of conversations to convince them that this is what I want to do.”

WINTER 2018

43

Testing the Tastemaker

WRITTEN AND PHOTOGRAPHED BY LINDSAY WEINBERG

U

CLA students don’t have the most refined palates – our gotos range from cup noodles to Trader Joe’s microwavable meals.

We need to take a tip from the Los Angeles Times’ restaurant critic Jonathan Gold and see what else is out there. Yet, when Gold releases his annual 101 Best Restaurants in LA list, I roll my eyes, expecting Beverly Hills hotels offering unaffordable

dishes made from candied pansies and caramelized carrots. Maybe USC students can indulge in the top three – Vespertine, Providence and Spago – but I want to find something more fitting for a typical college budget.

Whether you’re looking to impress a Tinder date or treat yourself to a roomie dinner, how affordable are these so-called cheap eats for college kids?

Attari Sandwich Shop 1388 Westwood Blvd., Los Angeles, CA 90024

I

bet you don’t know this place exists. Shockingly, one of Gold’s most affordable restaurants lies in UCLA’s backyard. Attari Sandwich Shop, located south of Wilshire Boulevard, offers Persian sandwiches and kabobs.

At night, its outdoor courtyard is dimly lit, bathed in the red glow of the cursive shop sign. A fountain trickled over the sound of families softly speaking and eating loobia rice or osh soup.

I opted for an $11.50 koobideh kabob made from ground meat, served with rice for $1 more.

Sandwiches are some of the least expensive items at about $9 a sandwich. The kabob dishes can go for as much as $21.95 – not exactly doable on a college budget.

My two kabobs were juicy and well-seasoned, complemented by the simple flavors of a whole roasted tomato, raw onion slices and plain rice with a bit of saffron. The flavorful koobideh kabob felt hearty, though it’s more expensive than the $5 rice bowls you can get at other places in Westwood.

What’s impressive about Attari Sandwich Shop is the atmospheric vibe that is somehow both edgy and homey. Its red lighting creates a mystical ambience, and the nooklike courtyard makes for a cozy spot to take your parents. Attari Sandwich Shop isn’t trying to be trendy or upscale: It’s comfortable being a reasonably priced and authentic home of Persian cuisine.

WINTER 2018

45

Kogi Taqueria 3500 Overland Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90034

A

mong the best-known food trucks in LA, Kogi BBQ made Gold’s list for being “unmistakably from Los Angeles,” as its Korean-Mexican cuisine draws inspiration from two prevalent cultures in the city. The Kogi BBQ food trucks post their schedules online and visit everywhere from Woodland Hills to Downtown LA. Instead of searching for the food trucks, I drove to the taqueria, a permanent taco stand co-founded by famed chef Roy Choi. The Palms restaurant hides in an orange strip mall. One interior wall is painted to look like a food truck, including a spraypainted image of the flaming Kogi logo.

Though the fusion cuisine is most apparent in menu items such as the kimchi quesadilla, the “main eats” are the fabulous street tacos.

Both Gold and the menu agree the short rib taco is the prime dish, hailed as “world famous” and tasting “like home,” whatever the heck that means.

After trying the short rib taco, I agree it’s spectacular.

Priced at 50 cents more than

46 LIFESTYLE

all the other $2.50 tacos, the short rib taco features grilled, fatty beef under a bed of creamy lettuce – all with a saucy kick. The carnitas taco was loaded with dense, almost soggy pork with classic chopped onions and green salsa – it wasn’t the best I’ve had. Kogi’s pollo asado taco was my least favorite of the three; the spicy, scarlet juices overflowed onto the paper plate with every bite.

But the fabulous short rib taco brought Kogi to another level. At $9 for three short rib tacos, Taqueria is definitely a cheap place to taste the most popular fusion food in the city – but let’s just say it’s not an ideal date night spot. Plastic tubs full of brown paper napkins sat on the tabletops, an indication that eating the dripping tacos will leave you with stained red hands. Kogi is, however, an affordable way to try some of the best food this city has to offer.

Bludso’s Bar & Que

609 N La Brea Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90036

M

elrose Avenue might be known for the pink wall and all kinds of hipster juiceries, but the Hollywood street is also home to some classic Texan barbecue.

Gold put Bludso’s on his list in 2016 and, though the original Compton restaurant has permanently closed, I could still find mastermind Kevin Bludso’s spicy, sweet meats at the La Brea location. I counted 11 televisions playing hockey and basketball in the darkened room filled with wooden tables. The entire restaurant faintly smelled of smoke and

F

spices.

I was looking forward to the lunch special, which is $12 for a sandwich, two small sides and a drink, only to find they don’t serve sandwiches on weekends. There goes my college budget.

Instead, diners order their barbecue on a piece of paper, checking whether they want a quarter-, a half- or one pound of brisket, lean brisket, pulled pork or rib tips. You guessed it – this is no place for Melrose vegans.

One chicken link costs a whopping $6; the moist pink sausage is filled with oozing cheese and chopped jalapenos.

My quarter-pound of brisket for $7 was served as two large slabs of melt-inyour-mouth beef on a metal tray. The meal came with small cups of iconic, tangy barbecue sauce.

To complete the Southern experience, you can order sides like mac and cheese, coleslaw or collard greens, for $5 per half pint or $8 a pint. This mac and cheese wasn’t creamy, but thick and sharp – I prefer a bit more liquid in my mac.

As for the meat, I have no complaints. I felt like I was Remy in “Ratatouille,” experiencing a symphony of vibrant, salty flavors.

However, Bludso’s Bar & Que isn’t exactly cheap; customers can easily spend more than $20 per meal with sides. But if the carnivore in you is craving some Texan barbecue, I can’t imagine a more picture-perfect spot.

irst of all, I feel like Gold is cheating by listing Grand Central Market as one restaurant when it contains 38 different vendors. Your experience at Grand Central will no doubt depend on which stall you choose. Dare to wait in line at Eggslut or order vegan ramen at Ramen Hood.

Or follow my lead and try the $9 grilled cheese sandwich at DTLA Cheese and Kitchen – add avocado, a fried egg or bacon for $2 each.

Unfortunately there wasn’t, like, $8 of Jarlsberg in there (the standard by which all grilled cheeses are measured), but there was a hefty serving of three-cheese blend melted between two thick pieces of brioche. My two halves of just-the-right-amount-of-greasy grilled cheese came with pickles and garnishes that were unnecessary. The chefs put

Grand Central Market 317 S. Broadway, Los Angeles, CA 90013

cheese on the grill before placing the sandwich on top to achieve a delicious, crunchy caramelized cheese on the crust.

Don’t forget, this is only one dish at one vendor – DTLA Cheese and Kitchen alone also offers a gooey mac and cheese, creamy tomato soups and cheese plates. The other three dozen or so restaurants serve numerous types of food, from Berlin Currywurst to McConnell’s Fine Ice Creams.

Should a grilled cheese ever cost $9? Probably not, but it wasn’t an outrageous price for indulgent comfort food at an iconic landmark – at least according to “La La Land.” Go for the experience of perusing the darkened downtown market, lined with neon signs and stalls.

Gold listing 38 stands as one restaurant is sneaky, but justified. $10 gets you a solid meal of your choice, and that’s the beauty of it. You can find whatever you’re craving at one bustling market.

WINTER 2018

47