PRIME Winter 2019 Issue

from the daily bruin WINTER 2019

LARGER THAN LIFE APATHY IN THE STANDS

WALKING THE BRUIN WALK

UP FROM THE ASHES

Uncovering the factors leading to low turnout at athletic events at UCLA.

The residents of Bruin Walk explore what called them to our campus.

Students move forward through the aftermath of the 2018 California wildfires.

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prime.dailybruin.com Juliette Le Saint [ PRIME director ] Alexandra Del Rosario [ PRIME content editor ] Megan Le [ PRIME art director ] [ writers ] MacKenzie Coffman, Liz Ketcham, Anush Khatri, Axel Lopez, Elise Tsai, Pauline Ordonez, Mattie Sanseverino, Keshav Tadimeti, Clea Wurster [ photographers ] Joe Akira, Amy Dixon, Kristie-Valerie Hoang, Liz Ketcham, Alex Lopez, Elise Tsai [ illustrators & graphic designers ] Nicole Anisgard Parra, Juliette Le Saint,

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written by PAULINE ORDONEZ illustrations by NICOLE ANISGARD PARRA designed by SAMANTHA JOSEPH

MEMBERING U

CLA’s renowned dining halls dish up diverse and adventurous plates, but even its various and inviting menus don’t satiate the hunger I have for the food I grew up eating at home. I knew that with just one swipe, I was lucky to be eating a diverse amount of food, but I still felt I was missing something. In fact, when I chose to move out to the apartments in my second year, this lack of choice over the food I once ate was one of the main factors that pushed me to leave the dorms and my meal plan behind. Dish after dish, I eventually learned

the inconvenience of cooking for myself, but it was much more fulfilling to struggle through one of my mother’s recipes than it was to wait in line for something spooned onto a plate by a server.

Somehow, to me the struggle was worth it. “What makes food so important?” This question sums up the conversations in my food studies class or with my foodconscious roommate. As food is an essential part of our everyday lives, we can easily forget the significance of the food we consume. I realized I had forgotten, and it was time to remember.

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LEARNED FOOD It was prime time in the dining halls, and Feast at Rieber bustled with hungry Bruins. I squeezed past a throng of students lined up for the featured dish at the Bruin Wok station, eager to get to another station with less waiting. I glanced at the vegetarian option displayed on the screen, which listed peanut butter stew. Squinting at the bowls filled with a thick golden-brown sauce, I edged closer. I suspected this “peanut butter stew” was Feast’s vegetarian version of the Filipino dish kare-kare, a savory, peanut-based stew typically boiled with oxtail, beef, tripe, eggplants, bok choy and string beans. My initial surprise subsided and I quickly grabbed a bowl.

Once I returned to my table and tasted the stew, my confusion only deepened. It certainly emulated kare-kare but lacked the richness from the missing odd cuts of meat that usually dominate the otherwise plain peanut stew. As one of the few Filipino dishes that are neutral in flavor, kare-kare is typically served with a spoonful of

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No one wants to admit that they miss Mom’s cooking. Yet, here I was, yearning for dinner with my family.

bagoong, a pink, salty shrimp paste, to brighten the taste.

That night, the essential bagoong was missing. It made sense, I thought, remembering its notorious strong smell – no one wants that. I similarly justified the absence of the chewy intestine and bone-bound meat. Although I appreciated the surprise of this

take on kare-kare, I knew that the Filipino food I longed for was back in the Filipino diners, served in plastic foam containers by an aproned tita – not in the dining halls. I was unsettled, as the missing ingredients in the karekare reminded me what I was missing in my college diet.

Admittedly, I felt a little silly and a little young missing the food I grew up eating. No one wants to admit that they miss Mom’s cooking. Yet, here I was, yearning for dinner with my family.

That night, I imagined the jar of bagoong sitting at the table before my dad even sat down. If he had been at Feast with me, he would have certainly clicked his tongue in disapproval at the kare-kare sans bagoong. He would have shook his head, equally disappointed in the lack of soft oxtail.

But my dad wasn’t here. And although I imagined his reaction, I realized my own was not much different. I was fooling myself. Far too early, at the age of 18, I had become my dad. Well, at least in my taste buds.

It made sense, considering the steady diet of Filipino food I was fed growing up. We made regular trips to the Filipino markets with cafeterias inside, feasting on greasy breakfasts before stocking up for the week’s dinners. Other weekends we visited my grandparents’ house, where my lola would stuff us full with her famous fish head sinigang, always the perfect level of sour.

At almost all these meals, my dad was the teacher, demonstrating to his children how to eat like a Filipino. We learned that the softest flesh of the fish were in the cheeks and that treasured marrow hid in the bones. We watched my dad eat adobo with atchara and construct halo-halo with all the proper fixings. We learned which condiments went with what and eventually could fetch them before

he would ask.

I knew only because I was taught, and I owed it all to my parents – to my mom, laboring in the kitchen over a cuisine that was not hers, and to my dad, encouraging us at the dinner table to try everything at least once. That’s why I sat there in Feast, unsettled by the imitation kare-kare. My parents had fed me Filipino food, not

So, I sat alone, yearning for what I considered the food of my childhood.

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because they wanted to fill my diet with concerning amounts of oil but because they thought it was important that I grew up eating the same food my dad did.

And they succeeded. I was stirred to longing that night because I knew what was missing. So, I sat alone, yearning for what I considered the food of my childhood.

But that was wrong – Filipino food wasn’t just the food of my youth. It was unbound by a single stage of my life, a part of my past, present and future. I ate as my dad learned from his parents and them from theirs. Now, I eat as I was taught, and in the future I will eat to teach.

I was not less mature for longing for my food. If anything, Filipino cuisine is what grounds me in these years of change and difference.

My parents fed, fed, fed me until the food became an inseparable part of me. Now that I am on my own, I recognize what they taught me, and I am happy to miss it. I may be growing up, but I will never outgrow Filipino food.

GIFTED FOOD

A rule: If you are flying over to family, either returning or visiting, you must bring gifts with you. This is immutable, unspoken. Suitcases, carefully packed after several rounds of weighing and rearranging to stay within the allotted weight limit, should be stuffed with gifts for each family. Only then are you ready to visit.

In my family, the gifts I receive from my relatives have two names depending on which side of the family they come from. My Filipino family gives me pasalubong; my Japanese family gives me omiyage.

They have different names but are usually the same thing: food.

Although Los Angeles has large enough pockets of Filipino and Japanese populations to sustain whole grocery stores specific to each culture’s cuisines, there are still some things that are not available, so the food that comes as pasalubong and omiyage are invaluable currency.

My Filipino cousins visited in the spring, ready to celebrate Easter with us. Of course, they brought with them the standard haul of plastic cylinders containing pastries, such as elephant ears, or jars of tuyo, dried herring swimming in olive oil. At the family reunion, my relatives distributed the much-anticipated pasalubong – cans of fragile barquillos to my tita, banana leaf-wrapped suman in zip-lock bags to my dad and so on.

On the ride home, my little brother cradled the homeland treats we received as a family while I returned to my dorm, empty-handed.

To me, consuming the pasalubong was a rite of being Filipino-American.

For a Fil-Am who had not gone back to the Philippines in over eight years, I considered pasalubong the only Filipino fare directly from the Philippines that I could eat. It wasn’t shipped here packed tight in large commercial crates but instead thoughtfully tucked into my titas’ suitcases. Pasalubong was the Philippines brought to America.

Once I entered college, I no longer had access to the pantry overflowing with jars, cans, packets all mingling with the prized omiyage and pasalubong. In my dorm, I only had a basketful of snacks bought from the local market to stave off hunger in between my 14R meal plan swipe times. The basket was void of any gifts – that was all at home. I was a satellite unit, separate from my family.

A year later, I was in my own apartment, and my basket of food upgraded to a fridge and a cabinet shelf. I considered this a blessing – before the inconvenience overwhelmed me as life got busy – that I could now eat and cook as I wanted.

Gifts came in other ways, too.

My dad returned from Japan for a business trip with omiyage from my aunt living in Tokyo. Among the omiyage were packets of goma-ae, sesame seed topping for vegetables, and chinsuko, a shortbread-like cookie of lard and flour made in the Okinawa prefecture. As my dad unpacked the omiyage, I looked to my mom in surprise when I saw several packages labeled with stickers addressed to me. My mom explained that my aunt knew I was cooking for myself now, so she wanted me to be able to make food with ingredients she used in her own kitchen.

My Japanese is poor, so when I see my aunt, conversations are sparse, but food fills the gaps where language fails us. With these omiyage, I understand what she is telling me, and I am thankful.

I may be separate from my immediate family, and even farther removed from those overseas, but the omiyage and pasalubong comforted my worries.

The pantry and fridge are a reflection of where you belong. The instant noodles in my pantry are indicative of a college student, but in the fridge there is a box of pastillas from my grandparents’ latest trip to the Philippines, a roll of hopia from my tita and a bottle of soba broth, an Okinawan gift from my aunt.

Not only are they a reflection of the Philippines and Okinawa but also of my family, with their traditions of pasalubong and omiyage. I am apart from my family, separated by miles of road or, for some, an ocean, but with just one peek in the pantry, I am reminded I am still a part of the family.

OFFERED FOOD In the winter of my first year at college, my family finally visited Okinawa for the first time in eight years. Entering my grandma’s onestory, concrete house through the sliding door, I looked to the tatami room adjacent to the dining room where my siblings and I had slept on futons as kids. Now, a butsudan, the shrine to honor passed relatives and ancestors, took up a third of the room, with a bunch of bananas sitting in front of a framed photo of my smiling grandma, Baba.

“Go say hi to Baba,” my mom had said.

And we did, of course, greeting her at the altar, then later setting down a small bowl of rice, simmered vegetables and a bright orange. I was told Baba would eat well in the afterlife as long as we were here to offer her these dishes.

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surreal because the last time I was in the room I was 10, and it did not cross my mind that the next time I would enter Baba’s house would be without her.

In fact, most of my memory of Baba is blurry. I faintly remember one humid day, Baba had asked me to join her on a trip to the market to buy everyone more food. She was a bar owner, a great hostess who would never let the house run out of food, would never let a stomach grumble. I was invited to go join her ordinary but important custom of love. Looking back, I would have plead with my younger self to say, “Yes.” But I was young, intimidated by the language barrier and oblivious to the implications of Baba having to suddenly use a wheelchair on longer trips. I didn’t go.

I think regret preserves this memory in my mind, even though I know Baba wouldn’t have minded. It could also be the food, as almost every clear memory of Baba is related to food.

When my mom was gone for a month in Okinawa, visiting Baba in the hospital, I barely remember the circumstances. I remember the food had changed in my mom’s absence.

With my mom across the Pacific, feeding the family fell to my dad, who had spent most of his single life heating up chicken patties. I remember weeks of frozen dinners, but I barely remember the weekly check-in calls from my mom.

My mom returned eventually, smuggling frozen bags of of miso and pork belly, simmered together with sugar and ginger to create a savory, chunky paste, made by Baba when she had gathered enough strength.

“Abura

miso,” my mom told me. “Your Baba’s specialty.”

Baba lived three years longer than the doctors had predicted, but the next batch of abura miso we ate was made by my mom, in homage to Baba. My mom used Baba’s recipe, stirring the rich mixture silently in the pot, remembering.

Aside from cooking, eating also became a way to remember Baba.

When my mom made Okinawan soba with rafute, braised pork belly, sitting atop thick noodles, we would pull out the bottle of koregusu, a rich sauce made from alcohol infused with Okinawan red chilis to enhance the flavor. Strong in taste, the bottles last a long time. At the time we were still using the bottle Baba had steeped herself using the chilis that grew underneath her bedroom window.

Pouring that bottle became an act of reverence.

In my own apartment, I soothe my harbored regret in the kitchen, where I can remember Baba.

When I call my mom, asking her for Baba’s recipes, I remember Baba with her. Cooking is a compromise: I will need to

trade some ingredients or leave them out now that I am in the States. I tell myself that even though I don’t have an altar, my cooking can be an offering to her. And although I can never take back my refusal to accompany Baba on the market trip, I can take a ride to Nijiya Market to buy Japanese ingredients that she would have used, like the quintessential goya, or bitter melon.

I can try, I have tried. Back in my cramped kitchen I gathered all the ingredients: eggs, tofu, bean sprouts, a bottle of Okinawan broth from our last trip, along with the goya. I improvised, as is the nature of goya chanpuru – a dish meaning “mix” – referring to blog posts, recalling my mom’s instructions and ultimately deferring to instinct. The final dish was imperfect; it lacked rich pork or salty Spam, the

bonito flakes to give it umami. The goya slices were cut too thick and were undercooked, so the bitterness lingered longer than it should, while the eggs were overcooked.

Between bites, I thought about the bowls of chanpuru I ate in Okinawa and how superior each of those meals were to mine. Still, I was happy with those memories, quickly devoured meals, some shared with Baba, prompted by my inferior chanpuru. I sifted through the bowl, languid and unhurried, partly because frankly, it wasn’t great, but also because I wanted to remember for longer.

In many ways, cooking is an exercise in remembering – remembering how many spoons of sugar go in the chanpuru, remembering Baba cooking the same recipe in her strength and remembering to forgive yourself for botching the recipe or that market trip, and other things long past.

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apathy in t ..

written by ANUSH KHATRI

graphics by ZOE VIKSTROM

illustrations by JULIETTE LE SAINT

here are a lot of things that are quintessential to the UCLA experience: walking up the Hill after a long day of classes, eating ice cream at Diddy Riese and watching some of the best college sports teams in the country.

The last one, though, may come with the chance to see scores of empty seats.

UCLA’s status as the school with the most NCAA titles may be outdated, but there’s no doubt the school has a prestigious athletic pedigree. Lonzo Ball, Troy Aikman, Russell Westbrook

and Chase Utley are some of the many prominent athletes who have graced UCLA’s campus over the last few decades. With future pro athletes and Olympians working to master their crafts, one would expect UCLA to have one of the most rabid and enthusiastic fanbases in all of college sports.

But this is not the case.

Over the years, UCLA has struggled to fill stands, especially in what are known as the revenue sports: football and men’s basketball. The football team has seen attendance fall over the last five years, not even managing to

fill 60,000 seats for the 2018 USC game.

Men’s basketball has struggled to sell out Pauley Pavilion. Even though NBAlevel talent has passed through the arena, attendance often falls below the 10,000 mark.

Many factors can explain this phenomenon – it could be lack of appeal, too many other activities to do in Los Angeles or just a cultural distaste toward college athletics at UCLA. At a university that prides itself on athletic achievement, low attendance prompts questions of what this means for the university overall and why people

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the stands designed by EDWARD QIAO aren’t paying attention.

SEASON SUCCESS AND STAR POWER Since firing a football and men’s basketball coach in consecutive years, it’s fair to say UCLA’s major sports are struggling. Arguably, that’s apparent in fan attendance.

Football has not sold out in the last couple years, but it did average over 76,000 fans – the highest in the Pac-12 – when the team was more successful

during the first half of the Jim Mora era, which started in 2012, according to UCLA Athletics. Meanwhile, there’s only been one year in the last four during which the Bruins successfully managed to sell out Pauley Pavilion more than once – the 2016-2017 season.

When powered by Ball and four other future NBA players, UCLA managed a 31-5 record. Beyond that, men’s basketball has cleared the 10,000 mark of attendance a few times but has struggled to regularly sell out.

“When (then-freshman point guard) Ball and (then-freshman forward) T.J. Leaf and that team was assembled, we sold out (seven) of our 18 home games,”

said Josh Rebholz, senior associate athletic director for external relations.

“That’s (about 13,800 people) every game coming; half the season, you couldn’t even get a ticket.”

It’s true. During conference play that year, students who had already paid for a Den Pass patiently stood in line for hours in an effort to get seats for themselves and their friends. For bigger games like Arizona and USC, some students couldn’t get in because the student section was already over capacity, with lines stretching past the Hill to Gayley Avenue.

Ian May, a fourth-year political science and statistics student, was

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among those who weren’t able to get into one of those games. May regularly attended games during his first year at UCLA and said these games were the first times he wasn’t able to get in.

“That was the peak fandom I’ve experienced – the disappointment of not being able to go to the game,” May said.

The change in the atmosphere has been palpable for fourth-year applied mathematics student Jordan Leong, who has had a Den Pass since his first year.

“People are pretty fairweather for basketball,” Leong said. “(The 2016-2017 season) was exciting – it was packed. (The season before that) was pretty empty, (last) year and this year, (it’s been) getting emptier. It’s quieter.”

Success also seems to create higher attendance in the Olympic sports. Gymnastics, which won a national championship in 2018 and has been the subject of viral videos, managed to attract over 10,000 fans – almost a sellout of the over 13,000-seat Pauley Pavilion – for its Jan. 21 match against nonrival opponent Arizona State, according to UCLA Athletics.

When teams are winning and the athletes are playing well, Rebholz said, they’re exciting to watch.

Attendance for the Olympic sports can also be up-and-

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down and depends on factors such as game time and team success, with gymnastics for example only attracting 5,440 for its opening game before the start of winter quarter, showing that there can be a fair amount of volatility in the numbers.

LOCAL COMPETITION Los Angeles is a city where you can go to a world-famous beach in the morning, take a short hike in the afternoon, spend the night watching arguably the greatest basketball player in the world and you’ll have just the scratched the surface of the city’s entertainment options.

To say there’s a lot to do in Los Angeles is an understatement.

You have some of the biggest sports stars in the world, like LeBron James with the Lakers, Clayton Kershaw with the Dodgers and Todd Gurley with the Rams, playing nearly every day. There are shows by big-name artists at venues like the Hollywood Bowl or The Forum in Inglewood every weekend. Practically every movie shown in the U.S. makes a run in LA. Even if those aren’t for you, the beach and mountains are there to explore for only the price of gas.

And Angelenos go to these places and events in large numbers. In December, Childish Gambino sold out The Forum, which holds 17,500. In May, Taylor Swift attracted over 60,000 to the Rose Bowl.

Outside entertainment, the numbers are even more staggering, with 6 million people visiting Santa Monica Pier annually and 7 million visiting Big Bear annually.

Considering these diverse and seemingly unlimited options, it can be difficult getting people to attend UCLA athletic events, especially when

compared to other sports teams.

“All those things are the competition for us to generate interest for coming to our games, whether they be at Pauley Pavilion, Jackie Robinson Stadium, Easton Stadium, the Rose Bowl, what have you,” Rebholz said.

Raffi Yardimian, a fifth-year microbiology, immunology and molecular genetics student, and Southern California native, grew up a UCLA fan but mentioned the competition from not only pro sports but also USC for his fandom.

“Growing up, my family was into UCLA sports. ... (We were into) sports in general, and we used to watch the Lakers and all the LA teams, except except for football – for football we tended to lean toward USC because they had the better program in my mind,” Yardimian said.

The competition with other sports teams can be brutal. USC has a blue-blood football program. The Rams just made the Super Bowl. The Dodgers are two-time defending National League champions.

The Kings have won two Stanley Cups in the past decade. The Lakers have won five NBA titles this century. When UCLA sports falter on the field, Angelenos have other options.

For both UCLA students and fans who aren’t associated with the university, there are always other entertainment options besides going to a UCLA game. To an extent, this isn’t just a challenge that manifests itself at UCLA but at other big-city universities around the country as well.

Georgetown, another school that like UCLA has recently seen its once-prestigious basketball program fall on hard times, struggles to fill out half of its 20,000-seat arena on a regular basis, according to attendance statistics. Much like UCLA, Georgetown is also located in a large city with a pro sports team in every major

league, not to mention other entertainment options.

While being in one of the most dynamic cities in the world instead of just a college town significantly benefits UCLA, it arguably hurts the fan culture surrounding athletics. Jacob Borcover, an associate director of marketing in UCLA Athletics and University of Arizona alumnus, discussed the differences in trying to appeal to students in LA versus those in a midsize city like Tucson, Arizona.

“LA, you know, students can be at Venice Beach in 25 minutes and they can be in Hollywood in 30 minutes, there’s a ton of things they can do here,” Borcover said. “Tucson is a small town and it’s a college town, and sometimes Arizona athletics is the only show in town. That’s kind of where the differences are.”

The differences between Los Angeles and a place like Tucson might not only show themselves in the number of pro sports teams or things to do – they might also be apparent in the cultural

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UNIVERSITY OF ARIZONA 2017-18 2016-17 2015-16 2014-15

AVERAGE TURNOUT SEASON WINS

14,434 14,424 14,517 14,591

27 32 25 34

HIGHEST TURNOUT

14,644 14,644 14,644 14,655

LOWEST TURNOUT

14,048 14,008 13,566 14,150

GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY 2017-18 2016-17 2015-16 2014-15

AVERAGE TURNOUT SEASON WINS

7,531 8,875 8,922 9,630

15 14 15 22

HIGHEST TURNOUT

15,418 15,143 18,231 14,281

LOWEST TURNOUT

4,029 3,996 4,062 6,843

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, LOS ANGELES 2017-18 2016-17 2015-16 2014-15 differences between being in a big city and a smaller college town.

A CULTURAL DIFFERENCE

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Beyond the on-field success or LA’s multitude of other activities, it could just be that culturally, Californians care less about college sports.

AVERAGE TURNOUT SEASON WINS

8,393 11,027 8,574 8,191

21 31 15 22

When you talk about college football in other parts of the country, especially the South, there’s a clear fervor surrounding it. According to a study by The New York Times, college football does have a level of popularity in the South that doesn’t exist in the rest of the U.S., especially for most states on the West Coast. College football in the South is often called a “religious experience,” with an author linking it to matters

HIGHEST TURNOUT

13,001 13,659 12,933 11,093

LOWEST TURNOUT

4,408 6,238 6,063 5,231

of regional pride and as an agent of societal change. This is borne out by Southern college football stadiums making up the majority of the most intimidating venues in college football in a list by 247Sports.com.

May, a former member of the Den Operations Club, which helps to staff Den events and market UCLA Athletics, found this to be true when comparing the attitude of UCLA with

those of Southern conferences, such as the Atlantic Coast Conference or Southeastern Conference, the two preeminent college athletics conferences of the South.

“In general, it mostly has to do with the culture around (it). In the ACC or the SEC, football is almost like a religion over there. It has a much higher priority on the daily lives of people in those states compared to here,” May said.

Leong, who is a Bay Area native, felt that in California, the fervor for college sports seen in the South is instead seen in pro leagues, pointing out that while support for his local California Golden Bears has been low as the team has struggled, pro sports teams have seen more support even when their on-field successes haven’t been at their highest.

He noted the popularity of MLB’s San Francisco Giants and the NBA’s Golden State Warriors even before their current dynasties.

Rebholz, who formerly worked at the University of Wyoming and University of Missouri, compared the experiences of college sports in those environments to those at UCLA. “It was a rite of passage to go to a football game on a Saturday afternoon.

You know, in Wyoming, the entire state shut down to go to Laramie,” Rebholz said.

The same enthusiasm toward sports just isn’t the same in LA. Even when there’s a major sporting event, things like traffic in the city or even other activities easily top sports when it comes to Angelenos, Rebholz said. To an extent, this might just be a matter of identity and the role that UCLA plays in the identity of being an Angeleno.

In a place like Wyoming, where college sports are the only game in town and the University of Wyoming is a clear-cut flagship state school, being a Wyoming Cowboys fan is integral to the identity of a Wyomingite. In a city such as Los Angeles, with 10 pro sports teams and multiple major universities, supporting the Bruins might just not play that same role in civic identity because there are other options to fill it.

That college athletics are less ingrained into the identity of UCLA and Los Angeles at-large also might be because of the exceptionally large

population of first- and secondgeneration Americans, who might not have the same generations-long connection to a college or university as others. College athletics in general is a rather uniquely American phenomenon; it’s hard to find many other countries in which equivalents to the NCAA exist in the same size or scale.

“Going to football games every Saturday is part of the culture (in places like Alabama and Michigan) and with the student base at UCLA, a lot of these students had never been to a college football game before coming to UCLA,” Borcover said. “They come from an international background or a background where football’s not everything, and so we definitely try to make students know that it’s part of the college experience here.”

There is an element of truth to this. While I, as a second-generation American, had been to a college football game before stepping on to UCLA’s campus, it was not a major part of sports fandom of New Jersey, my home state. There wasn’t a cultural difference between going to a Rutgers or Philadelphia Eagles game – it was just the experience of going to watch a game, with no particular fervor toward the Scarlet Knights.

FINAL POINTS It’s tough to say what effect the up-and-down nature of support for UCLA sports and the inconsistent performances of the on-field product has had on UCLA’s culture, but there are some potential ones.

Athletics can be a major draw for potential students, especially those who are in the LA area, and can allow for them to form a relationship with the school before they even step foot on campus. Yardimian mentioned the mid-2000s men’s basketball teams, which made three consecutive Final Four runs, drew him to UCLA. For Yardimian, it was important to see a team that gave its all, and he felt that was a reflection of UCLA’s culture.

“If you set standards, win, lose, work hard, it’s about working hard and just giving it your all, competing and everything will work out at the end,”

Yardimian said. “If they’re giving it all, they’re giving it their all.”

For students, it can also be a matter of school pride. It’s exciting to know that you’re playing a role in helping your team to victory. It can be a point of pride to know that other teams fear playing in Pauley or the Rose Bowl.

There is also the potential effect that a lack of fans can have on the players on the court, potentially negating UCLA’s home-field advantage. May mentioned he believes a strong fan atmosphere can help to motivate the players on the field – and conversely, bring down the opponents.

“I do think it has an effect on the way our players play on the school.

So many other schools you see the student section regularly fills out games,” May said. “I’m sure being a player in that environment, having all those fans cheer for you would really give you a boost.”

It is fair to say that a decline in college sports attendance might not be a UCLA-specific problem, as college football overall saw one of its largestever attendance drops in 2018, hinting that this is a national problem.

Athletics has taken several steps to counteract the drop, whether it be having more in-game entertainment, such as halftime shows, or Navy SEAL drops before the start of football games. There have also been more giveaways and in-game promotions to encourage students to come to games, from T-shirt giveaways to vouchers promising free meals at Chick-fil-A. The athletic department has also made many different marketing efforts to appeal to nonstudents: buying a weekly ad in the Los Angeles Times, dedicating social media staffers for every single sport and creating new ticket packages, such as a $149 bundle guaranteeing sideline seats at the Rose Bowl for the upcoming season.

But in spite of all of these efforts, attendance numbers for the marquee sports this year have been low, with both football and men’s basketball enduring some of their worst seasons in school history. While it’s fair to assume that they’ll improve as the teams inevitably rebound, it’s hard not to notice the current swathes of empty seats in Pauley.

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TRAVELING TH UGHTS written by CLEA WURSTER

W

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illustrations by JULIETTE LE SAINT

designed by CALLISTA WU

hen I landed in LA to start college at my move to LA and the limitations of living in UCLA in the fall of 2016, I was ecstatic.

Westwood urged me to explore my fragmented I grew up in Boise, Idaho, a far cry identity, and what I can do about it. I started to see from a big city, and the vastness and UCLA a little differently in relation to the rest of the excitement of LA was almost overwhelming for me. city: I began to view it as a strictly limited space, But since those first days in Westwood, I began to tucked into the Westside. I wanted to know why I feel as though I still lived in a small, boring town. feel so disconnected here.

I felt dishonest when I said I lived in LA, wanting UCLA is a space without close Metro rail stops, to add a footnote explaining that I actually live in nestled among mansions and “drunk food” spots Westwood, which isn’t LA, not to me. tailored to student life. Sometimes in Westwood, I constantly have a hard time understanding I feel like I can’t understand the Los Angeles that myself as a Bruin within the broader context of exists south of Wilshire Boulevard or beyond the an expansive metropolis like LA, which certainly Westside. has more to offer beyond our I had nearly the opposite little corner of Westwood. The experience while living in city sprawls ceaselessly across Berlin for a study abroad neighborhoods, communities program. I felt at home there and freeways, and envelops and even now that I’m back I wanted to know every single person along to life in LA, I still feel quite a why I feel so its route into the identifier bit like a “Berliner” in a way “Angeleno.” But, stuck in I haven’t yet been able to disconnected Westwood, I’ve become too replicate with “Angeleno.” here. caught up calling myself a This question of identity Bruin and I’ve almost forgotten that life at UCLA poses had a I exist within a certain duality, simpler answer when I was like all Angelenos. studying in Berlin during fall “I’m from Echo Park, I’m quarter. Within less than a from Koreatown, I’m from Venice.” These are some month of arriving in Germany, I felt I could call of the different ways of distinguishing ourselves and myself a Berliner. Immediately, I recognized a generating nuance under an umbrella term that difference between my identity in Berlin and my doesn’t quite fit us all. identity in LA. So, I tried to pinpoint what aspects The recognition of this tension that came with of my Berlin life I could bring home to LA with me.

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In many other cities – Berlin included –

PUBLIC TRANSPORTATION serves as a contact point between

MEMBERS OF THE COMMUNITY, but in LA we don’t see the same interaction.

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I wanted that same comfort associated with home I had found in Berlin, but I wanted to feel it when I was actually at home in LA. One morning it hit me as I made my 11-mile, hourlong commute to Freie Universitat Berlin in Lankwitz from my apartment in Prenzlauer Berg on the east side of the city: Despite the lengthy journey, my commute never bothered me. Instead, it was one of the main ways I was able to stake out a space for myself among so much newness; all around me sat Berliners sharing a morning quietly, and here I was, indistinguishable from them, so long as I didn’t open my mouth and let my bad accent spill out.

I felt a mundane sort of kindness in our ability to share something seemingly insignificant, as small as a bump in the road or a few stops between transfers. And it stuck with me, not only the sense of belonging I noticed that morning, but also the appreciation for the possibility of unlimited movement throughout a sprawling city.

My commute meant a lot to me, but it would be simplistic to say this belonging was just about the cozy mornings on the train. It was also about understanding the array of spaces and communities that lie alongside transit routes – spaces I would have never interacted with if it weren’t for the train.

Witnessing the changes in the neighborhoods out my tram window enabled me to form a holistic picture of the communities, people and areas that make up Berlin. Not to mention the small, but kind, interactions I experienced with other commuters – small “entschuldigungs,” the German word for “Excuse me.” At UCLA, I don’t have this same experience. But that isn’t because it’s impossible.

If I learned anything from Berlin, it’s that public transportation is a powerful tool, and it can change the way I understand myself in relation to the spaces and people around me.

“When you ride the bus you see a shift in different parts of LA. You see different neighborhoods and different cultures all spread around,” said Michelle Morales, a thirdyear art student and lifelong Angeleno. She said transit was one of the things that gave her a sense of connection to LA as her hometown, as she reminisced on cutting high school classes and taking the bus wherever it would go just to explore.

Taking the bus in LA isn’t the same as it is in Berlin. LA public transit sees fewer riders, buses run less frequently and travel times can be a lot slower. But speaking with Morales reminded me that avoiding these inconveniences comes at the cost of losing out on community. In the Westwood bubble, I’m getting a one-sided picture, and it’s hard for me to situate myself among the rest of the city when I’m not even sure what or who is out there.

In many other cities – Berlin included – public transportation serves as a contact point between members of the community, but in LA we don’t see the same interaction. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t possible; I think there’s room for the UCLA community to begin fostering a multifaceted and informed identity for itself within Los Angeles that relies less on our university and more on our position as young people within a diverse city. One way to do this is to make a commitment to truly acting as members of our greater community and using what LA makes available to us.

Having grown up in the Fashion District, Morales said there’s a lot to be found on the east side and in areas

she thinks UCLA students don’t often access. She said spent reading a book or getting work done than fretting she avoided living in Westwood because it is wrapped over if he’s going to hit the guy next to him on the road. up too heavily in UCLA’s influence. Instead, she lives in Plus, he said he just feels better about being on the bus.

Brentwood and spends a lot of time where she grew up in LA public transportation has its problems, but east LA, where she appreciates the number of locally run reconceptualizing it might uncover a path to a sense of businesses. belonging. And there’s hope that someday navigating the Of course, LA is home for Morales and it always has city will be much easier. For one thing, Los Angeles has been. But for me, it’s been three years and I’m still trying been working hard to solve these problems – just look to find out how to feel like it’s my home, too. Based on my to the extension of the Purple Line and reinvestments experiences in Berlin, I think public transportation could in public transport with bills like Senate Bill 1, which help. invests $5.4 billion toward Other students have had California’s public transportation similar experiences to me. Take infrastructure annually for 10 Leilani Dulguerov, a third-year years. We’ve also heard a constant I feel like depending mathematics student from just conversation about how to address outside of Geneva. We bonded congestion on the highways and on where you are over our shared excitement reduce the ecological impacts our in the city, people about LA, a love of European car-driving habits continue to are so different and transit systems and our have on our environment. disappointment in the UCLAThese are steps in the right the atmosphere is centric spheres we navigate. direction, and perhaps they’ll have so different that it’s “I feel like I belong in a long-term benefit on the city. kind of hard to be an Westwood, definitely, because But right now, despite investments, you know it’s UCLA students, Angelenos are actually choosing Angeleno. people that you have things in cars over buses according to common with. But I feel like a recent study done by UCLA depending on where you are in researchers in the urban planning the city, people are so different department. and the atmosphere is so different that it’s kind of hard This trend could pose a big problem in the long run, to be an Angeleno,” Dulguerov said. “There’s much less a said Hannah King, a graduate student in transportation sense of identity.” planning. It isn’t just an issue of tax dollars going to Dulguerov talked about how, in Switzerland, she used waste, King said. Because public transportation in buses and trains every day to get to school and also to go Southern California tends to be more of a social into the city at night. She said navigating Switzerland on service, a decrease in ridership means a decrease her own gave her a sense of independence – she didn’t in revenue. This could cause transportation have to rely on anyone else. Dulguerov doesn’t feel the services to experience a “a death spiral.” same in LA because she doesn’t often use the public In talking to King I realized this transportation and relies instead on Uber, Lyft or friends doesn’t necessarily have to be the with cars, options that are often less complicated. case. If ridership goes up, we could Convenience plays a large role in transit decisions, my instead see a sort of positive own included, which makes a lot of sense. LA transit is feedback loop, not only in hard to use and it can seem like it takes longer than a terms of financial gains car. In places like Germany and Switzerland, there aren’t that could improve as many barriers. But since I’ve been back in LA, I’ve services, but also felt a growing need to re-evaluate the way I look at our in relation to a transportation. stigma that My main concern is sometimes it just doesn’t make exists sense to take a 50-minute bus commute when I could get around to my destination by car in 20 minutes.

LA’s Although transit might not always lose in a race against the car, Josh Mayer, a graduate student in anthropology, said he thinks there is a misconception of what transit times can actually look like.

“There’s this sense I think that it would take much less time to go by car, but if I go at the same time during rush hour to campus, door to door is still going to take me about an hour,” Mayer said.

He added this time is much better

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transit systems.

Transportation is often regarded as a service for people who don’t have another option, King said. And other riders have noticed that stigma, too.

“People tend to ... racialize the entire public transportation system,” Mayer said. He said he takes the bus to UCLA from Koreatown on a daily basis, and that this tendency to associate transit use with marginalized groups results in some people being afraid to use the public transportation in LA. The underlying causes that contribute to and perpetuate such misunderstandings are complex and multifaceted, and definitely worth delving into and discussing at length, but this would require an article all to itself.

LA transit is a site of misunderstanding in a way that other cities’ systems aren’t. When I was in Berlin, the train was packed full of young professionals, low-income Berliners selling newspapers and people from all sorts of careers heading to work. In LA it’s the opposite; it feels like transportation isn’t meant to be used unless you need it for financial or social reasons, but that doesn’t have to be the way I look at it.

King said she felt destigmatization of transit use could go a long way, and when riders like me who have the luxury of choice start to choose public transportation,

views start to change.

“I think there’s a sort of social-political value to that because it makes transit a sort of normal thing to do,” King said.

In fact, it doesn’t seem like all Angelenos think of transit in a stigmatized way.

I understand the desire to shy away from potentially uncomfortable situations, like those that people often associate with transit here. But for some Angelenos, despite occasional situations that make taking transit uncomfortable, they see it from a different, more tolerant and understanding perspective. For Morales this side of transportation is distinctively LA – a basic part of life in the big city. Morales said there are times when other riders yell or impose on her personal space. Still, she isn’t deterred from using LA’s transportation.

“It’s just growing up here, you just know its LA and you just know what’s it like,” Morales said. “All the individuals you see and all the individuals you meet, it’s just like such an eclectic feel that a lot of people won’t get in different cities.”

Morales said she never feels unsafe on the bus because for her, it’s one of the many distinct aspects of LA that helps her understand and appreciate the city better.

Mayer also offered a comparison – like any public space, the train can be a site of discomfort, but it isn’t

Public transportation ends up being one of the

KEY PUBLIC SPACES where I feel like I can interact with people who live or work in the same areas where I do. To some extent there is a kind of a feeling of

SHARED PURPOSE, in the sense that you’re all working in the same city and I think everyone is kind of working for the betterment of the city.

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a deterrent for him because the benefits outweigh any small discomforts he might experience.

“Public transportation ends up being one of the key public spaces where I feel like I can interact with people who live or work in the same areas where I do,” Mayer said. “To some extent there is a kind of a feeling of shared purpose, in the sense that you’re all working in the same city and I think everyone is kind of working for the betterment of the city.”

I realized that using transportation, even if it isn’t all the time, is a small, but meaningful way, to express my gratitude for the service and a continued desire for betterment. Who knows, maybe someday getting around LA will be as simple as hopping onto a Metro and beating the traffic and I will have helped make that happen.

However, imagining the possibility of beating traffic in LA requires me to dream up an alternate universe in which LA hasn’t been opting for investment in roadways and shooting down public transportation plans since the 1910s.

Public transportation has a lot of practical advantages over taking a car: It’s cheaper, it’s better for the environment, and as King said, it could actually make owning a car less necessary here, but it’s also got all of these impacts on my ability to feel at home in a city in LA. For Dulguerov, the pleasant experiences she had riding

trains around Geneva were all it took to make her a public transportation lover.

“I like riding trains. ... Public transportation is a really personal ... journey to the place that you’re going. ... But everyone is kind of in their own space in that sense, I think. You kind of share that aloneness,” Dulguerov said.

There are small things and bigger things, but from “just liking it” to being proud of taking personal steps to mitigate our carbon footprints, public transportation is a way to tether ourselves into our city, to live out our values and to lead lives with intention.

While in Berlin, I learned that in any city, there is a wealth of beautiful people, things and places all around me, but I have to put in the effort to find it all. In Berlin this effort was minimal, all it took was stepping outside and walking two minutes to a tram stop. In LA, it might be a little more difficult, but it doesn’t mean the same possibilities aren’t out there.

Public transportation doesn’t have to be a mere inconvenience, it can be the site of belonging and understanding. With a bus pass, I don’t have to see myself solely as a Bruin, but I can welcome and integrate Los Angeles into my identity the same way it swept me into its grasp.

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written by KESHAV TADIMETI

A

n irritating vibration shot up my left arm. My eyes groggily opened and I glanced to the side of my bed. I saw my phone screen blinking and looked at the caller ID. It was Andre Oliver. And it was 6:16 a.m. on a Monday.

So much for getting a full eight hours of sleep before my midterm.

I eventually made my way out of bed three hours later and called him back.

The receiver buzzed its high-pitched ring for what felt like an eternity before I heard a familiar voice on the other end.

“Hey, what’s up?”

I smiled.

I first got to know Oliver almost two years ago, ahead of Bruin Day 2017. The sun beat down on the brick walkway. The light brown walls of the John Wooden Center shone brightly against the plain, blue sky. Truck engines rumbled and metal clanged as employees prepared stalls. Visitors munched on kettle corn and students’ flip-flops slapped the concrete as they walked.

Oliver stood in the sun, his eyes squinting and his right hand clutching a white binder. His white collar held tightly

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photos by JOE AKIRA + LIZ KETCHAM to his neck. A black beard cupped his chin from ear to ear, and his forest-green sleeves were crumpled at the elbows.

I had seen the Bruin Walk regular plenty of times before. He can often be spotted from the end of the Intramural Field, when students start veering to the edges of Bruin Plaza to avoid his characteristic question: “Excuse me, sir, question please?”

I had seen his various attires, ranging from a casual ensemble of a loose, gray T-shirt and saggy pants to a tucked-in, iron-pressed dress shirt with a navy-blue tie. His beard fluctuated with the season, changing from a precise spring trim to a balanced winter puff.

“Excuse me, sir, question please?”

I had seen the memes about him. I saw him approach students eagerly, offering to shake their hands and tell them about the cause detailed in his binder.

I watched many roll their eyes or avert his gaze as they tried to walk away from him. I noticed how after several hours on campus, he would, as if on impulse, turn south and walk into Westwood to continue his day elsewhere.

“Excuse me, sir, question please?”

Like Oliver, I too had many questions.

designed by MEGAN LE

What was his life outside of Westwood like? How many rejections from Bruins does it take for him to call a day? What did he think about UCLA? Perhaps most importantly: Why did he come to campus?

But Oliver isn’t the only regular on Bruin Walk. Missionaries offer free meditation books to students almost every other week. An elderly man brings two huskies with him to campus nearly every day without fail. Some even try selling candy to students outside Powell Library.

Surely there are better things to do than court the attention of a campus of over 45,000 busy, stressed and often pocket change-lacking students.

One day, I shook Oliver’s hand. I approached the man who sells meditation books in Royce Quad. And I stopped to hear from the various personalities who regularly make their way to campus.

While UCLA’s campus artery is graced by the occasional rowdy sermon in Meyerhoff Park from passionate, all-seeing preachers, Bruin Walk’s many residents come to campus because it shaped their identities.

This is the story of their journey here – and why they informally consider Bruin Walk part of their home.

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“Bruin Walk’s many residents come to campus because it shaped their identities.”

A Blessed Man “I’m blessed.”

That’s Oliver’s go-to line whenever we meet.

Most recently, it followed an emphatic note about his sister’s upcoming marriage.

“Everything happens for a reason,” he said.

“You got to wait till it fall in place.”

A lot of things fell into place in Oliver’s life. A lot more didn’t.

The middle-aged father comes to campus to fundraise for Stay Free Ministry Outreach, a Christian ministry with locations in Los Angeles and Rialto, California. The nonprofit aims to keep Californians who are homeless from falling into drug and alcohol addiction.

Oliver carries a binder to collect dollar bills from students and passersby in Bruin Plaza, sporting an orange, three-holed pencil pouch to store money and several grainy printouts to educate students about Stay Free Ministry Outreach’s cause.

The Bruin Walk regular has been fundraising at UCLA for nearly 12 years. And from how he talks about it, he’s been counting the days on each one.

Oliver describes himself as a “crack baby“ – someone born to a regular cocaine user. He grew up in Compton, California, under the care of his grandmother, Naomi Thompson. The eldest of four siblings, Oliver doesn’t know his father and did not – and still doesn’t – often interact with his mother, who he said continues to consume cocaine.

He attributes his daily values to his grandmother’s upbringing. He remarked how she took him to church every Sunday and continued to teach him, despite him occasionally going to juvenile hall.

“My grandmother was my mom and dad,” he said. “She was my everything.”

Thompson’s funeral was held on Oliver’s 17th birthday. He was sent to Orange County to live in a group home, while his three other siblings went to live with their father. He was later sent back to a LA group home. Before long, he was in a homeless shelter, sleeping on a cot.

He stayed in the shelter for four years with little to no help from family. Those close to him continued to die: Some of his cousins fell victim to Compton’s notorious shootings. An acquaintance of his attended a party without him and was killed. A college student he went out with for dinner was shot dead in front of his

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eyes.

“It was painful,” he said. “When you down, you find out who really there for you – who really have your back.”

One person had his back. A member of Stay Free Ministry Outreach took him to UCLA one day to show him what fundraising was like.

Things finally began to fall into place.

“It was different,” Oliver said. “What I mean by ‘different’: It was like ... something good gonna happen.”

He was immediately hooked. He said the campus’ ambiance, the people he met and the cause of helping youth who were homeless gave him a newfound purpose. And more than a decade, a conference center and several fallen trees later, he has continued to make his way to Westwood, greeting and speaking with campus employees and the generations of students he has forged bonds with.

In effect, he had found himself on Bruin Walk.

“To come from Compton, the ghetto, to go to UCLA and fundraise – yeah, man, that’s a blessing,” he said.

Oliver has been counting those blessings. Students used to call the police on him when he first came to campus, but the community grew accustomed to him. He was given a two-bedroom apartment in Section 8, LA because of his homeless status, and attends classes offered by the residence, including one about coping with losses. He treasures the relationships he has in Westwood. He is excited his sister has found a partner.

He said he attributes a lot of what he has – a home, a purpose and community – to the fundraising he does on Bruin Walk.

“I (come to UCLA) because I know God has a plan for my future,” he said. “Something good (is going to) happen.”

But the life Oliver leads is starkly different from many students’.

“I’m gonna be real, bro: Y’all are blessed.” he said. “Westwood, that’s Michael Jordan. ... You come to Compton, and they wear Reebok – you get what I’m saying?”

It’s not hard to discern: Westwood affords students a relatively safe, eventless neighborhood. Compton is a different story altogether.

That night-and-day distinction eventually became a big reason Oliver comes to campus.

Fundraising might be his job, but his nature has been to converse with the community, reminding students to slow down, not be in a rush and cherish their time at the university.

Those soothing words have catapulted him to fame in students’ eyes – especially on social media.

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penchant for pensiveness. He often wakes up thinking about his childhood and relishes his exchanges in Westwood – a luxury, he notes, that he and others don’t have in Compton.

That daily analysis is perhaps the reason his visits to campus seem erratic and based on how he feels the morning of, something he describes as “going with your spirit.”

His impulses also dictate when he leaves campus, how many people he approaches on Bruin Walk and when he hits the sack.

Still, the campus’ constancy is a core part of his life. Talking to students about their classes, families and ambitions has been a mainstay for him since Gene Block first became chancellor of the university, and that trend remains, despite the changing campus composition and climate.

“You just got to stay humble,” he said.

“Stay in your own lane. Find your heart.”

A Missionary’s Campus Saul Marquez’s daily life and emotions are regimented by routine.

He wakes up around 3 a.m. every morning, takes a cold shower, prays in a temple, reads scriptures before a 7 a.m. congregation and Hindu textual analysis, eats breakfast at 8:30 a.m., heads out to a university around 9:30 a.m., leaves the campus about four hours later, eats dinner, reads scriptures and sleeps around 8:30 p.m.

Perhaps that’s why he continues to maintain a calm smile as students walk

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past him. Coming to UCLA and sharing the temple’s ideas and truisms, as Marquez sees it, is his job.

Marquez often stands in the shade, near the steps leading to Kerckhoff Hall or Powell Library. His posture is slightly hunched, his face pleasant. Wrinkles tuck his cheek, and he moves with a tenderness that often comes with age. Beside him stands a small table with a bare, orange tinge.

“Free meditation books,” it reads.

Marquez is one of several missionaries from the International Society for Krishna Consciousness, which describes itself as a nonsectarian community that engages in spiritual education and promotes unity and peace. He serves and lives in the Palms ISKCON temple and is specifically tasked to provide free books from the organization and solicit donations.

The missionary is assigned to visit UCLA and other LA universities every week. He often brings a stack of about 10 books and sometimes even a small table with him.

Some of the titles in his collection include “Srimad Bhagavatam,” “The Hare Krishna Book of Vegetarian Cooking” and “The Science of Self-Realization.”

The most meaningful one to Marquez, though, is the Bhagavad Gita, a Hindu text about self-control and leading a just life.

It’s what made him an Angeleno, after all.

The Mexico native never intended to set up shop in the City of Angels. More than 40 years ago, he worked with Club Med, a French company that bundles luxury vacations. He had traveled the world – various parts of North America and Europe, for example – and made what he considered good money. “(I wanted to), just like any young man, go

“I started reflecting more about not being too selfish and being more helpful for society.” over the world, make money ... experience different cultures,” Marquez said. “It was good.”

Nearly four decades ago, he arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, where a Hindu missionary offered him a copy of the Bhagavad Gita and invited him to the LA ISKCON temple.

His interest was piqued.

“When I read the Bhagavad Gita, I thought, ‘This is opposite – totally opposite

of what I’m doing.’ ... No regulation, no discipline ... what kind of life is that?”

Marquez said. “I started reflecting more about not being too selfish and being more helpful for society.”

He visited the Palms ISKCON temple and enrolled in a three-month course in which practitioners discussed texts like the Bhagavad Gita and their implications for leading an immaterial life. He almost immediately signed up afterward to spread the teachings he had learned.

“When you feel like you have something good, you want to offer, to share it with people,” he said. “You become like a counselor: People come and reveal their minds to you about their struggles and suffering, and I just say, ‘I have the right medicine and a book that can help.’”

That eagerness brought him to Westwood 27 years ago, one of the nearby missionary stops he is assigned to. Small groups of up to eight missionaries would sit on the ground in permissible spaces and publicly chant mantras from Hindu scriptures, speaking with those who had questions and inviting those who were interested in joining.

“We just go because it’s a joyful thing to do,” he said. “If someone wanted to stop and hear or listen ­– great. Otherwise, we were happy just doing our duty.”

But the 1990s is a generation ago, and decades of graduating classes have since left this campus. UCLA’s student population has exploded and engaging people in public

spaces has been radically transformed with the advent of smart technology. ISKCON missionaries have spread out to other reaches of LA, and Marquez is often alone when visiting the university.

Most importantly, Bruin Walk has become all the busier. That’s apparent to students, but all the more obvious for the thruway’s residents.

“Before you could talk to people more because there were not ... iPhones. ... Before, we could be more personal. ... But nowadays, ... people are very busy,” he said. “Everyone is into their own business.”

Marquez frequents other universities, such as UC Irvine and Cal Poly Pomona, more often because he said he finds those students more receptive to his work and willing to talk to him. Bruin Walk, on the other hand, to him is characterized by more stress and hubbub, likely because of UCLA’s enormous student population.

That changing nature is perhaps the reason he sees coming to campus as a job: Regardless of student receptiveness, he sets up shop for the sake of disseminating information, collecting donations and holding philosophical discussions with the occasional inquisitive students.

“This knowledge is for everyone. It can be a teacher, they can (be) poor, they can be rich, they can be a woman, man or whichever sex applies to anyone ... just anyone who is willing to be open,” he said.

“These books are about knowing yourself.”

Marquez seems to already. His job is to make sure others – like those on Bruin Walk – do, too.

A Common Identity Unlike Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue, which attracts expressive and often antagonistic political displays, Bruin Walk offers a different motto: “Find yourself here.”

UCLA certainly is occasioned by its own share of microphone-wielding, instigatory members of the public. Yet those who have truly grown roots on the busy walkway share a common trait: Their identities have been forged here. And these residents have imbibed the campus narrative much more than most students would.

For Oliver, it’s about spending time with friends and enjoying the campus atmosphere. For Marquez, it’s about performing a duty.

To some, that may seem problematic.

After all, UCLA seemingly can’t allow just anybody to call it home.

But the symbiosis between nonuniversity members and the university is precisely what makes Bruin Walk the experiential space it is. Oliver and Marquez aren’t bystanders to the campus narrative; they’re part of it. And by engaging with them, students are scripting the story these residents will tell for generations to come.

Or at least the ones they bring up the next time someone asks why they come to campus.

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he lights are off and outside our apartment there’s nothing to be heard but crickets chirping and the occasional car driving through our small town, New Salem, Massachusetts.

Yet inside, in the pitch black, my mom and I jump up and down blasting Kanye West.

My mom points at me and at the top of her lungs sings, “‘You gon’ touch the sky, baby girl!”

Thanks to my mom, I’ve been an avid listener of Kanye since third grade. No matter how I was feeling, there was a Kanye song to match my emotions. Sad? I listened to “Heard ‘Em Say.” Defeated?

“Bring Me Down.” Hopeful? “Street Lights.”

Angry? “Power.” I listened to him alone on the bus to school and with my best friends everywhere we went. His music was an integral part of my life for years.

I want to declare without shame that I love Kanye, but I’m not sure if that statement is completely accurate. I will always love his music, not only for its bold, empowering themes but also for all the memories his music gave me.

The first concert I ever went to was on Kanye’s “Yeezus” tour with my best friend and my mom. We seat hopped through the weed-stenched TD Garden until we were a mere few hundred feet away from the stage. We sang to “Bound 2” until we lost our voices, and on the 1 ½-hour car ride home, we listened to “Yeezus” over and over again as we reminisced.

Years later, during my first year at UCLA, I went to a concert on Kanye’s “Saint

e h t iss

Im

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written by MACKENZIE COFFMAN Pablo” tour with my roommate, hoping the experience would be as magical as the first. But over the months leading up to that night, Kanye had been feuding with a variety of celebrities and continually disrupted his shows with lengthy and controversial rants. I kept asking myself if I could separate his words and actions from his music. On the night of the concert, I left The Forum in Inglewood feeling conflicted.

It’s nearly impossible to go through life without being occasionally disappointed by celebrities whom we normally admire.

But can we really separate their words and actions from the parts of them that we love? Should we even try? These are the questions I ask myself when I reflect on how my relationship with Kanye has changed, only to end up at a crossroads of conflicting sentiments. It’s hard to find peace with this constant internal conflict, but as a fan, I find it reassuring to know that this discomfort is a result of normal psychological processes.

“Real Friends” To experience the pain of being let down by a celebrity, fans must have first established a connection with that artist.

My connection to Kanye began with my mom and was solidified by friends who loved his music, too. When I listen to “Hey Mama,” I feel this ache in my chest because I take his words to heart. Kanye raps, “As we knelt on the kitchen floor/ I said mommy I’ma love you ‘til you don’t hurt no more/ And when I’m older, you ain’t gotta work no more,” striking a chord with my own desire

illustrated by CLARA VAMVULESCU

to repay my mom for all she’s given me and raising me single-handedly. Although Kanye and I have far more differences than we do similarities, I’ve always looked at how his lyrics apply to my own life. He wasn’t just my favorite artist, he was a part of my identity.

I know I’m not the only one who feels this way about an artist or celebrity. According to Matthew Lieberman, a professor of social psychology at UCLA, we find our place in our environment and make friends partially through bonding over celebrities.

“For most folks, there’s a period of personal development in the teenage years where we are trying to sort of selfdefine who we are, and part of how we do that is through cultural touchstones and celebrities,” Lieberman said.

He explained that my history with Kanye and associating him with so many positive memories enabled an attachment to him to form.

“It’s about attachment – not just attachment to him but what he represents in the context of friends and family,” he said. “That’s going to make for a strong pull on you so that it isn’t easy to dismiss him or give him up.”

For some, such as Jem Aswad, the senior music editor at Variety, Kanye was easy to give up on. Aswad said his relationship to Kanye was always more professional than personal.

“I can’t listen to Kanye anymore. I was burned out on his voice anyway because he’s just been annoying me. I even had a little

designed by MEGAN LE

trouble with ‘Yeezus’ because he was getting on my nerves,” Aswad said. “I’m not really a fair example as a fan. ... I resent Kanye because every time he tweets I have to stop what I’m doing and write a story about it.”

As a young teenager, my attachment to Kanye grew stronger not only because I associated him with friends and family, but also because I was able to constantly watch his interviews online and read his usually entertaining Twitter feed. I felt like I grew to understand him more and more with each tweet, Instagram post or any online post involving Kanye.

This one-sided connection is what Yalda Uhls calls a parasocial relationship. Through social media, there are more ways than ever to establish them, said Uhls, an assistant adjunct developmental psychology professor at UCLA. “Parasocial interaction has increased because now you can tweet at a celebrity, and they may answer you back. It makes people feel like they have a real relationship, ... like they can see the ‘authentic’ person,” she said.

She said, in the past, celebrities were able to easily hide aspects of themselves and only show a facade that fit the narrative they were trying to sell. Although that may still happen today, social media has occasionally unveiled celebrities and exposed more honest versions of them. “In many ways, young people feel closer to celebrities than they have,” Uhls said. “There’s a theory that parasocial interactions and the sort of relationship that people feel they have

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with celebrities have grown.”

By no means do I consider myself to be someone who is overly preoccupied with celebrities, yet I cannot deny that it is easy to get sucked into their aesthetics or comical social media pages. Although I feel contentious toward Kanye’s Twitter page at times, I also frequently enjoyed seeing posts like “Super inspired by my visit to Ikea today,” or “Everyone has made mistakes. I just make them in public.” His random feed added another enthralling layer to the man I already felt I owed so much.

“So Appalled” As time went on, Kanye started popping up on social media for reasons that weren’t so inspiring. Just last year he posted a series of tweets that ranged from sensationalist, such as “The thought police want to suppress freedom of thought,” to highly controversial, like “There was a time when slavery was the trend and apparently that time is still upon us. But now it’s a mentality.” Even though I wanted to assume there was some truth and wisdom behind his words, I still had to confront the possibility that he was not some omniscient being who could do no wrong. I had to face that he is less than what I wanted him to be my whole life.

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rnished image va n u e th e se u The more yo er it’s going rd a h e th , ty ri b of any cele pedestal. x a on m e th p e e to be to k I had to jump through mental hoops to justify my love for the artist even before the age of social media. The first time was when I was in sixth grade – when he interrupted Taylor Swift’s speech during the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards. I remember people talking about it in my classroom, describing him as rude; I had never heard someone describe Kanye negatively before then. I was never a fan of Swift, so while it was indeed a rude thing to do, I was able to dismiss it because it seemed irrelevant to me as a sixth grader with no knowledge of gender politics or adult responsibility.

When I was a sophomore in high school he put the Confederate flag on some apparel in his clothing line in an effort to reclaim it.

I thought it was an odd, but perhaps noble, effort. When he publicly supported President Donald Trump and wore Make America Great Again hats during my first year at UCLA, I was disappointed since I was raised as a liberal Democrat and I wanted him to be, too.

But everyone has a right to their opinion and at least he is exercising his political freedom, right?

His whole career, Kanye has been claiming that he is a god while simultaneously saying that he is just an insecure man who makes mistakes like everyone else. The confidence he brings to his music when he claims he’s superior to all other rappers, and perhaps people, has always inspired me to be better, to try harder – or at the very

least, fake it until I feel slightly better about myself. When he sings, “I promise, I’m so selfconscious,” I want to commend him for admitting it. Early on, we learn that nobody is perfect. Yet, when I see Kanye mess up or go against my status quo, I still want to cringe.

Ever since he interrupted Swift, he’s been marked as an aggressive, rambling lunatic.

However, that was never what he was to me; seeing him painted in such a negative light for years, and perhaps deservedly so, created a sort of mental discomfort for me. When I spoke with Lieberman, he confirmed my experiences and feelings as a mental process called cognitive dissonance.

Cognitive dissonance is a kind of psychological ache that occurs when someone holds two contradictory beliefs. In my case, the inconsistent beliefs are that Kanye is good, since he has meant so much to me for the majority of my life, and that sometimes Kanye’s words and actions are often unfavorable, to say the least.

Lieberman said it is common to experience cognitive dissonance resulting from celebrities.

“Almost no role model really stands up to scrutiny, to be honest,” he said. “The more you see the unvarnished image of any celebrity, the harder it’s going to be to keep them on a pedestal.”

“Love Lockdown” Over the years, I never stopped loving Kanye’s music. Yet, somewhere along the line, I stopped watching his interviews and reading his tweets.

It’s not that I wanted to avoid what he had to say, but a part of me didn’t want to risk ruining the image I had built of him years before.

I didn’t want to confront the idea that he wasn’t

everything I wanted him to be. Without being truly aware of it, I was trying to reduce the cognitive dissonance I felt by separating Kanye West into Kanye the musician and Kanye the controversial figure through a process called compartmentalization.

“It’s developmentally normal to understand and perhaps be disappointed that a person is not just one thing,” Uhls said. “As you got older, you understood there are more sides to them.”

Likewise, Lieberman explained that compartmentalization is useful when you deal with the immediate anguish of an event. As time passes, you can distance yourself from it in a way that allows you to acknowledge it happened without feeling badly about it.

“Suddenly, you look back and say, ‘That was my favorite person when I was a kid, I still love their music, but I don’t really care about them so much,’” Lieberman said.

Lieberman recounted his own experience with compartmentalization when he learned of the sexual assault allegations against Louis C.K. He said he felt attached to C.K. because he considered the comedian to be a social psychologist in his own way. Lieberman even used to teach with C.K.’s comedy clips in his social psychology class, so he said he felt frustrated when he realized he would no longer be able to do so. This attachment led to him wanting to separate C.K.’s actions onstage from his actions offstage.

“He made fun of things which caused people to examine certain things in themselves, and that’s probably done now,” he said. “He will never have that influence again, and I’m not sure that he should.”

However, we aren’t always given the opportunity to compartmentalize because sometimes celebrities cross a line that we internally drew

based on our beliefs. When this happens, we don’t necessarily completely cut them out of our lives, but we slowly become less attached.

Aswad described his experience with R. Kelly, who he used to listen to and has reported on many times. Though he loved the singer’s hits like “I Believe I Can Fly” and “The World’s Greatest,” Aswad said he feels that he can’t listen to the numbers the same way following the accusations against Kelly.

“All these (songs have) really naive, nursery rhyme-ish statements of self-confidence and belief and faith that are still touching,” Aswad said. “It makes me sad that I feel almost morally prevented from listening to those songs anymore.”

I have always immediately downloaded Kanye’s albums as soon as they dropped and obsessively listened to them for months.

However, after not checking his social media feed or watching as many interviews, I realize I am no longer actively strengthening the bond I feel with him as a person, instead of solely as a musician.

“If you’re no longer adding new stuff relative to other things that fill up your experiences, they can start to move into the past and part of nostalgia,” Lieberman explained. “That means you are less actively attached – you sort of remember and enjoy the fact that you were really attached to something, and you still look at that like an old photograph and say, ‘Wasn’t that sweet,’ but it’s less of an ongoing thing.”

“Everything I Am” Despite my contradictory feelings and subconscious efforts to avoid anything bad about Kanye, nothing can invalidate the happy memories I have

associated with Kanye’s music.

Kanye played such a significant role throughout my life that no matter what he says or does, I know I will always justify my love for his music, if not for him as a person. Maybe I don’t like Kanye’s politics or outbursts, but I don’t think I will ever dislike his music, which means I’m left with two options: Continue to compartmentalize him into two entities, or appreciate that Kanye, like everyone else, is a dynamic person who is more than a few words and behaviors. At the end of the day, if what he believes in are the very things that make his music what it is, I can accept that, even if I disagree with him.

Maybe we would all be better off if we absolved ourselves of the responsibility of deeming someone as a wholly good or bad person and just accepted that they lie somewhere on the moral spectrum. Learning to take our favorite celebrities off their moral pedestals will help us recognize that they, too, are humans and make mistakes without renouncing how much they mean to us. At the same time, it saves us from the hurt and discomfort we feel when we can’t seem to separate the art from the artist, giving us full control on how we choose to celebrate these stars.

In some way, it might be more accurate to say, “I love Kanye’s music,” instead of simply “I love Kanye.” But I know it’s more than just his music. I miss the old Kanye and all that he represents because he gave me so many valuable memories with my mom and friends. I will always cherish the times I danced around the living room while listening to “Touch the Sky” with my mom.

One day, I hope to blast the same song while dancing around the living room with my own kid.

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written by AXEL LOPEZ photos by KRISTIE-VALERIE HOANG + AXEL LOPEZ designed by LISA BI

D

rug dependency is defined as a state in which a person only functions normally in the presence of the drug, usually due to repeated use of the drug.

According to the AddictionCenter from the Delphi Behavioral Health group, college students are one of the largest groups of people who misuse drugs in the United States and people between the ages of 18 and 24 are at a heightened risk of substance misuse.

Students’ dependency on various substances can be a result of factors such as pressure to fit into a new environment and handle academic stress. On the other hand, substance misuse can also lead to addiction, which is characterized by changes in behavior.

Every quarter, UCLA sends out a substance misuse brochure, detailing the campus’ stance on drug use and possession. Though one part covers the resources available to those living with drug addiction, the brochure also mentions the consequences which those caught violating the policies may face. These potential consequences students can encounter promote a silencing of the issue and the stigma already shrouding drug dependency and addiction.

People with drug addictions are associated with many negative characteristics, according to Adi Jaffe, a former UCLA psychology lecturer and nationally recognized expert on mental health, addiction and stigma.

The perpetuation of the stigma behind drug dependence and addiction, despite the availability of resources, dissuades students on campus from opening up about their experiences with drug dependence or addiction and seeking the appropriate help to put them on the road to recovery.

The influence of stigma on one’s ability to recover can be complicated and complex, but defining a solution to the issue can start with understanding the various factors that make

college students more susceptible to drug misuse, dependency and addiction.

Social Environment College provides a variety of networks students can connect with, some of which can facilitate access to drugs and promote their misuse. Drug use may start off as a casual activity at first, but it can escalate as social pressures at college push students to misuse substances.

“In college ... (drug use) is one of those things you really get to explore in a way that wasn’t possible when you were in high school,” Jaffe said.

At age 18, while attending a local music event in Fontana, California, Lee, a fourthyear sociology student who asked to remain anonymous, was introduced to cocaine.

“My first reaction was, ‘Wow, this is super fun.’

Granted, I didn’t really find out about all the health consequences until later, I just thought it was really cool at the time,” he said.

According to the AddictionCenter, curiosity is a factor that can be attributed to high rates of drug misuse. College students, like Lee, are meeting new people, joining organizations and exploring themselves during their time as an undergraduate student. Drug experimentation falls within that curiosity, and the social pressures to binge drink present in certain circles at UCLA can exacerbate substance use.

There was a time during Lee’s second year at UCLA when status within his friend group was determined by how much he could drink.

According to Lee, snorting cocaine was a way to drink more because it works as stimulant.

“If you had a long night of drinking ahead of you, there’s always some homie who’s got the little baggy (of cocaine). If you have that and a couple of friends, you guys could drink for hours,” Lee said.

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being the only factor.

Academic Environment

Lee described the mix of cocaine and drinking as the ultimate social lubricant.

“You’re talking a mile a minute, but you’re not really talking about anything substantial. It makes you feel really amped and very sociable too,” Lee said.

A high social status wasn’t just placed on who could drink the most in Lee’s friend group, but also on who could provide cocaine for those who wanted to partake. According to research from Addiction Campuses, the price of a single gram of cocaine can cost anywhere from $50 to $150.

“It’s a status symbol. If you have the money to afford to be buying cocaine every week for when you go out, that’s not cheap. If you’re the one who can provide these drugs, then you’re perceived with more value.

From what I’ve seen, people just want to hang out with you more,” Lee said.

Lee’s use of cocaine escalated as

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he began surrounding himself with people who supplied his cravings. Lee said he consciously changed his social circles during his second year at UCLA and began gearing his actions toward possibly attaining another gram of coke.

“I started changing my spending habits and who I talked to because your social circle is a large determinant of how you’re going to get drugs. That was when I started talking to some less-than-stellar characters because I knew those people would be avenues for me to get drugs. You may not think that your personality changes, but the way you go about your day definitely does,” Lee said.

With the normalization of drug use to heighten sociability and status within the collegiate experience, it’s easy to say the social environment contributes to dependency and addiction in college. But it’s far from

Lectures, discussions, endless amounts of reading assignments, lab research, midterms, finals, internship applications, part-time jobs ... the list goes on. The pressure to succeed is felt every single day by UCLA students. It grows vastly from just week one to week five, and remains buzzing in their heads until the end of finals.

For some college students – facing these outstanding pressures to succeed academically – drugs become a coping mechanism for handling stress.

A study by the Anxiety and Depression Association of America found that 85 percent of college students reported feeling overwhelmed by their obligations during the year.

Substance use is exacerbated by the anxiety-inducing and stressful environment found in college, Jaffe said. He said though some students use substances as a way to cope with a new environment and manage stress, it can quickly spiral out of control.

Third-year electrical engineering student Matt Ma said he began smoking marijuana frequently to help him cope with the stress of his studies.

“I was so used to having a joint every day. It kind of helped me itemize all the stuff I had to do.

After a certain level, I learned to function with it and enjoyed doing my homework high. It really got the engine going for all the assignments I had to do,” Ma said.

He said he would light up every chance he got, and eventually he was able to complete his daily tasks while high. Knocking out his circuit theory problems one by one, painting portraits, even dabbling in computeranimated design all became routine activities that were enhanced by his marijuana usage. Ma said it got to a point in which he could not access his creative side nor fuel his motivation to complete school work

“

In an environment like this where you see everybody succeeding, it can be very hard to compete when you are not living up to that perceived standard.

without being under the influence.

Similarly, Lee used drugs to help him cope with the stressful academic environment, but instead of lighting a joint, he prefered bumps of cocaine during cram sessions and all-nighters in Powell Library. He says it was a crutch for him to manage his heavy workload as a former pre-psychology student during his second year, and that it enabled him to keep up with the fast-paced environment that inhabits UCLA every quarter.

“In an environment like this where you see everybody succeeding, it can be very hard to compete when you are not living up to that perceived standard. So I think a lot

of students fall into (drug misuse) where they’re using it for the wrong reasons because of the stressful environment that’s happening in school,” Lee said.

The social and academic environment college students face can make it easier to begin misusing substances. For some, the issue can spiral into dependency or addiction, and the stigma that has historically been associated with both complicates the ability to recover and seek on-campus resources.

UCLA’s Stance “Every quarter, you get the chancellor’s email reminding people that UCLA is a drug-free zone and that (substance misuse) will not be tolerated,” Jaffe said. “Well, that’s great, but what are we doing for the people who are struggling to meet that standard other than telling them that’s not okay?”

UCLA does acknowledge drug dependency in its substance misuse brochure, sent to all students and faculty at the beginning of each quarter. The email states UCLA’s goal to “foster the highest standards of integrity throughout

the campus community” and must be accomplished by ensuring the campus remain free of substance use. The email also refers those who may be struggling to seek help from Counseling and Psychological Services, UCLA Residential Life, Bruins for Recovery, the Arthur Ashe Student Health and Wellness Center and the UCLA Office of the Dean of Students.

But then the email takes a more serious tone.

“Any member or group of the campus community violating university policies or local, state or federal regulations related to alcohol or substances will be subject to review and potential disciplinary action,” reads the brochure.

These potential disciplinary actions include warning, censure, loss of privileges and exclusion from activities, restitution, suspension, and dismissal for the possession, manufacture, sale, and or distribution of any controlled substance or scheduled drug, as listed on the University of California Policy on Substance Abuse, which is linked in the brochure.

The Office of the Dean of Students and UCLA Media Relations declined to comment directly on substance

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abuse policies, instead referring to online resources containing the information.

UCLA’s drug-free campus policy poses a difficult dilemma for students who have experienced or continue to live with drug dependencies or addiction, Jaffe said. He added that UCLA having a drug-free policy means it is difficult for someone to be open about their experiences without being at serious risk of being suspended or expelled because of their substance use.

“The drug-free zone at UCLA doesn’t eliminate drug use, it eliminates openness about drug use,” Jaffe said.

Students are not only scared to discuss their substance misuse with counselors; some simply choose not to talk about it.

Ma said he is reluctant to share his past struggles with drug to available on-campus resources because he doesn’t believe it would be helpful for him. Instead of going to campus resources, Ma has taken recovery into his own hands by teaching himself to moderate his drug use because he feels the university is not taking the

right approach to recovery.

“I definitely feel like (UCLA is) trying to help you at the end of the day, they’re just going about it in a way that’s counterintuitive. I don’t think demonizing drugs is the way to do it,” Ma said.

Ma believes that UCLA tries to

“

The drug-free zone at UCLA doesn’t eliminate drug use, it eliminates openness about drug use.

protect its reputation as one of the best public universities in the world, and that drug users don’t fit the image UCLA tries to promote.

Similarly, Lee, who has also recovered without the use of campus programs, said he would never consider opening up about his past struggles with drugs to campus

resources because he believes it is not a wise decision.

“I just don’t think it’s wise for a student to confide in the university on matters that may be considered criminal. I don’t think the encouragement is to get help, it’s just to be quiet about it,” Lee said. “There are a lot of conflicting motives in saying, ‘I want this to be a drug-free campus, but also if you need help, come to my office hours.’ That seems sketchy.”

Both Ma and Lee, like many other students, felt that addressing their problems with misuse with campus programs can be counterintuitive and potentially pose severe consequences. However, campus organizations have made efforts to provide a safe space for discussing recovery.

Recovery on Campus With the help of Colby Moss, a clinical social worker at CAPS, Bruins for Recovery became the newest community added to the Bruin Resource Center in 2014. The program seeks to provide a safe and sober

environment where undergraduate students, graduate students, staff, faculty and alumni can flourish and fight the stigma of behavioral, drug and alcohol addiction, according to its mission statement. B4R provides a space for students in recovery to discuss their past experiences with dependency or addiction among other students.

“The mission is to provide a support network, a place where students can meet each other, identify resources for support and then provide

individual support as necessary that upholds and supports their identity as a person in recovery, ” said Jean Libby, the program director of the UCLA Collegiate Recovery Program and Students with Dependents.

B4R holds sober social events for its members to connect in addition to usual weekly meetings in Student Activities Center B44. These events include community hikes in the Pacific Palisades neighborhood, Sober Happy Hours and sober tailgates to UCLA football games at the Rose Bowl.

Libby also said B4R tries to make the experience of recovery seamless for students. The organization takes into account how a student goes from misusing a substance to identifying themselves as someone in need of recovery. Libby said B4R is not a treatment center, but it instead provides a community for students who have taken action toward recovery.

“Once a student has come forward, it takes so much bravery for them to walk through the door and say, ‘Hey I’m here for a meeting,’” she said. “We don’t ask anything about how they identify as in recovery, we just welcome them. If a student has walked in, they’ve already done the hard part of acknowledging that they may be struggling and want to seek support.”

Whatever phase of recovery members may be in, B4R tries to meet them at their point and

welcome them into the weekly meetings and social events organized throughout the quarter.

While serving as the Collegiate Recovery Program director, Libby said she has found members feel less isolated and more validated when they listen to other students’ experiences with recovery.

“It’s that form of mutual understanding and shared experience that is really powerful for not only students in recovery but for any student group across campus,” Libby said.

However, not having a clear way to identify students in recovery makes it difficult for the organization to inform students of the resources available. Libby said the only way she is able to inform the campus members of these resources is through having conversations with different staff members, community partners like CAPS, and students.

By opening the conversation and making the resources for recovery known, community members can refer students to seek available support.

“I hope that every staff member and faculty member on UCLA’s campus knows that there’s a Collegiate Recovery Program and that students in recovery exist on this campus and that they know we’re here to support those students,” Libby said.

Uncovering the Stigma The consequences for drug use or possession mentioned in UCLA’s substance misuse brochure make it difficult for students to discuss their experiences with dependency and addiction. It’s a topic that’s best kept in silence because the terms “drug dependency” and “addiction” are not phrases most wish to associate themselves with, so why bother seeking help?

Jaffe and Lee acknowledge people dependent or addicted on drugs are often viewed in a negative light, which makes it difficult for students to open up and use the resources available to them out of fear of being associated with those characteristics.

“The whole image of being an outstanding student does not correlate with being dependent on drugs. I don’t think you’re encouraged to seek help, you’re just encouraged to not look like an addict,” Lee said.

From an institutional standpoint, UCLA has to do more than just inform substance misusers on campus that support groups like B4R are readily available. UCLA must assure students that despite the potential consequences listed in the brochure, students with drug dependencies or addictions can open up without the fear of punishment.

But the responsibility to truly aid those in recovery and to destigmatize views on drug dependency and addiction oncampus extends itself beyond the institution and onto the campus community. Only through destigmatizing our views on drug use can we as a campus open up a muchneeded conversation.

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RECORDS OF written by MATTIE SANSEVERINO

S

itting around a small fire in a friend’s backyard during winter break, I spun a marshmallow in my hand, unsure of how to answer the question: “How would you say you’ve changed over your first quarter of college?” Old friends, people I haven’t seen in months but have known for years, watched me as I fidgeted. What’s the difference between the me sitting here and the me they knew before I called UCLA home?

Answering the question wasn’t as simple as answering the linear algebra questions I had encountered all quarter or telling a dining hall worker what toppings I want in my omelet in the morning. How does one solve the matrix of their own personal development? Besides solving math problems and perfecting omelet ingredient combinations, what have I really accomplished as a new college student?

Thinking through the timeline of my development, I realized growth can reveal itself in unconventional places. In my case, it is revealed through the changes in my online purchases.

I first noticed this when I made one of my more notable purchases: a poster. I bought a colorful and eccentric art piece that welcomes uncomfortable stares from visitors but radiates happiness for me.

I finally clicked checkout on something that had been added to a virtual cart for months.

It was a simple online purchase, just a few

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clicks on the computer and a confirmation email.

This process is something that I am unhealthily familiar with. I wouldn’t consider myself obsessed with online shopping, but I can admit that I am a frequent visitor of the mailroom. I’ve walked out with Amazon bags, Target boxes and a package from an international artist. The more I think about it, the more I realize that the timeline of my college career thus far wouldn’t be organized by my number of friends made or my exam scores, but rather bookmarked by the items I carried out of the mailroom, my online purchases.

It all started with a loofah.

After the overwhelmingness of move-in day, after the long goodbye hugs and extensive room organization, I was left alone in my room with the items, new and old, that would compile my new space. I had everything: a desk lamp, a box full of granola bars and Goldfish crackers, a pair of scissors, a sheet of stamps and my favorite tea. But, upon walking into the shower in my new shower shoes, I realized I didn’t have a loofah.

Naturally, it wasn’t a big deal. I live in a family of “borrowing,” in which I can snatch an item from my parents’ or sisters’ bedrooms, sometimes to borrow but usually to steal. But I was learning that a walk down the hall didn’t lead to the beautiful stability of mom’s closet anymore. Instead, it led to a couple of elevators and a lounge full of nervously socializing college newbies.

So sitting on my uncomfortable wooden chair at my unfamiliar wooden desk, with my shower shoes still on, I made my first purchase as a college student, solving my first problem while being truly

REFLECTION illustrations by CLAIRE SUN

designed by MEGAN LE

on my own. And two days of free shipping later, I had a loofah.

With that, my clicks of the checkout button continued. Generally, clothing is my favorite purchase to make; I love connecting with something unique and accepting it into my life as a piece of self-expression.

But during my first weeks at UCLA, my wearable purchases weren’t aligned with my self-expression.

Maybe it was because I was unsure of where I stood within UCLA’s student body, or because I was struggling with a classic coming-of-age identity crisis, but I bought clothes that I thought would make me fit in. And as I wore the same subtle maroon stripes that I saw around me, it felt like it was working.

At the time, though, I was feeling already hopelessly lost in my classes and like I was drowning in my perfectly striped, easily acceptable shirt. I didn’t resurface until weeks later when I took an inexplicably impulsive break from studying for my first college midterms. After days of studying and hours of ignoring the time, I shut my math textbook, opened my computer and bought a set of hoop earrings.

These weren’t your average ring-sized

hoops that sit daintily at the ends of your ear – the hoops were big and silver and unapologetically bold.

For the first time, the purchase wasn’t premeditated, nor was it an obvious necessity. Big, silver hoops weren’t designed to make me fit in. With accessories, I was choosing to welcome attention, adding personality to my appearance. With this small purchase I started to feel like I could belong here at UCLA, and I could confidently figure things out without the comfort of my mom’s closet.

The story of my growth as a college first-year could be narrated through the perspective of the mailroom at UCLA. Like me, students across UCLA’s campus are the protagonists of their own memoirs, but their stories could be narrated by unexpected somethings unique to them.

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Threading the Past and Present Naomi Eve describes her closet as a capable narrator for her memoir, saying that it’s organized “autobiographically.”

The third-year cognitive science student happily walked me through her biography, giving me the grand tour of her closet. The first things she pulled out were eccentric and diversely designed pieces, each one accompanied by a story as if it were a tangible recollection of a time in her life. As she pulled a flowy polka-dot dress, she reminisced about a happy shopping trip from summer and a growing connection to her femininity.

As she picked up a rugged pair of hiking shoes, she recalled a specific sale at REI and the blissful memories from trips with UCLA’s Outdoor Adventures program.

While going through her closet, Eve said she could see that through her

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transition into college and her growth over three years, the items inside have and continue to, evolve.

Unlike the unique colors and textures you see when you open her closet door now – the blues and pinks and maroons, corduroy and denim and satin – years ago you’d see duller colors and consistent brand names. Throughout high school, Eve said she followed the trends. She walked the hallways in the classic North Face jacket, Lululemon leggings and Ugg boots – what she described as the staple outfit of the girls at her school. As she pulled a beige shirt out of a bag of clothes she was planning to donate, she thought back to the low self-esteem she felt during her Ugg boots days.

“I had a pretty negative self-image and I wasn’t confident in myself,” she said.

“I was so focused and consumed on my

external appearance, and what I was feeling inside wasn’t matching what I was projecting.”

By the time Eve was settling into her first year at college, her closet no longer stored the expensive high school clothing she used to rely on, clothing that she now refers to as wasteful due to the hefty price tag and lack of individuality.

She said she was excited by the idea to start fresh and was motivated to make internal and external changes.

It was an awkward evolution, Eve said, as she still struggled with self-assertion and finding her place. But two years later, she said her closet holds something that represents everything she was afraid of as a first-year. In between feminine dresses and hiking boots, she stores what she considers her current favorite piece of clothing.

“I call them my ‘Western disco pants,’” she said.

She said the pants, a bold shade of maroon with intricate gold embroidery dancing down the sides, make a statement in every room she wears them in.

“They’re just so magnificent and I’ve never seen anything like it before,” Eve said. “I feel comfortable in them, I feel confident in them, I welcome attention in them.”

Eve said wearing these pants and the confidence she feels when donning them remind her of how far she has come. She partially attributes her growth to the memories and experiences in her rugged hiking boots, which became a closet essential when she joined the Outdoor Adventures program.

During her first trip with Outdoor Adventures in fall 2017, Eve said she acquired a newfound connection to her self-confidence within the beautiful scenery of Sequoia & Kings Canyon

National Parks. Eve remembers watching the trip guides bantering about whether they would jump into the lake by their campground. While they chatted, she quietly snuck into a tent, changed into her swimsuit and sprinted into the freezing cold water.

As she submerged into the shocking cold, surrounded by breathtaking scenery, the guides ran in after her and, together, they swam.

“I had that moment (in the lake) and it reminded me of my satisfaction and fulfillment with the present moment and not worrying about what the future held and what the past has dealt me,” she said.

“It reminded me to just enjoy ‘now’ and that does reflect my buying habits since they can be spontaneous.”

Spontaneity has become a beloved addition to Eve’s closet, as she said it brought a newfound diversity in her pieces and reflection of the different aspects of her identity.

As she closed the closet door, Eve said she recognizes that the contents will continue to change as her memoir grows, more pieces will be added to the donation bag as she lets go of phases in her life, and more will join the Western disco pants on the hangers as she explores new aspects of herself.

“It’s exciting to me that my closet is disjointed and random and full of pieces that would never talk to each other in the same store,” Eve said. “It is an outward expression and it’s just all the versions of me. It’s all me.”

“I feel comfortable in them, I feel confident in them, I welcome attention in them.”

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Identity Behind the Mic Joseph Aleshaiker timelines his connection with his identity through an unconventional lens, something less tangible than a closet.

He best accounts for the changes in his life through the evolution of his stage name.

Aleshaiker, a fourthyear civil engineering student, started his journey as a musician with his first band, The Skullz. The band, consisting of his 9-year-old self and his younger brother, performed original songs, including one about the woes of being so hungry and so thirsty, for

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parents and anyone else who would listen.

Aleshaiker remembers that those songs, as silly as they were, created a love of songwriting for him.

Since The Skullz, Aleshaiker has played music under a variety of stage names, going from The Oscars, to his real name, to Memo 71 and encountered a variety of feelings about himself and his music.

As a 13-year-old, Aleshaiker performed with and wrote songs for a band full of schoolmates. The band, The Oscars, was successful during its lifespan, and was the birthplace of “All Over Again,” a blues-rock song Aleshaiker said was the first number he was truly proud of.

Though The Oscars led Aleshaiker to write a song that still impresses himself to this day, Aleshaiker said his visions as an artist didn’t end up lining up with his bandmates’.

Eventually he left the band to pursue music on his own, as The Oscars wasn’t for him.

Following his separation from the band, Aleshaiker began a more flexible musical lifestyle and separated from names in general.

He spent most of his time playing music just for fun with close friends or anyone who would play with him. He said these nameless days strengthened his passion for music and motivated him to not give up on pursuing it.

But, pursuing music as a career forces an artist to create an image. With Aleshaiker’s journey as a college student, his image as a musician and mindset about the future changed.

According to

Aleshaiker, the way he presented himself as an artist went hand in hand with the connection he felt to his personal identity.

During his second year at community college, Aleshaiker started to take his professional goals more seriously. At gigs he introduced himself and his music together the same way he heard many famous artists do: under his real name. After the gigs, he bombarded crowds with merchandise, such as wristbands and pins branded with “Joseph Aleshaiker.” In these situations, Aleshaiker said he felt disconnected from, and even annoyed with, himself.

“I felt like I was losing my own identity,” he said.

“I don’t want to be a brand, I want to be myself.

During my gigs over the summer I felt like I was being super fake because my name was attached to the music.”

Aleshaiker said he was struggling with his sense of self. He knew he needed to create a stage name.

As he stands on stages now, behind a guitar or a keyboard, he takes a deep breath and introduces himself as someone else: Memo 71. Joseph Aleshaiker is a human, and Memo 71 is his music.

“Now that I have Memo 71, I feel that disconnect like I can go hang out with friends and feel normal but I can also go on Memo 71 and have this image,” he said. “I don’t care if people remember Joseph Aleshaiker for the music, I care that they remember Memo 71.”

The inspiration for his stage name came from an unlikely place, from a time in his life when he said he was struggling the most. The struggle started during his transition to UCLA as a transfer student, during which he said he encountered various difficulties and found himself feeling depressed.

As an overall hopeful person, Aleshaiker said he searched for a way to deal with his feelings, and he started coping by writing down everything that was filling his head during the dark moments. Whether it be the transition into UCLA, the difficulty finding time to create music while being an engineering student, or any other stressor in his mind, Aleshaiker documented his feelings in a series of memos on his phone.

During a particularly dark time, Aleshaiker said he wrote the memo that would soon inspire his latest stage name.

“It was my lowest point,” he said. “I was feeling so depressed.”

But, releasing the emotion led to a realization.

“As soon as I wrote it I just knew that it was a perfect stage name. It was catchy and easy to remember and it was so symbolic,” he said.

Since that night, Joseph Aleshaiker was again a human, a personality, and Memo 71 was the brand.

When he talks about Memo 71,

Aleshaiker holds hope and excitement in his voice and enthusiastically elaborates on all of the possibilities for the future.

“You can have moments when you’re doubting yourself, and you can have moments where you’re just very depressed, and it’s OK to feel that way. But the message is that things are always going to get better,” he said.

Looking back, Aleshaiker has come a long way in regards to how he represents his music, and he says this development toward Memo 71 reflects how he’s changed.

“It shows that I was starting to understand myself as a person,” he said. “I realized that my identity is really important to me, and I didn’t realize that before.”

— Identity presents itself subtly. Maybe it’s a name on a guitar case or a pair of pants in a closet or a stack of Amazon boxes. Eve’s unique identity is laced in her hiking boots and in the embroidery on her Western disco pants.

As for Aleshaiker, clothing isn’t on his mind when he presents his music; he stands behind the mic and behind a stage name, grateful for all the names and phases he’s gone through to get to where he is now, more in tune with his goals and with his identity. Looking into these unconventional identifying factors, students can really learn something about themselves, and even answer those impeding questions that are asked by friends while sitting around fires.

So as I hung up my most recent purchase, an art piece that I bought for no one else’s approval but my own, I realized I have undergone plenty of change throughout my time at UCLA. Next time I’ll know to put down the marshmallow, pull up my growing collection of purchase confirmation emails and answer the question. I understand that with many quarters to go, exams to take and passions to discover, I’ll continue to click the checkout button. My timeline will continue to develop and I’ll continue to grow, and as I think about my future visits to the mailroom, I’m excited to see what’s inside the packages.

“Looking into these unconventional identifying factors, students can really learn something about themselves.”

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Up from the Ashes O n Nov. 8, the sky over California was filled with ash. Two wildfires, the Camp Fire and the Woolsey Fire, had ignited within eight hours of each other, forcing evacuations in Butte, Los Angeles and Ventura counties.

Among the thousands affected by the fires were firstyear undeclared life sciences student Monica Campbell, from Paradise, California; first-year physiological sciences student Tyler Ray, from Malibu; second-year psychobiology student Angela Yu, from Thousand Oaks, California; and Charlotte Lerchenmuller, a board member of the Sal Castro Foundation. Campbell, Ray and Yu have been tasked with rebuilding, each in different ways. For each student, this task has been difficult. Campbell, having completely lost a home, Ray, within a few yards of losing a home, and Yu, who

ANGELA YU

designed by ASHLEY PHUONG More photos online at dailybruin.com/californiafires

was deeply disturbed by the nearby tragedies, are still managing their stress from afar but have also come to gain new pride in their communities as they see people rush to each other’s aid.

It has been four months since the Camp Fire swept through the town of Paradise and since the Woolsey Fire ripped through Thousand Oaks and Malibu.

Since then, affected communities have been going through their deserted homes, cleaning up abandoned, rusted cars and the burnt shells of houses, schools and workplaces. Though the physical task of cleanup is arduous, the emotional rebuilding can be even more grueling for those affected. These students faced the emotional turmoil of destruction in their communities but have to rebuild from afar – from their homes at UCLA.

photos + captions by

AXEL LOPEZ

Second-year psychobiology student Angela Yu has lived in Thousand Oaks her whole life. Yu knew it would be difficult to take an 8 a.m. midterm just a day after the mass shooting in her hometown, but then the Woolsey Fire happened the day of her midterm.

Yu had a friend in the same class who was also from the same area in Thousand Oaks. The two cried together as their professor insisted that they didn’t have to take the midterm. They took it anyways, as Yu said they had wanted to get it over with. After her midterm, she couldn’t wait to go home and support her community.

On the eve of Nov. 8, just 24 hours after a mass shooting at Borderline Bar and Grill, Thousand Oaks faced another tragedy. The Woolsey Fire began in Simi Hills, northeast of Thousand Oaks, and spread to various parts of the city by the force of fierce winds. Around 75 percent of Thousand Oaks residents were evacuated that week, the Los Angeles Times reported.

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written by LIZ KETCHAM

Not being able to immediately go back home was difficult for Yu because she wanted to take part in helping her community recover. There were multiple fundraisers and charity events organized in Thousand Oaks throughout the week to help victims of both the shooting and the fires, according to Yu.

TYLER RAY

For Ray, “home” means Horizon Drive, the street his family has lived on for 16 years. “The last time I had been there, I hadn’t seen it any differently. I’m so used to seeing it how it was. Seeing it after the fire was devastating,” Ray recalled. “It was all changed and different and black and brown.”

photos + captions by

ELISE TSAI

Tyler Ray is a first-year physiological science student from Malibu. When the Woolsey Fire rapidly swept through Southern California on Nov. 8, it destroyed hundreds of homes scattered among the mountains of Malibu. At UCLA, Ray rode waves of emotions as he pieced together information of what was left of his town. Although Ray’s home survived, many in his community are still reeling from the loss.

On Thanksgiving, around a week after the fires had subsided, Ray drove home with his family to assess the damage. “It honestly looked like a war zone. There’s remnants of cars, which is just the steel framing and complete collapsed houses. It looked like a different place, completely. I didn’t even recognize it,” Ray said.

When Ray first received news from his father that his house was in the path of the Malibu fires, Ray said it wasn’t exactly a new feeling. Minor fires had threatened his home in years past, forcing his family to evacuate.

Hopeful the winds would blow the opposite direction, Ray’s father called saying, “I think we should be fine.”

As the fires were closing in on Thousand Oaks. Yu said she was terribly anxious because the proximity of Wildwood Regional Park to her hometown made it a likely possibility that the fires would directly affect her area.

Yu went home the weekend after the Woolsey Fire happened and had no idea what to expect after the tragedy-filled week. She had been left uncertain over how the fires had affected her hometown.

Yu said she was devastated the entire day as the fires spread throughout Thousand Oaks. She tried to distract herself by completing her assignments, but couldn’t help but think of how her community was doing.

“It was the only thing I could think about. I had the news on to Thousand Oaks 24/7. I carried my phone around and constantly watched the news everywhere,” Yu said.

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The most significant lesson Ray said he learned was to not take anything for granted.

Although the fire destroyed all the vegetation on the mountain behind Ray’s home and the bushes in his backyard, his house managed to survive. Smoke damage, a few cracked windows and charred landscaping was the worst of the damage.

“I just realized most important things aren’t in your material possessions. They can honestly be gone at any point,” Ray said.

MONICA CAMPELL photos + captions by

AMY DIXON + LIZ KETCHAM

Monica Campbell, a first-year undeclared life sciences major, lost her home to the Camp Fire in the town of Paradise, California. By the end of the blaze, which descended upon Paradise on Nov. 7, 13,972 residences including Campbell’s home were destroyed. Her home was not the only thing she lost: Two weeks after the fire, her father passed away after suffering a stroke.

Since losing a home and a family member, Campbell has travelled back and forth between her Hedrick Hall dorm room and Chico, California, where her mother has been staying.

Campbell was at UCLA when she learned of the fires. Though she said it was hard to be far from her family at times, she’s grateful for the support she’s received at UCLA. “Now that I’m (at UCLA), I have a community to be in and I’m learning at one of the best schools in the nation. I have a place to stay,” she said.

Campbell stands by the frame where the front door to her house once stood. Broken pots, rusted nails and chunks of insulation lie under a thick layer of ash around her feet.

“Before we were allowed to come back, I still had the feeling I’d be able to come home and open the door,” Campbell said.

After learning about the fire, Campbell realized that the clothes, photos and items in her dorm room were the only personal possessions she had left. “I don’t have a home to go to, so I started seeing my dorm room as my home, the space I inhabited and made mine,” Campbell said. She’s grateful that she had UCLA as a place to go to for friendship, community and support.

“It showed me how compassionate people can be,” she said. Her friends made her a poster with handwritten messages reminding her home is where family is, and that they were part of her family.

After the fire swept through Campbell’s neighborhood, very little was left standing. Campbell’s home was left in shambles, a shell of what it used to be.

“I realized that even though it was my house, what was left wasn’t my home anymore,” Campbell said.

Campbell lost many personal belongings to the Camp Fire. An old passport photo of her dad was safely tucked away in her wallet at UCLA. Now, it’s the only copy she has left.

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Dear reader, Thank you for taking the time to read through PRIME’s winter 2019 issue!

Having presented these eight stories, we hope to have struck a chord on the subject of identity. We’re all on a mission to better understand ourselves within the context of our communities as we forge a sense of who we are and, more importantly, who we might become.

Some of us search for ourselves in our memories of the past, which we may uncover in places as unexpected as our online shopping carts to keepsakes as familiar as the recipes of our childhoods. From quotidian commutes through Berlin to half-packed games at Pauley Pavilion during peak sports season, the adventures and places contributors have investigated enlighten our search for a Bruin identity in relation to the sprawling places that surround us.

We also featured the voices of those who are often overlooked, if not silenced, by the UCLA community, from the driven nonstudents who tread Bruin Walk to those who seek recovery from personal struggles.

Our habits and all we hold dear can also play a role in how we seek change over the years, as one writer examined the psychological toll of being the lifelong fan of a controversial figure. But even when the things we cherish most are lost to forces beyond our control, we find ways to move forward and live for ourselves. In the end, we pen our own narratives, and the most beautiful stories are often considerate of those others write alongside us.

LETTER FROM THE

EDITORS

Best,

Juliette Le Saint PRIME director

Alexandra Del Rosario PRIME content editor

Megan Le PRIME art director

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