spring/summer 2017
contributors Mar Alvarez Esra Ar Luna de Buretel Augusta Chapman Miarosa Ciallella Abby Clemente Melissa Dimopulo Taylor Drago Salem Grey Allie Goines Benjamin Goldsmith Carolina Dalia Gonzalez Wilson Greaton Max Gumbel Omaymah Harahsheh Shelby Hettler Isabelle Jubin Anna Kaplan Jacqueline King Nicola Kirkpatrick Francesca Levethan Ally Lozada Micayla Lubka Morgan Maccherone Madeline Madia Natachi Mez Avegail MuĂąoz Grace Nkem Antonio Serros David Sierra Victoria Sun Caroline Wallis Jamine Weber Lexi Weber Ilana Woldenberg
additional thanks to Denise Boneta Agentry PR Colorblock Swimwear House of Future ISHINE365 La Filledo Laura Lombardi Merman Hunters MLAED SYRO Tattly
masthead Editor-in-Chief Anisa Tavangar Logistics Director Kaeli Streeter Photo Director Phoebe Jones Fashion Director Sloane A. Gustafson Features Director Paris Parker-Loan Design Director Rebecca Siqueiros Copy Chief Jacquelyn Klein Co-Blog Director Alyssa Gengos Co-Blog Director Marie Li PR Director Paloma Raines
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letter from the editor Starting the semester off with a high from the Women’s March and with my congressmen on speed dial, I knew the theme for this issue had to reflect the activism in the air. But while speaking out is vital to our country’s current condition, Hoot is still a fashion magazine. We needed a word that was broad enough to inspire beauty shoots and pointed enough to energize our efforts for the semester ahead. So, we landed on RADICAL. The obvious place to go with this word is resistance and protests, picket signs in tow. But further research revealed that radical is not just about change, it’s about being thorough, forming a fundamental part of something, having a far-reaching impact. Instead, we shifted our attention from political action to concepts more suited to our publication— radical love, radical beauty, radical acceptance, radical community— which in their own ways are forms of protest and resistance. By showcasing models and working with contributors with marginalized identities in ways that prioritize their individual beauty and capacity, instead of commodifying and othering, we produce radical content that isn’t included in other fashion-oriented publications. Even when selecting brands to feature, we put extra time in to find those owned by or supporting causes in line with Hoot’s mission of inclusion. And with the onslaught of cringe-worthy, pseudo-radical content (think the infamous Pepsi commercial or Vogue’s recent diversity issue), it’s vital that we, as budding creatives, consider how to address these larger issues in ways that retain their aesthetic appeal as well as their impact. In February, Sloane, Phoebe, and I attended an event on diversity in fashion at Condé Nast. While Anna Wintour and other top executives at Vogue, GQ, and other publications were present, there was a striking contrast between the contributions and sentiments of the emerging designers, editors, models, and writers and those of the establishment. It became extremely clear there that this work of imparting change on an industry that caters towards antiquated ideals of beauty and vain motivations will be done by rising voices, not by trying to correct those that are already loud. I know I say this all the time, but thank you for your support and love. I am so proud of where Hoot has gone in the last two years. This would not be possible without our wonderful team of editors and contributors so, as always, email us if you want to be a part of Hoot. We can’t do this on our own.
Anisa Tavangar
ambrosia
directors Jacqueline King, David Sierra photographer Jasmine Weber make up Avegail MuĂąoz assistant Sloane A. Gustafson models Tyler Allen, Salem Grey, David Sierra, Jaleel Williams shoes SYRO
inheritence writer Natachi Mez
I. She speak in broken English how much a pidgin worth her Cracked Wings, made whole in the Mouth of the tongue that Swims in her same dialect Joy evoked when she fly back to Native, Code Switch can break smile Broke the Water of her Tongue, Gave Birth to an inferiority defined by western supremacy Yet I jealous her How her tongue’s connected to Mother’s I consciously break phrases as if English isn’t the only water I know wet palate and privilege, but my Mother and Father be Atlantic and Pacific, Water in multiple Languages Nwattram Mmiri, Give me Water, my Father says to me in Igbo Nna, Nwattram Mmiri, the water that is your language II. The names I am given speak more Languages than I know. My middle name is Nneoma, translating to Good Mother, from the Igbo Language Language is waters broken and cords umbilical, I am born from mind to mouth, sounds came out, and Pronounced me Good Mother.
Language as a Lifecan be Taken for granted, or Life is privilege, granted, be grateful for the Tongue even when it attempts to Kill. Language as a Lie:I am not Good. I broke waters and waters bore me human. Gave me mind, connected it to mouth and I don’t know what to Say or how to raise up Language like a Good Mother Language as God, producer of all things visible and unseen, and I’ve heard of words dying, of entire Languages buried and it makes me want to reverse the waters from which I came, and drown Or Languages as Gods, and some Gods are more deadly than others the only Language I can pray in was born from foreign intrusion in my Mother’s land my tongue is a golden apple from the Tree of Colonialism from this fruit, I will continue to Bear. My first name, Natachi means From God in my Mother’s first Language, so From God comes a Good Mother and a need for translation British colonization tried to deem God a White Man, my own Mother cries Blasphemy and my last name was shortened by my Father, and in the cropping, there was no God left, just parched throats What remains but for me To drink from my own cup
humanpills illustrator Anna Kaplan
in touch director Miarosa Ciallella photographer Luna de Buretel stylist Sloane A. Gustafson make up Anisa Tavangar models Tatjana Freud, Arielle Isack, Micaela Pecot
how i resist I’ve found that daily completing small, manageable political tasks – namely, calling at least one of my elected officials about a bill or issue I care about – has been a really effective way for me to combat my own feelings of hopelessness and fatigue. I then post on Facebook a quick description of how I made my call, including any relevant phone numbers, websites, or scripts. Honestly, I don’t know if either of these actions – the phone call, the Facebook post – make any tangible external difference, but they ground me in practical actions instead of just wringing my hands every time I read the news. My thoughts should be heard; my concerns should be heeded; and my voice is valuable, valid, and important. —Victoria Sun, BC’17 Resistance, to me, comes with debate. I have been part of SJP and witnessed the tumultuous election period in which I found that the best way to resist was to ask members from my side not why we were right, but why the opposing side should think we’re right. This was recently also discussed in a class of mine where the TA opposed a student by saying, “Injustice is not a reason. If your opponent believed in your injustice, there would be no need to convince.” Resistance is seeing what the soldiers on the other side are fighting for, and pushing back with words. —Esra Ar, CC’18 While there are many inequities and injustices in need of immediate attention, I have chosen to focus and conduct research on behalf of military sexual trauma (MST) victims. Sexual harassment and assault in the military, however specific, have grown ever more significant over the past few decades in part because of the number of women who now choose to serve. My research aims to find another way in which MST victims can report perpetrators without fear of retaliation. In this tumultuous time, it is ever more important to protect the intersectionalities of the vulnerable. —Nicola Kirkpatrick, BC ‘19 On a more personal level, I love sharing videos of spoken-word poetry with people. Poetry incites action and empathy, it educates and comforts, it offers empowerment and celebrates vulnerability, it is whatever the poet needs and wants. Language is so powerful, and I believe that poetry is one of the most amazing ways to use it. —Shelby Hettler, BC’20
illustrator Augusta Chapman
Fashion can be a great opportunity to make a statement, but sometimes people simply want to wear what feels right. The authentic self-presentation of POC, queer, non-binary, and gender nonconforming folks in particular is too often inherently dangerous and automatically politicized. Though compliment culture is super weird these days, I’m making an effort to vocally support my friends and even people I’m not as close to when they rock styles that affirm their identities, whether it’s natural hair or nail polish. Try to do so genuinely--i.e. not merely offering praise for passing, and not using language that fetishizes or appropriates those specific cultures--and remember that something you might have the privilege to write off as a sartorial risk can also be a very real risk for many. —Paris Parker-Loan, CC’18 I resist by standing up for what is right and just, by showing that I will not back down, even though I am a small, queer woman who has been told on numerous occasions that her voice is not worthy. As a woman in STEM, I also realize how powerful my perspective can be. I resist by empowering young women by tutoring them so that they too can feel mighty in spaces where they are often undervalued and underrepresented. —Morgan Maccherone, SEAS ‘18 While I’ve participated in my fair share of protests, there are countless other ways to make the personal political. Queering gender presentation, organizing community events, and advocating for marginalized friends all come to mind. Because the term “practicing resistance” itself implies there is something to resist, what we do in its name should work to combat its encroach. As an ally, this means eradicating ego and ensuring those you champion have a platform. As an individual, it can mean radical self-love and creative expression. So long as the individual at the crux of your actions is cared for, even the smallest of contributions has value. --Lexi Weber, BC’17
pinpoint
director Madeline Madia stylist Isabelle Jubin photographer Benjamin Goldsmith model Karin Nader clothing Matiere, Spectre & Co., House of Future tattoos Tattly
please hold director, photographer Wilson Greaton stylist Antonio Serros makeup Francesca Levethan assistants Salem Grey, Jacquelyn Klein models Lewit Bedada, Ashby Bland, Michael Edmonson select clothing MLAED
the “radical” character writer Max Gumbel
It’s a shame we all stopped trusting those advertisements! We could have avoided this pitiful self-deprecation that rests at the core of their millennial strategy — packaging political dissent into sneaker endorsements, putting your celebrity spokesperson on both sides of the French Revolution battlefield (stop your silly fighting), pretending it’s not even an ad by making a punchline of how corny ads are, etc. — if only we had a little more faith in how cool the private sector already is. Unfortunately this generation needs some help learning how to consume, and anti-establishment politics, much like nostalgia for Juicy Couture, is very hot this season. Any monoculture will do, so long as it’s a scalable operation.That’s why we’re responsible for a whole youth movement of eating fair trade scampi out of recalled car pistons in some abandoned brick warehouse; bragging about unlistened-to collections of Gil Scott Heron LPs; pretending like you’d never read the news about Coachella’s anti-LGBTQ owner but saying you’ll do better next year. Treat yourself: resistance is lit. Is it comforting that every cultural revolution thus far also had to be sold to the American public through the news and the movies? It’s definitely easy to forget that some of Joan Didion’s Haight-Ashbury hippies had trust funds to pay their way through STP-soaked permanent holidays in Asia — one of our most exotic continents. Yes, in a cloud of confused, mass-reproduced signifiers, weaponized to sell, we might forget to disdain the aesthetic forebears of this whole light-washed-jeans-withhistorical-leftist-on-a-graphic-tee look. Even though we ought to know that the free lovers of 1960s San Francisco would have worn Fidel-branded man tanks too, at least once or twice, were they only so lucky. So this whole post-irony thing — posturing unexpected sincerity in the face of an absurd or cognitively dissonant premise, i.e. taking a dismissive selfie at the Jeff Koons retrospective or buying Ariana Grande’s latest album — might be the best antidote to social outrage. If we can just pose against the system without actively fighting it, we can also pretend that the objects through which we find self-definition aren’t being sold to us through conditioned desires by wage exploiting titans of industry. Post-irony shouldn’t still be in season, but it is, probably because we don’t seem to like any other tools of dissenting expression. How could we when they’re never televised? Every time you think you’ve landed on a real ass coup d’etat it’s just some recycled image of “life-affirming” unity and also a really good reason to buy that can of cola. The “radical” character knows that they’re not down with late capitalism, sensitive to a growing feeling of moral impurity. But perhaps, unlike radicals before them, that imagination of moral purity — of an authenticity, an idealized existence that was lost at some point to corrupting forces — is conspicuously absent. They’re on that Foucauldian post-colonial vibe so they know how that shit works: insidiously. And they’ll take whatever heat comes their way for always standing against something. Because they are still waiting patiently for somebody to tell them what they are standing for.
ultrasheen director Paloma Raines photographer Micayla Lubka stylist Omaymah Harahsheh makeup Ilana Woldenberg assistants Rebecca Siquieros, Anisa Tavangar models Amira Farid, Fatima Koli jewelry Laura Lombardi
bleach me writer Carolina Dalia Gonzalez
The Manic Panic™ Amplified Flash Lightning Bleach boxes sat on the center of my dorm room desk, their holographic details glittering under the bright fluorescent lights. One bleach set may have seemed like enough to most, but I’d bought four knowing my dark brown thick hair all too well. I picked up one of the boxes, turning it over to read its contents. Complete maximum hair lightening kit with easy step by step instructions, the box claimed. Easy. That’s what I wanted. The process would be easy, like a piece of cake, or like cafe con leche in the morning. I just had to follow the instructions and I would get my desired results, easy. I placed the box down back alongside the others, all four neatly aligned in a row. Next to them was an arsenal of hair clips, bowls, a tint brush, purple shampoo, and grey hair toner I had picked up at the Ricky’s on 86th Street. I slid down into my desk chair and pulled my beauty mirror closer to my face. Staring back at my reflection, I locked in a gaze with my own. My eyes began to move between each of my facial features, glazing over my pointy nose, my scarred tan skin, my small brown eyes, my unkempt eyebrows, my chubby and round cheeks. I brought my hand towards the nape of my neck, pulling my hair to the front of my shoulders. Seven years of keratin treatments—seven years of stinging scalps— all in the grip of my hand.“La belleza es dolor,” mami would whisper while I whimpered during all those keratin applications. Her motto got me through everything: the waxing appointments, the suffocating facial treatments, those manicures and pedicures where the nail specialist would accidentally cut off too much skin and draw blood. Before, the nickname mami and papa coined for my hair was “the mop.” An untamed cloud of frizz, curls, and volume. But now, my hair was thick, smooth, sometimes limp but still naturally voluminous. All the frizz was gone. All the curls were gone. All the wild baby hairs were straightened and pushed down. I took the black hair clips off of my desk and started to part my hair, trying my best to make even sections. I looked towards the boxes of hair bleach, picking one up and slowly peeling at its glued down cardboard flaps. This was actually happening, I was really going to bleach all of my hair. I set my phone on the side of the sink and sat down. As I opened the bleach, a pungent smell arose and watered my eyes. I continued following the instructions, mixing the developer with the powdered bleach. The fumes from the bleach only got stronger and more overwhelming. I continued. I took the tint brush from the set and placed it in the mixing bowl, thoroughly soaking it. I unclipped the first strand of hair from the bottom of my scalp and laid it flat in my gloved hand. Starting from the roots and working towards the ends, I brushed the bleach onto my hair. Immediately a ferocious stinging sensation erupted, a strong burn that showed no signs of calming down. This was worse than the countless times I’d done mami’s keratin treatments in my youth. It was as if flames were dancing across my scalp, leaving behind patches of raw skin in their wake.
After pushing past the summit of this mountain of pain, I had done it. I had bleached all my hair. And it was easy, just like the package said. I stared at myself in the reflection of the communal bathroom mirror. My hair was now a brassy orange color—like brand new copper pennies. I just had to follow through with my plan. This is what I wanted, this is what I’d been wanting since I first moved to New York. To be a new person, to embody a new identity, to radiate a radical self-love that could be felt from blocks away. It took another two boxes for my hair to finally start looking that particular shade of bleached blonde. When it was all over, I lifted a hand to my tender scalp.
illustrator Jacquelyn Klein
No more did it feel like it was consumed by flames, but instead it felt like the very skin on my head was melting off. I clenched my jaw in agony. Although my hair was bleached to the blonde look I’d wanted for so long, it now felt stringy and broke off easily. I brought soothing coconut oil into the shower to deep condition and heal, but my efforts were in vain. I jumped out of the shower and ran back to my room, blow drying my hair as quickly as I could. Once I was finished, I turned to face myself once more in my small beauty mirror. It was as if Mattel had decided to sell a brown Barbie with blonde hair. The hot air had turned my already-stringy hair into something like crunchy ramen. My scalp’s raw pinkness peeked through the crisp blonde strands. The box had lied to me; this wasn’t easy.Tears rolled down my face as I stroked what was left of my mop. I had successfully bleached the brown out of me, but there was no satisfaction—only raw skin and an empty hole in my chest.
hydroelectric director Kaeli Streeter photographer Phoebe Jones stylist Paris Parker-Loan makeup Anisa Tavangar assistants Ally Lozada model Ellen Scott with Jayden Pantel clothing Colorblock Swimwear, ISHINE365, Merman Hunters
real, strong, woman writer Melissa Dimopulo
The time I’ve spent at the gym has allowed me to build so much more than just physical strength. The years it took to be able to do a pull up, let alone reps, were the same years in which I built the emotional strength to be able to pull myself out of depression. The time it took to grow my quads, instead of keeping the thigh gap I once starved myself for, was time that made me more confident to stand tall and proud on my own two feet. Instead of squeezing myself into clothes that no longer fit my body or lifestyle, I accept that I can no longer fit into my size 4 dresses or professional button down shirts because I have made a deliberate choice to become stronger. But none of that personal growth is visible. You can’t see the chubby bullied girl I once was, or the conventionally thin girl who despite her internal and external weakness, was applauded by a society that was stuck in an outdated way of valuing a woman’s worth. All people see is a big girl with thick legs and a broad back. Even the fitness community is not without fault and maintains its own toxic hierarchy of body types. The intersection between the fitness and fashion industries has conditioned people to associate leanness with athleticism. Even though I am just as skilled an athlete regardless of the normal deviations in my body fat percentage, my success at the gym is applauded more when I’m leaner. When you can’t see my abs, quad separation, or the striations of my shoulders, I am seen as less of an athlete. The models you see in activewear catalogues and fitness campaigns posing next to dumbbells or leaning against prop bikes are not capable of the same physical feats as bigger athletes whose bodies have molded to their sports. But we appreciate their beauty and gravitate towards products that hang elegantly off their small frames, so they remain the commercial ideal of athleticism even though they aren’t dedicated to an athletic lifestyle. And when real strong women are used in fitness media, their larger measurements often naturally maintain hourglass proportions or end up photoshopped to maintain a big butt with a smaller waist. I love my body and all that it can do, but our culture’s claim of moving towards accepting female strength largely remains an ideology and not a reality. Fellow women who say their feminism supports body positivity still look at my big quads with disgust, and forward-thinking people who attend anti-discriminatory rallies and start fights against bigotry on Facebook still assume I’m queer because I have a “masculine” body. It’s not masculine, it’s strong and feminine; I’m not butch, I’m just a built ass bitch. It’s so important to practice conditioning ourselves out of these knee-jerk negative reactions, and to recognize the hypocrisy in claiming to value strong women, but scorning them when they actually put in the time and hard work to become the strongest versions of themselves.