Kitsch Magazine: Fall 2019

kitsch vol

18 no 1 || fall 2019

Letter from the Editors Dear reader, Jinx!

From the moment this small-sized word first fell into our laps during brainstorming to the last days of putting together this issue of kitsch, we’ve been enraptured by the idea of enchantment. The work of the artists and writers who contributed to this issue shows how, in a world full of contradictions and confusions, a sense of enchantment can always help make sense of it all.

The Fall 2019 issue creates the space to play with the ideas that enchant and bewilder us every day. In some ways, as it does in Lindsey Potoff ’s transformative potions, they take the form of hexes, witches, and the like. In others, we explore the almost magical and inexplicable driving forces inherent in love, superstition, or even emergency contraception, as told in Emma Eisler’s “Jinx! You Owe Me Plan B.” In the midst of navigating a period of fluidity regarding the future, the people we hope to be and the quest to find meaning in the everyday, Alana Sullivan’s “Methods and Materials” brings us back to the magic of childhood imagination, reminding us of the small ways we first learned to combat the dis-enchantment of disappointment, of loss, and of pain. Sometimes, our own “Methods and Materials” are merely distractions; sometimes, we don’t think they make sense. Dearest reader, rest assured: they don’t have to make sense, because they’re magic. So, whether it be through fantasy, reflection, or the warmth of friends, we hope this kitsch finds you rediscovering a small piece of forgotten enchantment in your life.

Love,

jessie and nathaniel

Anna and Annie

kitsch vol

18 no 1 || fall 2019

editors-in-chief

lead copy editor design editor art editor web editor social media

artists

advisor funded by

Emma Bernstein Nadya Mikhaylovskaya Abby Eskinder Hailu Olivia Bono Tilda Wilson

Emma Bernstein Olivia Bono Isha Chirimar Jean Camberari Claire Deng Nwakuso N. Edozien Annie Fu Dana Gong Jane Jackson Leo Levy Belle McDonald Nicole Oliveira Ana Penavic Lindsey Potoff Karolina Piorko Alana Sullivan Tilda Wilson

michael koch student activities funding commission

Anna Grace Lee + Annie Fu

zooming out assistant zooming out zooming in watch and listen bite size

writers

Emma Eisler Emma Bernstein Stephanie Tom Jean Cambareri Ana Penavić

Sarah Bastos Emma Bernstein Olivia Bono Andie Chapman Nalu Concepcion Jean Camberari Claire Deng Emma Eisler Annie Fu Anna Godek Eve Hallock Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe Anna Grace Lee Belle McDonald Nicole Oliveira Olivia Pietz Lindsey Potoff Ana Penavic Alana Sullivan Stephanie Tom Tilda Wilson Stephen Yang

In This Issue...

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Watch & Listen

What’s Your Witch Familiar?

Hexes for Your Exes & A Spell for Wellbeing Potions How to: Befriend your Neighborhood Crows Astral Projection 13 Celebrities That Just Won’t Die TikTok and the In-Between Generation

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Something Wicked This Way Comes Songs That Can Also Double as Hexes Fairy Tales....But Make Them Edgy Megan’s Body The Most JINXED Character in Harry Potter

More than Just Sugar, Spice, & Everything Nice

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The Sound on the Stairs e-Boys and e-Girls: The Goth Revival Psychology Needs to Stop Fighting Itself Two Liturgies

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Jinx, You Owe Me Plan B! Meant to Be Every Night Since 1972 Fixating on Dreams Do You Believe In Fairies?

The Power of the Placebo/Nocebo Writing Selfishly Jinxed from Birth Materials and Methods Anxiety Native

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Zooming In

Zooming Out

On the Plaza

what is the last time you felt jinxed?

“I don’t know, but I watched thi s documentary that was skepti cal about religion and it made me feel like I was offending God so I wanted to pray afterwards. I we nt to get my rosary and I found that the cross had broken in ha lf.”

-anonymous

us for is notorio o h w e in ne’s ember of m mplimented someo m y il m fa eable day co “A disagre ssip once o g a d n a ara us broke.”

- Sara Tay being jealo and it immediately ce new neckla

“Whenever the red rain strike s upon

my body.”

- Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe

“I told my boyfriend his skin is next day he got a p really sm imple.” ooth and the

“Ran into a guy I hooked up with freshman year every day for a week.” - Emma Bernstein

“Probably th Pokémon e last time I caugh t a Jy .”

- Zoya M ohsin

girl to a white in d e m r .” e I transfo recovered ’t “That tim n n e v a h ll Sti ilda Wilso T … h ta U m fro

nx in

- John Ha nnan

s phone d a e h n my ifi nd the ) then my w a e k o br ver y alarm or broke (fe ise rain.” m k e e b r Bohan k c i r t “Last w en my neigh ke with surp a - P th ro broke, en the sky b th broke

“I deadass got stung by a bee ON MY HAND while walking to a prelim.” - Jean Cambereri

“I don’t th ink that ji nxes are r that there eal. (I do are super believe natural fo against m rce e, I just d on’t believ s conspiring e they are real).”

- Sam Bis chof

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Hexes for Your Exes & A Spell for Wellbeing

May you get stung by a dozen bees, may you get hit by a falling star; May you trip and always scrape both knees, May you run out of gas in your car.

A Spell for Wellbeing

by Stephanie Tom art by Olivia Bono

Hexes for Your Exes

Although you might think this absurd, I hope your hand cramps during essay exams; and when you wrack your brain for just the right word, may you forget despite how you cram.

For every darty, I wish you Bubly, not White Claw, and each Monday, problem sets due early at eight; If this were an epic, hubris would be your downfall, karma’s ruin -- and honestly, I can’t wait.

May you catch your finger in the jamb of a door, and after sushi, get a stomachache; May you fall on your face when you land on the floor, may you be cursed with equivalent heartbreak.

But in the end, I can’t fault you at all, because time has never been kind; and I’d never admit that if ever you’d call I’d still listen, joint heart and mind.

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Pick wildflowers in the month of June & preserve every fallen butterfly wing; collect these with your dreams of spring & gather them under the full moon.

Stir well and don’t forget to hum this tune: “No matter what the future may bring, may my spirits lift in love & sing a song for joy in better days soon.”

When singing, scoop the mix into a jar & shake until it’s glowing white.

Whisper hopes for future near & far to preserve the sanctity of your heart’s light.

For those reading, your life’s a star -don’t worry, tomorrow you’ll be alright.w

by Lindsey Potoff

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by Lindsey Potoff

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How to: Befriend your Neighborhood Crows

by Eve Hallock art by Olivia Bono and Belle McDonald Sure, you know your herbs and minerals. Your cat loves you and your toads and newts are secure in your clutches, but are you questioning your witchy status among your local avifauna? Fear no more, you worrywart!

With this simple How-to Guide, make your coven proud and envious this Halloween, and your arch nemesis, Gretchen, furious for stealing her only friends.

Step 1. Go on long, meandering walks.

Just before sunset, I recommend strolling past your area’s pine groves, graveyards, fast-food parking lots, cliff sides of misery, ice-fishing holes, and compost piles. Before long, you should locate the resident murders of crows. Keep a respectful distance, but make sure to gaze longingly. Memorize their cacaawwws, familial relations, and movements. If you are a cyber-witch, you can cheat by using ebird.org to track them (I won’t tell), but make sure that b*tch Gretchen can’t see your checklists.

Step 2. Experiment with scare-crows This may seem risky, but hear me out. Farmers and gardeners have posted silly, corporal imitations in their fields to keep crows away for centuries, but these birds are clever and learn quickly. Just in case, make sure to clear any left-over piñatas, mannequins, or uh… bodies from your fields, except for any manifestations of Ke$ha. Crows love her. Next, dump and plant all offending objects in Gretchen’s yard when night falls.

Step 3. Make your forest a haven for the raven Now that your property can no longer upset crows, it is time to attract them. At dawn, leave out bits of meat, water, fruit, fish, ketchup, and fishermen’s tears to indulge them, and keep it coming! Paint a hauntingly beautiful mural of Ke$ha on the side of your barn. Whittle a life-sized crow (or two) out of cedar wood, paint black, and post in perfect illumination of the blood moon. Sand to smooth any surfaces your incoming murder may want to perch on. This is essential, and if you are lucky, the whole extended family will stay to roost. You will need to provide comfortable, sturdy, and horizontal places where they can gather to socialize, rest, sit, and help you plot Gretchen’s demise.

Step 4. Look & sound the part You are mostly likely already wearing black as you 12 • bite size

read this, however, forest greens and blood reds are also nice additions to your crow-friendly wardrobe.

What is more crucial are your communication skills.

Practice your calls! For you studious enchantresses, there is a huge database of crow conversations from the Macaulay Library of Sound to listen to while you brew and boil.

Step 5. Evade the authorities It is illegal to have pet crows without the proper permits, and frowned upon to tame wild animals.

However, these are not pets, nor should they be tamed, controlled, or imprisoned in any way, especially not for “science”(*narrows eyes* I’m glowering at you, Cornell Lab of Ornithology, harumpf!). If the police or U.S. Fish & Wildlife officers do find concern with your behavior, you can remind them that it is perfectly legal to have friends, and that maybe they should try it out sometime.

Step 6. Maintain relationships Respect their freedom, and don’t even think about getting on their bad side, because they will outsmart you (having evolved separately from Hominids to use and create tools, learn socially, and solve complex problems). Consider your neighborhood crows as colleagues, and perhaps even dear friends. As long as you follow these straightforward steps, beautiful and long-lasting relationships should flourish. Sipping a morning cup of tea under the old oak in your yard and chatting with your friends perched above, picking through Gretchen’s jewelry that they stole for you the night before, watching them sharpen their beaks in your rock garden, learning the inter-murder gossip, rejecting all other units of measuring distance in favor of “as the crow flies”, babysitting your godchicks, throwing the most haunted Halloween rager...sigh.

You could experience all these moments and more someday soon, so get out there and ca-caaaww!

Coven Q & A Q: Can I make the crows do my bidding?

A: No, but you can ask politely.

Q: Does blood attract them?

A: Duh Q: Is a murder of crows really an omen of death?

A: Yes; bad news for the Gretchen in your life.

Q: Will my new corvid pals be compatible with my many black cats?

A: No, unfortunately. Cats should be kept indoors to support the wellbeing of avian communities and crows belong free and untethered. Both can boost your hexes separately.

Q: What are the magical properties of crow feathers?

A: According to the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918, it is illegal to possess most live or dead birds, feathers, eggs, or nests. However, (*wink) a list of spells and properties can be obtained by only the most worthy and sustainable

665 of 689 readers found this article helpful ~97% **** click a star to add your vote.

Witch’s review: “This how-to-guide did ruin my marriage, significantly subtract my free time, and put those nosy posers in my neighborhood watch on high alert, but I have never felt happier or more in control of my life. I can attest to the success of this article’s advice and recommend turning your attention to your crow relationships like I did.”w -Brenda from Puyallup, Washington bite size • 13

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13 Celebrities That Just Won’t Die

by Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe The time of the human is fleeting. Each of us is but a blip in the cosmic computer. However, largely unknown to us, we will be outlasted by many. It is widely agreed upon in certain circles that there are definite immortal people who walk among us, and many (but not all) of them appear upon the great glowing screen of the cinema. I have consulted the coven of Tumblr witches in my basement and we have decided to bring these deathless critters into the light.

1. Keanu Reeves A neutral god, a pillar of humanity, he looms. King Charlemagne? Way back in 748 CE? It was the soul we now know as the dude from the Matrix. He has also moonlighted as Paul Mounet, and the source of his eternal youth is not known.

2. John Mulaney A younger immortal, perhaps born in the 1920s, still figuring the whole “thing” out. Gazing at the time he has in front of him, he is already exhausted.

3. Nicholas Flamel One of the OG immortal homies, born 1330. He is believed to have discovered the Philosopher’s Stone, which would indicate that he had artificially concocted immortality. He is said to have died in 1418, but we all know that’s not true...

4. Will Smith A lord of time. No one is quite sure how long he has been around, but it is agreed that he’s been out and about for at least a couple hundred years. He used to dictate time travel, but more recently was responsible for YouTube Rewind, and my contact within the Immortal Network has told me that he’s currently on probation for that infraction.

5. Avril Lavigne Many have heard of the theory that Avril was replaced by a lookalike in 2003, but the reality of the matter is that she is one of the natural-born immortals who has been around long enough to have been granted shape-shifting powers.

6. Janelle Monáe Another young immortal, but in a new and different way than Mulaney. The youngest on this list, Monáe is hypothesized to be an android or perhaps a cyborg. The notes of 60s pop in her music or her outfits that hint at 19th-century gentlemen’s fashion could be a nod to her true origins. Even more interestingly, she has been very public about an alter ego of hers: Cindy Mayweather...who

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is allegedly from the year 2719. Perhaps time travel is one of the tricks up her sleeve.

7. Happy Dave He swipes your ID card for Okenshields lunch now, but legend has it that Cornell was in fact founded because he stood upon the hill, eyes ablaze with the fire of duty, way back in 1865.

8. Priyanka Chopra A woman of wartime - truly a goddess descended to our mere mortal level. Have you seen the steel in her eyes?

Athena of Greco-Roman mythology, 100 percent.

9. Eddie Murphy One of the younger yet one of the quieter immortals. A photo of his 1920 self surfaced, but little is known about this mysterious being.

10. Tilda Swinton A fey creature who delights in flitting about mortals. She has recently become very cocky, appearing as the Ancient One in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, perhaps hinting at her true nature. Born about 550 years ago.

11. Nicholas Cage According to eBay, is 100 percent a vampire who reinvents himself every 75 years or so. He has been quick to deny this fact, but you know the truth now, don’t you, dear reader?

12. John Travolta A known Scientologist and Nic Cage’s mortal enemy.

Scientologists believe in a strain of reincarnation, and for Travolta, it’s real. A vampire hunter by trade, he has been spotted during similar times as Cage for millennia.

13. Whoopi Goldberg All-seeing. All-knowing. If I talk about her being immortal for too long, she’ll seek me out. Best buds with Priyanka together they are a tactical team for good.w

TikTok and the In-Between Generation

by Anna Grace Lee art by Olivia Bono

Recently I have become obsessed with TikTok, the social media of the youths. I have spent entire hours reading about about the newest TikTok craze and watching teenagers on the app do outrageous things—like dancing to voicemails from abusive partners, calling themselves ugly and then dancing, and conducting “hot mom checks”—all in whirlwind, 15-second bursts. Many of these TikTokers were born in the 2000s, and the online discourse surrounding the app is hilariously focused on an attempt at understanding the “kids these days” through their use of TikTok. These TikTokers are not much younger than I am, and yet they feel like members of a completely different generation. They seem so earnest and unashamed in their videos, e-girls pouting and lipsyncing about taking your man, e-boys accentuating their jawlines and snarling for the camera while dancing to the newest sexy pop song. Why is their world of TikTok so bewildering to me, and why does TikTok make me feel so old?

I asked my Instagram followers, the majority of whom are over 18, how TikTok makes them feel. One 23-year-old friend replied: “I love that it reminds me of Ke$ha’s banger, ‘Tik Tok.’” Other friends: “Pleasantly bemused,” “scared,” and “shivers.” Many of my friends, the oldest one being 26, said that TikTok makes them feel “old” and “out of touch.” One simply lamented, “RIP Vine.” I asked the people who said that they love TikTok why they love it. Their responses: “It spews out chaotic energy that reeks of rural American ennui,” “It makes me feel like an anthropologist,” and “It’s a never-ending source of entertainment.”

Regardless of the specifics of my peers’ reactions to TikTok, they all articulate a certain anxiety over generational alignment. My friends and I are young

enough to communicate by way of meme and Vine references, but too old to feel like we truly understand the motivations of the kids on TikTok. For me, the rise of TikTok and my initial confusion surrounding it was the first time I realized there was a younger generation doing things I didn’t understand. My older siblings are millennials and I grew up inhaling so much of their pop culture, style, and technological leanings that I don’t feel like I’m part of Generation Z. TikTok just solidifies that separation. TikTok makes me feel acutely in-between and lonely in my 1997-ness, but something about that feels exactly how it should be.w bite size • 17

Something Wicked This Way Comes witches in pop culture

by Sarah Bastos art by Karolina Piorko

Growing up as a kid in the early 2000s, the idea of witches fascinated me.

I always desired to be one because they were the only women on screen who were the masters of their fate. As a child, I was constantly told that my options in life were limited because of my gender but the idea of the witch changed what it means to be a woman for me.

Witches have been a lasting image in pop culture since Shakespearian times and were often used to depict women negatively. But in recent decades, they have become a symbol of female empowerment.

In the late 1990s/early 2000s, there was an emergence of witches in pop culture who were not portrayed as villainous individuals, but rather as real women, like the Halliwell sisters of Charmed or Sabrina Spellman from Sabrina the Teenage Witch.

These women were some of the few characters on the screen who were powerful and dynamic in their own right (without the guidance of a man).

Before the 90s, however, the word “witch” was a derogatory term, often synonymous with the word “bitch” and it was meant to sway viewers to believe that women needed to be demure in order to be accepted in this patriarchal society. Even so, looking back at old films and television series, most of these so-called evil women didn’t do anything modern audiences would consider particularly nefarious.

Negative View of Witches For instance, most of the Disney villains are women and witches as well. They are seen as more vicious than their male counterparts because ambitious women are dangerous while ambitious men are inspiring.

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Maleficent, the antagonist of Sleeping Beauty, was only deemed as “evil” because she dared to call out those in power for their oppressive actions, but if she was a man, she would be called a hero.

This idea of witches being synonymous with bitchiness and wickedness goes way back to Shakespearean times with the creation of Macbeth.

Traditional interpretations of this play point to the three witches in the opening act as the trigger for all of Macbeth’s evil actions. Audiences were quick to label Lady Macbeth and the witches as sinners rather than

blame the play’s eponymous main character. Women with ambition and literal power were dangerous to the natural order of things.

“The reemergence of witches in entertainment is a way to empower women to reclaim their power to fight this endless sexual harassment and abuse prevalent in our society.”

This labeling of witches as negative entities continued until the 20th century with the production of the Wizard of Oz and its main character being a witch; however, this type of witch was different. The Wicked Witch of the West was considered ugly by Western beauty standards which added to the negative ideas of how women shouldn’t be. Women had to be beautiful and obedient and those who didn’t comply were witches.

This negative portrayal of witches reached its climax with Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, where female sexuality was seen as the root of all evil. The main antagonist, Abigail, was accused of being a witch in part because she was in control of her body and what she desired. Although this play was set in puritanical times, it reflected the politics leading up to its creation. Women’s bodies have always been one of the most heavily regulated things in human history.

Positive View of Witches After the 60s and the success of second-wave feminism, more progressive depictions of women began to be reflected in television and film soon after.

For instance, the 90s was revolutionary in terms of female representation with the popularization of the witch trope in the media. Movies like The Craft exemplified the strides women made throughout this time period. On the surface, this movie seems just like a typical teenage chick-flick but it is more than that.

The characters in The Craft represent the multifaceted nature of women who were often not taken seriously

before this, especially in entertainment. Using teenage girls as representatives of this new female empowerment really changed our perspectives on who can have power. Teenage girls, one of the most heavily criticized groups, redefined the witch trope and what femininity means.

Charmed, created at the end of the 90s, combined traditional feminine traits like familial allegiance and beauty with more taboo ones like sexuality and financial independence. Despite all of the progress made during this decade, this feminism wasn’t allencompassing, as most of these characters were white.

The 2000s brought diversity in roles and even more complex female characters via witches. This can be seen in the 2019 version of Charmed whose main characters are all women of color and in the popular Disney Channel Original Movie, Twitches.

Witches are more popular than ever, which can be a result of the turbulent world we live in. Misogyny is everywhere including in our executive branch. The reemergence of witches in entertainment is a way to empower women to reclaim their power to fight this endless sexual harassment and abuse prevalent in our society. w

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Songs That Can Also Double as Hexes Thirteen songs so you can cast those spells, honies

by Andie Chapman art by Zahavah Rojer

1. Andromeda - Weyes Blood - Titanic Rising “Andromeda’s a big wide open galaxy / nothing in it for me except a heart that’s lazy” “Love is calling / it’s time to let it through / find a love that will make you / I dare you to try” This song sounds like a galaxy—Weyes Blood’s witchy voice will lift you into an ethereal state. Looking to find love? We dare you to cast this energy out into the atmosphere, and you will.

2. Indian Summer - Blood Cultures - Happy Birthday “I’ve been talking to you / in my dreams / I’ve been thinking of you endlessly / I hope you commit to memory / but one day you will know / I’ll have to let you go” magic, you can get your energy out there.

3. And Saints - Sleigh Bells - Kid Kruschev “So-and-so wants to know if I’m okay / nah man, but thanks / temple throb, dust lakes / black gold, tigers, and saints / and saints” “Tear up / tear up / gear up / stand up” Ever been half asleep on a rainy afternoon, contemplating the forces of life? Well, this song will bring you to that pensive state of witchy magic.

4. Light On - Maggie Rogers - Heard It In A Past Life “If you keep reaching out / then I’ll keep coming back / but if you’re gone for good / then I’m okay with that / if you leave the light on, /I’ll leave the light on”

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Akin to burning sage, this Maggie Rogers song will lure out the lingering psychological real estate that exboyfriends / girlfriends / partners take up.

5. Sometimes - My Bloody Valentine - Loveless “Close my eyes / feel me now / I don’t know how you could not love me now” A shoegaze classic, My Bloody Valentine drenches each guitar in an unfathomable amount of reverb. Get lost in the magic of this track and cast the message that whoever is on your mind, will love you.

6.

Coffee - Beabadoobee - Coffee “Don’t stay awake for too long / don’t go to bed / I’ll make a cup of coffee for your head / I’ll get you up and

going out of bed / and I promise that one day I’ll feel fine / and I promise that one day I’ll feel alright” A lo-fi, indie, acoustic bundle of enchanting sounds; it will bring about the visceral magic of healing somebody.

7. Pink in the Night - Mitski - Be the Cowboy “I glow pink in the night in my room /I’ve been blossoming alone over you” Mitski brings an energy of witchy lovesickness, and what better time of year than autumn to release this magic?

8.

Hard Feelings / Loveless - Lorde - Melodrama “Bet you wanna rip my heart out / bet you wanna skip my calls now / well guess what /I like that / ‘cause I’m gonna mess your life up / gonna wanna tape my mouth shut / look out, lovers” The album Melodrama itself is a spellbook. This song in particular curses those awful exes.

9.

Don’t Delete The Kisses - Wolf Alice - Visions of a Life “I look at your picture and I smile / how awful is that I’m like a teenage girl / I might as well write all over my notebook / that you rock my world / but you do, you really do / you’ve turned my upside down / and that’s okay, I let it happen / ‘cause I like having you around” From the twinkling synth and witchy sounds to the whispered spoken-word verses, this song will transport you to the ethereal plane.

10.

Third Eye - Florence + The Machine - How Big, How Blue, How Beautiful “ ‘Cause there’s a hole where your heart lies / and I can see it with my third eye / and through my touch it magnifies” Florence Welch is our beloved pop witch, and here it nearly sounds like she’s casting a spell.

11.

It’s Not Up To You - Björk - Vespertine “If you leave it alone / it might just happen / anyway / it’s not up to you / well it never really was” This is an icy, magical anthem of independence and serendipity. Allow it to cleanse the air.

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Ruthless - The Marías - Superclean, Vol. II “But darling the truth is / in darkness I’m ruthless” Maria’s jazzy, soft voice is spellbinding, and the energy is unmistakably lovely.

13.

Get Free - Lana Del Rey - Lust For Life “Finally / I’m crossing the threshold / from the ordinary world / to the reveal of my heart / and undoubtedly / that will for certain / take the dead out of the sea / and the darkness from the arts” Lana’s infamous lawsuit with Radiohead was over this track, but she won, so bask in the haunting chords and otherworldly lyrics.w

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Fairy Tales... But Make Them Edgy The Wonderfully Terrible Mess of Critically-Shamed Fantasy Movies

by Olivia Bono art by Belle McDonald

“Get ready for a twisted take on a classic tale,” boasts the description of the official Amazon listing. The trailer is all blood splatters, men exploding, and rock music. Hansel and Gretel brandish big ol’ guns as Jeremy Renner narrates, “People will say that not all witches are evil… That their powers could be used for good… I say… Burn ‘em all.” This isn’t your greatgrandma’s fairy tale.

But isn’t it though? Movies like Hansel and Gretel: Witch Hunters (Wirkola, 2013) are marketed as gritty, exciting blood-fests—a deeper, darker retelling of the stories you may already know.

I was too busy being 14 when the R-rated Hansel and Gretel came out and didn’t watch it until it became one of the SyFy channel’s staple afternoon movies, like Van Helsing (Sommers, 2004) and Ghost Rider (Johnson, 2007). (A/N: I inexplicably love the Nic Cage Ghost Rider movie. He’s a skeleton man who eats jelly beans out of a martini glass! Specifically only fire-colored jelly beans! Out of a martini glass!)

The movie takes the classic Grimm Brothers story—where two children are abandoned by their parents in the woods, almost eaten by a cannibal, and escape by burning the witch alive in her own oven— and tries to give it a dark twist.

This dark twist comes in the form of long scenes where Jeremy Renner’s Hansel bashes in the skulls of witches and Gemma Arterton’s unconscious Gretel gets fondled by the kid who played the hapless best friend in Beautiful Creatures (LaGravenese, 2013).

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themselves to the ignorant townsfolk, interrupting an unjust witch trial. They stride into the scene, posing as they go. Remember the “Hawkeye Initiative” from the year before, when internet artists protested the “sexy superheroine” pose by drawing The Avengers’ Hawkeye (also played by Jeremy Renner. This man is inescapable) in pinup poses? That’s what this scene felt like, with both siblings posing seductively with their big weapons. Meanwhile, Hansel’s soon-to-be love interest, Mina, is about to be burned at the stake.

The siblings have to prove to the mob of townspeople that Mina can’t be a witch since she’s hot. But it’s okay!

She’s into it! Because Jeremy Renner is posing with his definitely-not-phallic, oversized guns and is hot and broody because he has a dark secret (the secret is that he has diabetes).

For years, I’ve heard a lot about people criticizing Disney movies for being too candy-coated, for covering up the darker tales that they were based on. I admit, even I spent a good chunk of my adolescence reading up on these “secret” versions that the Internet claimed Disney “didn’t want” me to know about. In an old Italian version of Sleeping Beauty, she conceives and gives birth to twins... while she’s under the sleeping curse, and is almost boiled alive upon awakening.

In the original Little Mermaid, the titular mermaid dies and becomes sea foam after her prince doesn’t kiss her. Centuries later, Disney added cheerful songs and talking animal friends, the source of so much hate from fans who’d rather experience the darkness and grittiness of medieval stories.

Honestly though, one of the best fairytaleadaptations of the moment is a show that utilizes an absurd amount of cute animal friends. Disney’s Rapunzel’s Tangled Adventure devotes an unusual

“Fairy-tale adaptations can still use sex and gore and be good, of course, but when that becomes the main selling point, it just seems unnecessary.” amount of time to the exploits of a chameleon, horse, raccoon, monkey, and crow, but also gives its human characters depth and angst. It doesn’t need sexy poses or Jeremy Renner threatening to “blow your sheriff ’s brains all over these fucking hillbillies” to present an interesting, fresh take on an old story. It just needs another Jeremy, Jeremy Jordan, as a sad teen boy singing about how he wants his dad to love him. The show uses its animal sidekicks and songs to tell a complex story about identity and betrayal and self-examination, and it doesn’t need to show a single woman getting groped in her sleep!

Fairy-tale adaptations can still use sex and gore and be good, of course, but when that becomes the main selling point, it just seems unnecessary.

Especially when it’s less “embracing sexuality” and more Whedon-esque closeups of a teen ogling the female protagonist’s boobs. A good adaptation doesn’t even need to be “art,” or take itself too seriously. A lot of Hansel and Gretel’s campy spirit could have worked in a different context (just look at so many other campy bad SyFy movies. Look at Nic Cage’s jelly bean martini!) But a 21st-century fairy tale still needs

an emotional core in order to make it special. And, following the Tangled model even further, it doesn’t hurt to throw in a famous Broadway actor or two.

Traditional fairy tales provide enough questionable content to fill twelve high-budget HBO shows. If modern-day adaptations want to incorporate sexuality and violence in their interpretations, they should go for it—more power to them—but when that becomes a game of “how far can we push it for edginess’s sake,” that’s where they lose me. A good fairy tale adaptation doesn’t need fetishization and gore to draw in its audience. “Edgy” doesn’t always equal better, nor does “more faithful to the source adaptation.” Sometimes it’s the ones with the annoying animal sidekicks that have the most depth—the originals were edgy enough. w

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Megan’s Body

by Emma Bernstein art by Belle McDonald

In 2009, Megan Fox was 23 years old—an actress on the rise after starring in the first two movies of the Transformers franchise. She was also Hollywood’s favorite sex symbol, named “world’s sexiest woman” by For Men Magazine just one year earlier, and she was drawing comparisons to previous starlets from Angelina Jolie to Marilyn Monroe. At the same time, however, on-set friction with Transformers director Michael Bay and a penchant for saying things for shock value were threatening to derail her budding career.

At this point in her young life, she starred in Jennifer’s Body, a dark comedy about a teenage “hot girl” who turns into a man-eating monster after an encounter with famehungry aspiring rock stars. Jennifer’s Body was initially panned by critics and moviegoers alike and written up as yet more evidence that she was “washed up” (as though anyone can be washed up at only twenty three years old).

However, Jennifer’s Body has since become a cult classic, appreciated not only for its sharp wit but also for its critical take on the commodification of young women’s bodies. The plot of Jennifer’s Body, in which older men use Megan Fox’s character’s body to achieve fame and commercial success, in the process turning her into a monster sustained only by the interest of men, mirrors the way that Hollywood treats many of its young starlets and especially how Hollywood, Michael Bay, and the media industry treated Megan Fox after her rise to fame in Transformers.

In Jennifer’s Body, the titular character is an imperfect victim. In the snapshot of her “normal” life, we see a girl who is shallow, who is self-centered, and who enjoys sex, but we also see the power that her own desirability gives her over men. This failure of innocence is the inciting incident of the movie, as Jennifer is singled out by an evil indie band when they believe she is a virgin, perfect for their planned sacrifice in the name of musical success. The fact that she misrepresented her virginity is the reason that the spell backfires and instead turns her into a monster. This preoccupation with virginity reflects 24 • watch and listen

an expectation that she will be a perfect victim, and the fact that she lied about her virginity leads to a punishment perhaps worse than death: to be undead, always hungry, unable to survive, not just without men’s blood, but also without their attention and validation of her as a sexual being. Is the message of Jennifer’s Body, then, that she deserved what she got because of character flaws that essentially add up to being a teenage girl? Because she was selfish, because she took sexual risks by getting in a van with men she didn’t know, was she sealing her own fate?

2009, the year Jennifer’s Body hit theaters, was also the year that Megan Fox gained new notoriety for comparing Transformers director Michael Bay’s leadership style to Hitler. It was a thoughtless, trivializing comment, but the response that she received from Bay, Steven Spielberg (an executive producer of the franchise), the cast and crew, and the general public was not so much a critique of her inconsiderate use of one of history’s worst war criminals as a punchline; instead it was a circling of the wagons, a sense of rage and betrayal that a 23-year-old would speak ill of a man profiting off of her talents.

Her costar Shia LaBeouf said, “She started talking shit about our captain. Which you can’t do.” An anonymous crew member wrote in an unsigned letter, “Michael found this shy, inexperienced girl, plucked her out of total obscurity thus giving her the biggest shot of any young actresses’ life,” as if Michael Bay had gained nothing by asking a 21-year-old Megan Fox to bend over a Camaro in a crop top so horny teenage boys would come see his robot movie. The crew member said this as if Bay had done her a favor by capitalizing on Hollywood’s rabid pursuit of young women to sexualize and then mock for that same sexuality—as if she now owed him some kind of undying loyalty. The letter went on to refer to her as the “queen of talking trailer trash” and even suggested that “being a porn star in the future might be a good career option” for her.

“What do we lose as women when we strive for a pedestal that no woman, not Megan Fox or Marilyn Monroe or Taylor Swift, can possibly stay on?”

Like the titular character of Jennifer’s Body, Megan Fox was not a perfect victim. She was confrontational in interviews and willing to use the sexuality that everyone simultaneously loved and hated to advance her career.

But did she deserve to be ostracized for a poor and thoughtless comparison in her critique of Michael Bay’s treatment of her (which she says included verbal abuse and hyper fixation on how to present her body in each scene, as well as an audition in which she was asked to wear a bikini and wash his car)? Did she deserve to be ridiculed by the general public and blackballed from the film industries for years? Why is the vitriol for imperfect womanhood, and imperfect victimhood, so pervasive in Hollywood? What do we lose as women when we strive for a pedestal that no woman, not Megan Fox or Marilyn Monroe or Taylor Swift, can possibly stay on?

Megan Fox’s Jennifer was snarky and indifferent to others and occasionally cruel, but she was also 16 years old, and her chance to be anything else in life was taken from her by men who could not or would not see anything about her except for her body, and who saw that only as a tool. In an overall unsentimental, comedic movie, in which the main character’s last words before dying at the hands of her best friend are “my tit,” one scene that stands out as unvarnished by irony is the one

in which Jennifer, in a state of shock after seeing her classmates die in a fire, climbs into the evil indie band’s van. As the doors close behind her, she makes eye contact with her friend, and it is impossible not to be struck by the look of total fear and bewilderment in Jennifer’s eyes. It is impossible not to know with certainty that we are looking at a human being who is about to have her humanity stripped away by men who never recognized it in the first place.

Neither Hollywood nor the media industry that booms in its shadow saw Megan Fox’s humanity in 2009; they saw a body that could be manipulated, and reacted with rage when they discovered that that body contained a woman with agency and opinions of her own. In 2019, as the same industry builds up a new generation of young women only to tear them down when they balk under the restrictions that “perfect” womanhood entails, let’s try to remember the lessons that Megan Fox taught us through Jennifer’s Body and through her own brutal experiences, and see the women instead of just the bodies.w

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The Most Jinxed Character in Harry Potter

by Claire Deng art by Karolina Piorko

“Moody raised his wand again, pointed it at the spider, and muttered, “Crucio!” At once, the spider’s legs bent in upon its body; it rolled over and began to twitch horribly, rocking from side to side. No sound came from it, but the screams materialized at once in Neville’s mind, his mother shrieking, his father howling—sounds he knew from visiting them in the ward. The spider’s legs became their buckled knees, its twitching body became theirs, and Moody stood over them, eyes lit with a maniacal flame, his hair became black and curly, and her high-pitched laughter entwined with their screams, which came faster and louder— “Stop it!” Hermione said shrilly.

Neville barely heard her. His hands were clenched upon the desk in front of him, his knuckles white, his eyes wide and horrified.“ This is the version of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire that we never got to read. Neville, not as the butt of jokes, the pathetic victim stereotype, or the heroic figure of the final book, but a person dealing with real trauma. This is the Neville that JK Rowling never gave us.

Neville is by far the unluckiest character in the entire Harry Potter series, but it’s difficult to grasp the magnitude of his hardships until they’re listed one after another: his parents were magically tortured into insanity when he was a baby, his grandmother constantly criticized him and belittled his interests, 26 • watch & listen

his great-uncle pushed him off a pier and hung him out a window to get him to produce magic, he was constantly bullied, he didn’t have any close friends for at least the first four books, his professors were, at best, exasperated with him (McGonagall) or downright cruel to him (Snape), and he saw his grandfather die (as evidenced by the fact that he can see Thestrals), among other things. Most of these horrifying details appear in short, offhand comments made by other characters and sometimes even Neville himself throughout the series.

The characters’ nonchalant attitude towards

Neville’s dark past is but a symptom of the larger problem: JK Rowling’s trivialization and omittance of Neville’s trauma in the narrative. Neville’s boggart, which is supposed to embody his worst fear, is Professor Snape, despite all of the other more frightening experiences he’s had, and he only turns pale in the presence of dementors, even though he probably should have fainted like Harry did. Most of the time Neville is bullied, he ends up in ridiculous situations that are played for laughs. Even more discouraging is the fact that Rowling never shows Neville expressing his feelings or telling anyone about his trauma, which not only makes it difficult for readers to extrapolate sympathy for him, but also shows tacit approval of an unhealthy way of processing trauma.

As a third-grader reading the Harry Potter series for the first time, I barely registered Neville’s presence.

He was never an interesting character—he never went on all the cool adventures or solved any mysteries.

Neville wasn’t funny; he was laughable—his mishaps serving as comedic interruptions in Harry’s serious ruminations—to the point that he became a running joke for readers. In a series about the battle between good and evil, we could always count on Neville to get stuck on the trick staircase, panic in potions, or lose his toad.

Of course, Neville had his moments of heroism: standing up to Harry, Ron, and Hermione in the first book, and slaying the snake Nagini, allowing Harry to finish off Voldemort, at the end of the seventh. It didn’t hurt that Matthew Lewis, who plays Neville in the movies, had a very conveniently speedy glow-up in the seventh movie. As much as I liked this heroic

version of Neville, I had a hard time believing in his sudden redemption. There was either the rebellionleading, snake-slaying, Horcrux-killing Neville, or the pathetic, ridiculous Neville, someone you either idolized or pitied, and not much else in between.

In underwriting Neville, Rowling robs us of the hero we all need: not a second Harry, but an antiHarry, not a martyr but a hero of ordinary people.

After all, most of us are more like Neville than Harry.

Our scars are Neville’s scars—scars we carry on the inside instead of on our foreheads. Our problems are Neville’s problems—making friends, peer pressure, unsupportive families, bullying, and low self-esteem.

Our flaws are his flaws—we, too, are clumsy, forgetful, shy, or awkward by turns. Sure, we might not have Neville’s extensive list of problems, but we’ve all been that kid, in one way or another. I know I have.

We know Neville because we are him. In fact, we’ve been quoting him for years. Sure, we may have Dumbledore’s wise words painted on our bedroom walls, Hermione’s love for books printed on our tote bags, and Snape’s “Always” carved into our jewelry, but when it comes to the disappointing, frustrating reality of everyday life, Neville’s question is the one we ask: “Why is it always me?”

Because it was always you, Neville. We just couldn’t see it.w

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More than Just Sugar, Spice, & Everything Nice The Origin and Evolution of Girlhood as Myth in Media

by Stephanie Tom art by Nwakuso N. Edozien Growing up with Mulan being one of the most formative pop culture figures of my childhood meant a few things.

It meant that the first time I wanted to get my hair cut in elementary school I was disappointed that they cut it with scissors instead of a sword. It meant that I wanted to master the fan as both dance technique and weapon, beyond what I was already learning in my classical dance class. It meant that I learned the words to every song in that iconic soundtrack, from “Reflection” to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You,” and that I felt a belated cringe after hearing Mulan’s squeaked-out lines in “A Girl Worth Fighting For” — How ‘bout a girl who’s got a brain / Who always speaks her mind?—followed by a resounding NAH from the men as they kept on marching giddily.

Why is it that female characters are forced to present themselves in division as opposed to in duality? Take Mulan, take all of the Disney princesses for example—the traditional ones dainty and thin, their smiles small-mouthed and eyes wider than the words they say in the movies, if they have lines at all. The more recent ones that have broken the mold—Tiana, Merida, Anna and Elsa—are either beloved or hated for their more headstrong wildness, their presence on-screen deemed either a ‘role model’ or “feminist propaganda.” Take Taylor Swift’s early hit “You Belong With Me,” featuring Swift in all of her nerd girl glory dreams of the boy next door, pitted against the popular-girl “Cheer Captain”—“She wears high heels, I wear sneakers,” Swift sings, as if this snappy first line 28 • watch & listen

of the pre-chorus is all you need to know to distinguish their differences. Take one of the most quintessential teen movies of our generation, Mean Girls (Waters, 2004), and look at how new girl Cady is presented with the choice to befriend Regina or Janis—two sides of the same coin, once best friends but divided upon reaching high school and being forced to fall into foils of one another.

Female characters have always been forced to fill the shoes of a single trope. Whether it be the Mary Sue, the all-around perfect girl of your dreams; the Plot Point, whose sole arc in a narrative exists only in the context of providing character to a male character; or the Badass who is automatically coined as “strong female representation!” without considering the fact that she has zero character development or personality to begin with outside of being good with weapons; these tropes are long expired, and female characters deserve a new image.

There is, and has been, a growing trend in media through the past decade (give or take)— be it through film, literature, or music—about girls as fearful forces to be reckoned with.

Popular young adult books have seen some of the most striking shifts in these media trends. Harry Potter, The Hunger Games, and Divergence—arguably, the fantasydystopian trio that was the hallmark of fine middle school literature—all featured various female leads, from Hermione to Katniss to Tris, that embodied strength and strong will without simply falling victim to playing plot points. Look at what’s come across silver screens and

through movie theaters alike. Coraline (Selick, 2009) terrorized my friends and classmates when it came out, with the Other-Mother’s button-eyes and fantasy-turnednightmare concept. Though I have never watched the show, something about Eleven from Stranger Things (2016) exudes cautionary vibes—as if we can already guess from trailers and teaser photos alike that although she’s only a young girl, something about that determined glare and hard-set mouth will not hesitate to deal some damage.

Some of the most terrifying horror movies recently— Hereditary (Aster, 2018) and Midsommar (Aster, 2019)— have centered female drama and trauma at the center, and have been utterly haunting ever since I’ve seen the trailers (and half of Hereditary before I left the room due to its terror). Even in music, there’s been a noticeable trend in

she lives beyond her lifeline and she defeats her demons.

Is that why there’s been such a backlash against praise for such characters? Is that why Elsa from Frozen (Lee & Buck, 2013) has been framed as so typical of pushing a ‘feminist agenda’ that it is criticized for playing directly into expected ‘strong character’ tropes? Is that the reasoning behind James Cameron’s reduction of Gal Gadot’s role in Wonder Woman (Jenkins, 2017) to simply an “objectified icon?” Why else must online fan culture as well as Hollywood reduce The Hunger Games to focus on a constructed love triangle when it was so much more in the books?

As of 2019, we live in a world full of darkness and injustice -- we have been, for a long time, and it’s no secret.

And as is the duty of all art, it imitates life and provides

“Why is it that female characters are forced to present themselves in division as opposed to duality?” the indie-alt-pop genre that has seen female artists debuting albums with darker aesthetics, often of teen girls. Within the past decade, Florence and the Machine, Marina and the Diamonds (recently rebranded to just ‘Marina’), Lana Del Ray, Lorde, Melanie Martinez, Halsey, and Billie Eilish -all artists heralded as the voices that embody and represent the crux of teen angst as told through alternative indie rock pop -- have all released songs about girlhood as something darker, and more confessional in nature.

The embracing of such narratives introduces two new categories for consideration: the Chaser and the Unknown.

The Chaser portrays girl as prey turned predator, led like a lamb to slaughter but turned lion through her own wit and determination. Think Katniss, think Coraline, think Princess Mononoke, and every other female lead in which they have turned tides and turned expectations on their heads to start a revolution or fight their way to freedom.

Think every girl who has ever subverted the delicate nature that has been assumed of her in order to step up and assume control when the reins are let loose.

The second category that we are introduced to is Girl as Mythos. It’s what is best encapsulated by a Shakespeare quote from A Midsummer Night’s Dream -- “though she be but little, she is fierce.” It’s what we deem the girls that unsuspectingly terrifying in their power, whether it be their physical capabilities or their emotional distance that unnerves the audience. It’s how we distinguish between the “groupies” and the “outsiders;” the Wednesday Addams of the bunch, the Elsa among the ice queens, the Final Girl who survives every horror movie by outsmarting the danger and the darkness by embracing it herself. For once,

a glossed mirror for us to look into and see a reflection of our society. In our current social-political landscape, these tropes are being rehashed and coming back to life everywhere we look. Take all of the young activists we see today at the very forefront of socio-political movements around the globe: Little Miss Flint, fighting to raise awareness of Flint, Michigan’s ongoing water crisis; Greta Thunberg, an environmental activist who has inspired millions to participate in Climate Strikes for climate change awareness; and the Kong Girls of Hong Kong who are reclaiming the vapid stereotypes once associated with the term (gong nui in Cantonese) as they have appeared at the forefront of the Hong Kong protests in droves. Take all of these young girls at the forefront of fighting injustice, and see how they parallel the heroes of the new generation that we see in our popular media now.

Is there ever a way to fully link the stories we read and watch to our own lives? Of course not, and this is by no means an absolute of sainting female characters as perfection, and neither are these newly emerging tropes made to contain them. They only try to do more to capture a different facet of their character and intentions. In fact, that’s what makes them all the more human, and all the more realistic. Despite Disney molding mothers to be made for mourning and daughters raised in devastation, despite all the critics that make children collapse in the chaos, despite all that the media does to beat down female characters into two-dimensional tropes and nothing more -- they thrive and rise in the embodiment of multiple mirrors of our own reality, and survive against all odds.w

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The Sound on the Stairs Hauntings in Your Local College Town

by Emma Eisler art by Leo Levy

“…you cannot kill an unquiet spirit, and I know that my impending death will not mean the end of Rulloff. In the dead of night, walking along Cayuga Street, you will sense my presence. When you wake to a sudden chill, I will be in the room.

And when you find yourself at the lakeshore, gazing away at gray Cayuga, know that I was cut short and your ancestors killed me.”

-Edward H. Rulloff

Once I’ve known a person long enough for it to not feel too weird, I like to ask if they believe in ghosts.

There’s a range of answers I get: the somewhat disparaging “umm, no;” the skeptical, “maybe;” and the unequivocal, “yes, of course.” For one friend of mine, the definition of a ghost is really anything from the past that continues to act in the present, and so ghosts are all around us—indeed, they are memory itself. Another says she believes, not in the white-sheet, “boo!,” Halloween-style ghosts, but in spirits who occupy certain places.

I don’t think Casper the Friendly Ghost is going to pop out of my closet or anything, but I do believe in haunting. What is the feeling you get when you go over to an acquaintance’s house and you just know that something is wrong or bad there? The chill down your spine when you know you’re alone in a room but still feel as if you’re being watched? Dictionary.com defines haunting as “the act of a person or thing that haunts; or a visitation,” while the Cambridge dictionary says it is a “staying in the mind” or “beautiful, but in a sad way and often in a way that cannot be forgotten.” What is this idea of haunting, with its multitude of meanings and moods? A melody that equally can frighten us or make us yearn. Maybe haunting or ghosts are just the best words we have to describe the uneasiness of sensing, of intuiting something from the sound of the wind or a creak in the floorboards, things we 30 • zooming in

cannot explain, but that we know are there. And that combination of knowing, and the inability to explain, is something that raises goosebumps under even our coziest sweaters.

All places, even--or maybe especially--Ithaca, have spectral presences. We have our notoriously big-brained serial killer, possibly better known for his eponymous bar: Edward H. Rulloff, known as the “learned murderer” for his work as an informal philologist, along with a host of other professions. Rulloff ’s brain still remains (in all its oversized glory) on display in Uris Hall where an unsuspecting freshman may wander past and feel a sudden chill. Where is Rulloff now? At the bar, or in the lake, or with his brain in Uris Hall? So long as he remains in our memory, can we ever be sure he’s truly gone? As a plaque at Rulloff ’s reminds us, he too believed he would continue to haunt us, that even now his spirit remains. Watching. Can we laugh, pass off these words as pure fiction, the oddly poetic rant of a deranged and long-dead man? Do we ever wonder?

Then there’s the infamous rumor that when a virgin crosses the Arts Quad at midnight the statues of A.D. White and Ezra Cornell will rise and walk to one another to touch hands. Maybe you’ve heard the one (I know I did on my Cornell tour!) that brides who choose to wed in Sage Chapel put on their dresses and makeup in Ezra’s crypt, and that, if this blushing bride begins to sweat a little, or even feel the slightest trepidation,

then Ezra himself will rise from the crypt and nudge her down the aisle. Certain buildings, most notably Risley, are rumored to be haunted—in Risley’s case by Prudence Risley herself, though she never actually lived there. Still, she whispers in cold drafts and creaking stairs. Many have apparently spotted a small group of tuxedoed ghosts wandering the midnight halls of Willard Straight, perhaps on their way to a party, many centuries cleaned up. Alice Statler is said to still haunt the halls in the hotel, creeping around corners and breathing down the necks of guests. Whether or not these spectral presences are real and you are likely to encounter them the next time you find yourself alone on the Arts Quads or in one of the many old buildings, they remain in our consciousness, reminding us of the people who once lived here, fashions past, and centuries of youths who’ve passed through these same hills and halls.

Where do our souls go after we die? To our hometowns or houses, our crypts or the statues put up to commemorate us? What if our souls are bad?

Can anything (or anyone) truly disappear at all? I’m not sure what I believe exactly, but bodies biodegrade gradually, become part of the soil, food for maggots and fungi. Flesh can never be gone, but instead becomes small parts of so many other things.

I wonder, maybe more importantly, why we have these ideas of haunting, and if they reflect one aspect

of our attempt to write ourselves onto the places we breathe and live. So many of these stories tell us as well about the cultures or histories they come from—whether our fixation with virginity or our fear of being alone. Maybe these stories of haunting are more about history than anything else, a way of saying there was before me, and there will still be after. We write ourselves onto the landscapes that matter to us.

Crossing the Arts Quad at night, I have yet to see either statue stand and get up, but sometimes I do think I see, just up ahead, a shimmer of my younger self, longer hair and forehead without bangs, laughing and giggling on her way back from her first college party.

Only the shadows, I tell myself.

Maybe to give something a name makes us feel less afraid. So better that the creak of the stairs in my house when no one is climbing be a ghost than something without even a word that can be applied. Better that the touch a bride may feel on her shoulder be someone than the vast and enigmatic something. Better even that the weight of eyes on our backs at the lakeshore be killer Rulloff than merely the nameless mist. Maybe we spend our lives checking over our shoulder for spectral flickers so that finally, when we are older and less afraid, when our lives have begun to wind down, and we are tired of being haunted, we ourselves can become ghosts.w zooming in • 31

e-Boys and e-Girls: The Goth Revival

by Stephen Yang art by Tilda Wilson There is something in the air on campus that keeps screaming “GOTH!” yet is not exactly goth. I sense a dark and thrilling tinge to this emerging trend, yet it is too nuanced to put into words. While noticing that the modern goth revival is not exactly the same as the one from the 80s, perhaps conveniently, we still refer to it as goth. Let’s blame this ambiguous use of terminology as the origin of all the confusions.

Goth is back in the modern lexicon of youth, but what does it mean? While goth has been definitive of the youth culture in the 2010s, such a comeback is largely left unelaborated. Where did it come from?

From “full goths” who still dress like Robert Smith with full makeup to anyone who dresses in all black and looks slightly depressed, who are the real goths?

Or, speaking more critically, who are the goths that are more representative of the modern goth revival?

Are all of them goths? Do you not have to dress in certain ways to be goth? Is fashion even the basis of the subculture? Is goth even a subculture anymore?

Confusions associated with the genealogy of modern goth revival are mostly left unanswered.

Modern goth subculture is intricate. Since it is not simple, this article will not be able to offer a comprehensively satisfactory critique of the cultural trend, but it will offer you the basic framework to probe into the world of the modern goth subculture.

Modern goth subculture is perhaps too broad and amorphous to be precisely underpinned and delineated in a casual conversation. As such, it is largely left unexplained while its influence as a conceptual conglomerate is prominent across the mainstream and the underground cultures. Modern goth subculture does not follow the trajectory of the new wave that echoes our current 80s renaissance.

It does not simply appropriate trends that belong to the struggles of a prior generation with a refined and gentrified touch. The modern goth is also not simply a replication of the old goth, as the term now stands as a complex umbrella term for a world of alternative identities. More so than its historical precedent, the 32 • zooming in

genre of modern goth is tightly intertwined with postpunk and new wave genres. In the contemporary context, the distinction between them is merely the emphasis on certain elements over others. In the case of the modern revival, the historical roots of the cultural influences of different genres are nearly indistinguishable. Rather aligning with the genre boundaries of the 80s, the modern goth revival formed as a hybrid of them all in an inseparable and monolithic way. I particularly like the German way of summarizing everything pertaining to modern goth under the label “Schwarze Szene,” which means dark scene, to pinpoint this new wave of goth revival.

The origin of the modern goth revival offers greater insights on how the new wave was interwoven into a conglomerate that essentially encompasses anything that can be associated with darkness. The first signs of the revival happened in the early 2000s when alternative rock bands began to explore 80s post-punk influences like deep angsty vocals, jangly guitars, and deeper basslines. We see these early elements in bands like The Killers, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Interpol. These bands did not necessarily have anything directly to do with goth. While their goth influence was initially peripheral, they set up the inclusive framework of the modern goth revival.

It is crucial to delineate the relationship between goth culture and music. For both modern goths and goths in the 80s, music is fundamental to the formation and the development of the culture. This has to do with the historical ostracization the goth subculture faced. In the earlier years of the subculture, goths had to scrape every single corner of a record store to find the records that spoke to their interests. Goths had to find the secret basements where people who shared their music taste gathered so they could connect with them. They also had to keep an eye out for mail-order obscure labels to find out more about new artists, not to mention the counterculture backlashes goths had to endure during that era. Being goth was an experience of persistence and resistance.

It was tough to be goth; it is now cool to be goth.

Today’s goths are considerably more socially acceptable in the public eye. Even e-boys and e-girls on TikTok and Instagram could be perceived as offsprings of modern goth. As such, cultural critics, also known as hipsters who have rich parents to support their intellectual pursuits, are questioning the state of goth as a subculture. The modern goth revival essentially reduces the ostracization experienced by the goth community in the 80s into the edginess associated with goth elements today. This characteristic of modern goth is deeply connected to the origin of this sudden revival.

The modern goth revival started out with the advent of digital culture. In this new digital landscape, music is more accessible than ever. Even for the most inconspicuous goth events in your area, chances are you can instantly find information about it on Facebook.

Because the Internet has made it easier to make connections than ever, the circle of goth subculture has grown, and is hence more heterogeneous than ever.

When the youth of our generation discovered goth music from earlier decades, they discussed it and connected with one another on the Internet. The major reason why there is a sense of disconnection associated with this new wave of revival is that the

young people that started it have little to no knowledge about the origin of goth subculture. They could barely tell goth, post-punk, and new wave apart. As this revival is based on the interpretation of past accounts without overarching historical connections, it is more of a new trend initiated by new people than a revival of retro culture.

This transition of the nature of the goth subculture also fundamentally changed the way it was recognized by the public. Back in the 80s, music defined goth subculture. If it wasn’t for the music, there would not be any glue that held the subculture together. In contrast, modern goth revival is more often recognized for its fashion influence. Nowadays, significantly more people participate in the goth culture through goth fashion. It used to be that young little goths would first get into the music, and then their outfits would change. Nowadays, kids imitate the style of Instagram influencers to be goth, and then they are surprised to learn that the subculture has always been based on music.

The modern goth revival shares elements with the golden era of goth subculture, yet the two are fundamentally different. Because they both share the term “goth,” the genealogy is disguised in darkness and mystery in the gothest way possible.w zooming in • 33

Psychology Needs to Stop Fighting Itself

by Anna Godek art by Jean Cambareri

“Why do you like psychology? What makes you interested in studying it?”

I was asked these questions by the two graduate students interviewing me for a research assistant position in the Cornell BABY (Behavioral Analysis of Beginning Years) Lab. For a moment, I was taken aback and unsure how to answer because being interested in psychology just seems so obvious and easy to me; I don’t really know how people aren’t interested in it. But after taking a second to organize my thoughts, I could answer and say, “Well, to me, nothing is more important or interesting than trying to understand people—us, humans. Figuring out why we are the way we are, how we got there, why we work a certain way—what’s more interesting than that?” I guess my answer was good enough, because I got the job.

Understanding people—our thoughts, emotions, behavior, and brains—is the crux of psychology. Not only do I love psychology, I love defending it. Well,

and unscientific psychology research, though this is true of all fields of science. But unlike in the past, psychology today is overall a field dedicated to the scientific process and empirical research methods (meaning they are based on testing hypotheses through objective measures). One of the best things I’ve gotten out of my psych education at Cornell is the ability to evaluate and think critically about scientific ideas and research methods.

But now we come to another issue for the field of psychology. In an attempt to distance itself from its rocky and empirically ungrounded past, Cornell’s psych department is all about the research. We don’t really talk about the ugly duckling sibling of psychological research—therapy! It’s even less prestigious and respected than psychological research; plus, mental illness is still a stigmatized issue. The Cornell psych department is, I think, woefully uninvolved in discussions of mental health and there’s not much direction for students who become interested in

“If you think people don’t react well to psychology as research, try telling them you want to do therapy with kids. ‘Wait, kids need to go to therapy?’ is a question I’ve gotten before.” maybe it’s better to say that I often have to defend it.

The field is still trying to shake off Freud and his deeply unscientific approach and form a better reputation; no psychologists or psych researchers today are going to tell you that we go through the oral, anal, phallic, latent, and genital stages of development. And it’s not unfair to point out that there were years of unethical 34 • zooming in

therapy. And that’s right, what I’ve realized I want to do after I graduate is be a therapist specialized in working with children. I could even end up as a social worker, which has even less prestige attached to it.

If you think people don’t react well to psychology as research, try telling them you want to do therapy with kids. “Wait, kids need to go to therapy?” is a question

I’ve gotten before. A noncommittal and monosyllabic response such as “Oh?” is common.

But therapy is incredibly important. Mental health matters, as we’re constantly told by op-eds in the Sun and emails from Martha Pollock. However, our discussion never seems to go beyond the superficial and into how we really make mental health better on campus. What do we do? What do we change? I’ve never really heard any psych professor talk about it either. And therapy is no longer about laying down on a couch and talking to a silent psychologist for an hour, although it is still dogged by that Freudian imagery. Good therapy today is based in really helping people and addressing what problems they might have, whether that’s depression, anxiety, PTSD, grief, addiction, or just facing a difficult time. And while therapy is harder to fit into the box of hyper-logicality than research is, good therapy is also deeply tied to critical and empirical thought. You have to evaluate your methods and see if you’re really helping your patients. It’s harder to operationalize these things because progress and success in therapy are more subjective and ambiguous, but it’s still doable. And, of course, therapy involves that least prestigious form of intellect—emotional intelligence. You can just hear someone saying, “yeesh, sounds pretty girly, doesn’t it? Is that even a real thing?” Well, it is real and it’s an important skill for therapists and, well, everyone. Our culture has to stop looking down on mental illness and emotional intelligence if we want to improve mental health in a widespread way.

It doesn’t help the perception of therapy and social work that psychology is at its most inherently political when it branches out to these areas. Consider community psychology, which is about, well, helping communities by increasing mental health and wellbeing overall in a larger group of people. This means reckoning with systemic inequality around race, class, and gender. This means institutional change that challenges American ideas about individuality and even capitalism. It means things like public funding for mental health programs and a belief that poor people know what their communities need better than social workers, rich people, and policymakers. It involves public funding and asking questions like “what are our obligations to people in distress, who are struggling with poverty and housing?” The fundamental belief that we do owe them something and that they aren’t deficient people just because they’re struggling is a part of community psychology, and it’s pretty damn radical. If you’re wondering if white savior complexes can be an issue

here, you’re right they can. That’s why a good social work or community psychology program will teach you to empower people, not rescue.

Understanding people, helping people, figuring out how they became who they are, is all related to what makes me love psychology, whether it’s research or therapy and social work. And it’s time for the field to stop being ashamed of its social services side. Acknowledge it, hold it to the same rigorous standards of quality that you would anything else, and realize that researchers, therapists, community psychologists—we can all come together and make each other more effective and better at what we do. w

zooming in • 35

Two Liturgies

by Nalu Concepcion art by Emma Bernstein

THE WORD // unanswerables slip into the church three minutes late, 9:33 p.m. sharp — your usual sunday ritual. your right hand falls into the basin of holy water next to the hymnals, and your left hand slides one off the shelf, tucks it under your arm. you pad silently to the edge of an unoccupied pew. as you are about to enter it, full-body muscle memory seizes you. you turn to face the front of the church. right knee down in the name right hand to forehead of the father to heart and of the son to left shoulder and of the holy to right shoulder spirit. right knee up, a whispered amen. feel the cold blessed water on your forehead, reminding you to reflect on your purpose of attending this service. you think of signs you’ve seen hanging around campus with rectangular strips frayed with paper teeth at the bottoms, offering hope, strength, forgiveness, calm, peace, reading “take what you need”. what if you don’t have what i need?

instructed to do rather than on what you would prefer to do. prayer is not only a plea for more, more, more.

the first part of the mass is built around hearing the word of God.

appreciate the rituals of the service, the once-weekly mandatory observance meant as an homage to the Creator—another exercise in blind faith. you wonder for a moment where your prayers go when you form them; you imagine a high stack of petitions and demands towering high on God’s desk. have you ever sent one up signed “thank you” instead of “please?”

this is your time to listen, turn inward, focus on what is being asked of you. you are so used to being in a perpetually self-absorbed state, but now is an opportunity to pay attention to what you are being

as you listen to the priest lead the congregation in self-reflection, in prayer, in thanksgiving, consider your own connectedness to the doctrine and the community. do you still believe?

36 • zooming in

a qualified lector then reads the designated passages of the day. you briefly fantasize that you are the priest standing in front of the congregation, responsible for piecing apart God’s (purported) Word to be more palatable for modernists, more compatible with secular culture. what would you tell the congregation, if you had the chance? you’ve grown tired of hearing the same parables told to you, time and time again. you idly page through a bible tucked into the pew in front of you; your glance falls on proverbs chapter 14, verse one: the wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish one tears hers down. you reflect on the phone call to your parents just an hour before this service—your nightly confession. you told them about how you feel uneasy in your new environment, how you are wavering in your decision to study engineering. how your classes feel unrewarding and disinteresting at times; you shared how you feel like you are being ungrateful not only of the opportunities you have been granted, but also of the people who surround you, people who you know love you, how even though you know you truly care about them too, you don’t truly feel understood or able to connect with many of them. you confess for the first time that ultimately, you feel unfulfilled, unsure of yourself, and uneasy in a place you don’t yet recognize as home. how am i supposed to build a home if i haven’t even broken land?

our final stop was the fifth floor of the johnson museum, right around 6 p.m. when the elevator doors opened, the room glowed orange and golden, like a clear evening golden hour. he stepped out, and i followed. my eyes slid over to the curved glass window, panning across the panoramic view of the finger lake and all over cornell’s buildings, each cluster a new hodge-podge of an architectural era. something about the way the sunlight hit all the buildings made me see them each as the same. in that moment, a place i knew would become home for me (no promises of when); because of that memory, i felt comfortable enough to be sure that cornell could be my place. that i could make it mine. i am so grateful for that day, God, and i am so grateful for my chance to make a new home here. please help me remember that very first day meeting cornell, the very first time seeing the place in its entirety, whenever i doubt myself or my place here. as you leave, you sign yourself the same way you did when you entered the church 57 minutes prior. your hand falls from your right shoulder to your side. you exhale.

Lord, hear my prayer. amen.w

THE EUCHARIST // stream of subconscious baskets are passed to collect offerings. you always forget to bring money to the services, so instead you offer God vulnerability. when i came to visit cornell, i didn’t know what to look for, what to expect. i met up with one of my best friends to explore campus. despite his busy schedule of 23 credits, multiple clubs, a startup, and all of his social commitments, he spent an entire afternoon ambling around campus to show me the countless dining halls, libraries, cafes, food trucks, people, nooks and crannies. he shared with me many of the stories he’d aggregated over his past few months here; he’d hit the ground sprinting. zooming in • 37

Jinx, You Owe Me Plan B! article and photographs by Emma Eisler

“You should really get birth control before leaving,” my best friend said. “You’re gonna be camping in the desert for three months, and you might not have access to Planned Parenthood or a doctor. It’s just a good idea.”

“Yeah, but I mean, I probably won’t even need it. And also…”

She raised her eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m worried if I get birth control before leaving, I’ll jinx it and won’t end up having sex with anyone.”

I would come to regret these words. ***

It happens at 4am. Because these things always happen at 4am.

We are lying in his tent in the moments after sex. He is kissing my shoulder, whispering that even if I’m leaving in a

38 • zooming out

few weeks, he’s still glad to have met me. That it’s still worth it.

I take a deep breath. I am ready to say what I want to say, what has been on my mind for weeks, through nights stargazing in Capitol Reef, and leaving our friends behind, hiking too fast up Angels Landing. Through weeks of missing him while working on our separate trail crews, and then the giddiness of reuniting. The words that first curled on my tongue autumn mornings waking in the canyon that was our canyon. How he would rain handfuls of leaves over my eyes, so I lay on my back, held up my hands and laughed, pulled him down and held him against me, tried to say it without having to form the words.

But this time, this time I will tell him.

He pulls away.

I’m ready, I think.

“Oh God,” he says.

“What?”

“Emma, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Is it possible we’re thinking the same thing?

He clears his throat. “I think the condom broke.”

Instantly I sit up, curl my knees to my chest. No, no, no.

I look down at myself, my legs lean from days hiking; my shoulders and arms muscled from chain-sawing Russian Olive where it grows by rivers. Scraped knees and stomach I’ve never been totally happy with. My body that still feels so new and so raw held in his arms.

I am trying not to panic, but my heart is beating in my ears and my stomach is starting to clench. “I need to get Plan B. I need to get Plan B right now.”

The woman looks back and forth as if searching for an escape. “So sorry.”

My body slumps forward. I let my tears puddle on Walmart linoleum. Weeks of exhaustion rush over me. Of too-late nights talking to him, of feeling the contours of my body and heart as if I’d never fully lived in them before, and how sometimes I think it’s just too much, and I want to run as fast as I can into the sand under the desert moon, until I forget I am this person.

He pulls me to him. “Emma, Emma, Emma. You’re okay. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

This boy with his beard that tickles my cheek, his thumbs that know how to hitchhike and his fingers that

He reaches out as if to touch me, then changes his mind and drops his hand. “Okay yeah, for sure. It’s the middle of the night, though, can we just wait until morning?”

I check the time on my phone and start crying. “No, we can’t wait!” I gulp short, hiccup-y breaths. “I leave on hitch in two hours, and I’ll be chain-sawing all day. It has to be right now.”

“You’re fine, Emma. It’s gonna be okay. What about Walmart, would they have it?”

As we drive out of the canyon, the sparse lights of Logan glimmer on the horizon beneath the shadows of mountains. I try to steady my breathing as I dial. A mechanical-sounding voice informs me Walmart does carry emergency contraceptive. Relief fills my body.

I feel slightly better as we pull into the lot. Still over an hour until I leave on hitch, and soon I’ll have taken the pill and this will all be over. I even manage to joke as we walk past the gardening section; “Gee, maybe we don’t even need Plan B, and we should just buy some plants, and start a family.” He laughs and throws an arm around my shoulder, “See, Emma, it’ll be fine.”

I wander up and down the medicine aisles, past condoms and diapers (do they put them next to each other so people will feel extra compelled to buy condoms?), and Tylenol and Sudafed. But no Plan B. Finally, I ask an employee.

“Oh,” she looks both ways. “Um, we only sell Emergency Contraceptive at the pharmacy, and the pharmacy doesn’t open until seven.”

My lip quivers, “But… Isn’t there any way?”

know how to touch. How is it possible to trust someone so completely but still be so afraid of what they can make you feel?

We stand together hugging for a while, then walk back to his car to try the second Walmart. I close my eyes and concentrate on sending out my kindest, most-deservingof-Plan B vibes into the universe. Luckily, unlike the first Walmart, the second doesn’t lock its Plan B away for the night, and I am able to buy one. I giggle manically at the register. It’s almost 5am now, one hour until I leave on hitch, and I haven’t slept at all, but all I feel is relief and strange joy.

We walk outside, and I lean against the side of his car, take the pill with water while he lights a cigarette. I start laughing; a year ago I was walking from class to class in my crumbling, concrete high school, and now here I am.

Where will I be a year from now and who will be in my heart?

I turn to him, voice shaking slightly, “I know this is a weird moment to say this, but … I kind of love you.”

He whispers back, “I kind of love you, too.”

In a few hours, I’ll be sawing, inhabiting my body fully in a way that is completely mine. A week after that I’ll be driving on to the next adventure. A year later, that moment and that boy will be a memory. But here is what I knew then and what I still know now: I cannot regret being that person who believed in jinxes, because she is also the girl who let her heart flow out over the desert, and loved and loved and loved.w

zooming out • 39

Meant to Be article and art by Lindsey Potoff It’s summer. I’m ten or eleven or twelve years old and life weaves itself from the routine of little league softball in Oak Park, Michigan. To this day, the vividness of my eight years in the sport is swollen with nostalgia: white chalk lines in the infield and the smell of kicked up gravel, the thump of a ball smacking a mitt, the metallic clang of a perfect hit and the weightless feeling in my hands, the fear of stepping up to the plate—a churning mix of giddiness and burden. Before each double header, my mom drove my sisters and I in the heat-soaked minivan and we fulfilled our lucky pregame ritual of singing along to “I Gotta Feeling” by The Black-Eyed Peas. A win was illuminated with the promise of blue raspberry 7Eleven Slurpees or Baskin Robbins soft serves rolled in color changing powder.

In its own smelly, exhausting way, it was idyllic. It was bodies and laughter, sweat and sugar, warm water bottles and dusty sneakers.

When I got my period in sixth grade, I prayed to God that I’d never experience the horror of an

“I never viewed fate as more than a fleeting presence.

Until I met Emma. ” unexpected pool of red on my clothes. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than the shame it would bring, especially on the mandatory, pure white softball pants.

Once, mid-season, we were scheduled for an evening game and, inspired by a winning streak, I invited a friend to come watch. However, thirty minutes of warm up eventually led to the umpire calling off the game entirely after the other team didn’t show. I later discovered two things: first, that our opponents were all visiting Disneyland, and second, that a vivid red stain had colored my underwear. That night, as I removed my just-short-of-being-stained white softball pants, I pondered the unusual course of events and, for the first time in my life, believed in destiny.

From then on, I saw all the events in the sequence of my life as significant. I started unintentionally 40 • zooming out

comforting myself with mantras like, “everything turns out as it should in the end.” It was no accident, I believed, to run into family friends when visiting Israel, no chance that I’d have a doctor’s appointment as my high school evacuated due to a bomb threat.

There was a purpose to when I injured both of my legs and was forced to temporarily give up endurance running—my whole life I’d been using it to run away from my problems instead of confronting them. But though I was quick to attribute successes and failures to chance encounters, I never viewed fate as more than a fleeting presence. Until I met Emma.

Again, it was summer, and the day was distinguished by an early morning shower and my family’s bittersweet faces in the driveway, sugar snap peas on a plane ride and a hot afternoon of stumbling around campus with a backpack and hiking boots zipped up into a big suitcase. When I arrived at Cornell early for an Outdoor Odyssey trip to the Adirondacks, my stomach squeezed with the coinciding joy and terror of freedom. I was a boat untethered. I was surrounded by the glittering ocean I’d always dreamed of exploring, and yet, it was bigger than I expected. I was alone in myself. I was desperate to drift to an island—only, I couldn’t find any oars.

Emma and I met the first day I arrived on campus, and right away I felt as if she was someone I could trust and see myself growing close to. Naturally, after six days spent carrying sixty-pound packs through the mountains, we felt as if we could laugh and confide in each other by the end. Or maybe we just wanted somewhere to belong. Throughout the first semester of freshman year, Emma and I drifted through each other’s lives in flashes: there were times we didn’t see each other for days, then we’d go skinny-dipping under the stars and rolling down the slope at sunset.

She became my closest friend on campus, my biggest supporter, who dreamed of the world for me when my vision grew obscured. I was in awe of the way she lived her life like a movie, writing out her own story. She’d introduce me to new people she’d met, and I found myself unavoidably falling in love with all of them.

My life went from routine to splendidly spontaneous and full of hugs and “I love you”s. Having grown up attending a tiny private school and living in a tight-

knit, religious community where I felt I didn’t belong, I suddenly felt the overwhelming intimacy of deep, meaningful friendship for the first time.

Meeting Emma and going on the same backpacking trip—in my eyes—had clearly been destiny. But our friendship was not written in the stars, it was painted by our own fingertips. Chance can throw two people together, can plant the seedling of a bond, but external ingredients are required for a sprout to grow, like texts that say “I miss you, I hope you’re doing well,” or late night conversations about boys and god over grilled cheese sandwiches. Fate set us up on a blind date, but we chose to follow through.

For a long time, I thought that if something happened, it was just “supposed to,” and if it didn’t happen then there was a reason for that too, as if there were forces in the world conducting a grand orchestra of meetings and motion and emotion. As if I truly was a boat adrift, absent of paddles and subject to the violent whims of thunderous storms and clapping waves. As if I had no control over myself and the way I felt.

Since starting my second year at Cornell, I’ve come to see that the waters that surround me can only suffocate me when I am heavy. Destiny may designate me a bearer of weights, but it never ruled how long I must hold them, or that I have to carry them alone inside myself. In choosing choice regardless of the cards I’ve been dealt, I simultaneously choose to float across the waves. I step out of the boat. I get wet. But on my back, I float.

It should be made clear, that though my mindset

eventually changed, I struggled throughout all of my freshman year. I found myself a magnet for homesickness, weight gain, anxiety, and an overwhelming feeling of not being able to meet expectations that I believed my peers were far surpassing. During that period of my life, I imagined myself walking down a long, dark hallway filled with doors. I heard noises behind the doors—laughter in some, quiet conversations in others. But when I tried turning a handle, it was locked. I walked further down the hallway and tested another handle, only to be greeted by the same fate. After the rejection of those locked doors, I blamed myself. I gazed at the endless array of doorways, all shut tight, and I imagined that they could be opened, but only by someone smarter, prettier, and happier than myself.

Where I had attributed most good things in my life to destiny, to badness and discomfort I felt personally incriminated, responsible for my failures.

It was only in my third semester attending Cornell that I understood my mistake. While the first few doors had been locked, many of the remaining entrances had been open, only, my fear and insecurity crippled my fingers and prevented me from reaching out. It took a few joyous moments—like joining Cornell’s cycling team and feeling accepted there, and baking apple pie with friends on a late October night—to spark gratitude in my heart. I saw that I was surrounded by so many beautiful things, and I only had to accept them into my life to feel their sunshine.

They had been there all along.w

zooming out • 41

Every Night Since 1972 art and article

by Annie Fu

The same white-haired musician sings standard on Bourbon Street every night (since 1972). His sound seeps into whomever will listen, first indulging them in ragtime, then soothing them near-comatose with blues. Sometimes he takes requests, taking shape as Armstrong, Fitzgerald, Cole... other times it runs past closing and turns to talk to an unfamiliar face. For the most part, these details about Larry “Steamboat Willie” Stoops and his nightly performance make no difference to the heart of New Orleans day to day, but my dear friend Dara and I relished them. We noticed them, and we sunk deep into a ceremonial routine that brought us into the same rainy courtyard every night during our week-long trip to the holy land last spring.

The city makes for some frustratingly contradictory mental notes: nurtures a sophisticated, iconic musical history, yet holds little to no barriers of entry into a robust amateur street scene; saunters through streets with a bottle of absinthe dated to antiquity in one hand and a two-foot, twisty-strawed margarita in the other; slings plastic pearls and cheap confetti upon the shoulders of its French colonial balconies (a Mardi Gras thing). Each component harbors authenticity at its core but will run your pockets dry if you trust it enough. And within all this orderly chaos, locals quietly manage to inject a nightly routine steeped in years of tradition with an adaptability that keeps its culture from falling behind in an increasingly technological age. In other words, we have a lot to learn from New Orleans and its soft-singing Larrys.

Every part of Stoops’ nightly performance bears testament to the cultural vibration of a city known as 42 • zooming out

The Big Easy, and its winding roots all trace back to one unifying art form: jazz.

In New Orleans, jazz and its several subgenres are irrevocably pressed into a compact grid of cobblestone streets. Down the city’s pedestrian alleyways of Bourbon, Canal, and others, life constantly flows through drink, dance, and music. This ubiquity of musical and physical performance culminates in the feeling of centuries of creation inevitably rubbing off on the average passerby. You wake up for a cheap coffee and a beignet at the bright hour of 7A.M. You pass by two trumpeters and a saxophonist on the way.

Suddenly, you have a story to tell your friend and a melody stuck in your head for the rest of the day. Jazz specifically took root in the city by this very pattern: African-Americans, Cajuns, Creoles, the French, and a multitude of others brought influences from their respective cultures and together created a new sound that didn’t yet have a name. The sound was lovingly wild; it spilled jubilance from raw, molten improvisation; it carried something particularly freeing in its refusal to stick to any previously defined boundaries.

By the 19th century, these musically forged bonds gained a permanence that spread beyond law and policy. The waves of racial segregation affecting crossracial collaboration throughout the rest of America simply prompted New Orleans to just play louder.

Neighborhood settlement patterns that predated segregation ensured that diverse musical performance remained possible and through the megaphonic commotion of marching bands and bandwagons, jazz shoved aside the idea of “separate but equal”

“Every part of Stoops’ nightly performance bears testament to the cultural vibration of a city known as The Big Easy, and its winding roots all trace back to one unifying art form: jazz.” and pulled people outside into the streets instead. By refusing to take solid shape and insisting its doors stay wide open, nobody could tell jazz where to be and what to sound like: the sound remained steadfastly committed only to expressing life’s absurdity and the diversity of the people shaping it. At any point during the genre’s peak, to not “buy into jazz” was to silently scream to the times that you were growing old. It meant you were forgetting your vicariousness, your spontaneity, and your warm contradiction.

I thought about the white-haired Stoops again the other day as I stared at an unrisen CTB bagel, questioning why I paid nine dollars for what was essentially a really thick, hole-punched cracker in Ithaca but two dollars for a plate of hot, fluffy beignets in New Orleans. It all begs the question of simplicity.

Bourbon Street remains alive at any hour, inviting people from all walks of life while unabashedly housing only a few types of establishments: bars, oyster bars and nude bars. Jazz lives within all of these and stands on every other street corner of New Orleans because people like Steamboat Willie refuse to let it die. They hold no motive outside of celebrating life in its various audible, corporal and ingestible forms and embracing all the contradictions inherent in doing so. Looking at his life as a whole, it reads quickly and easily. He has some favorite jazz standards. He has one hat. He likes it when people snap after his sets. He doesn’t need much to build a life that reaches far, wide, and touches people deeply. I’m starting to think I don’t need all that much, either. w

zooming out • 43

Fixating on Dreams

by Belle McDonald art by Dana Gong

A flicker of pale light shines from the street lamp outside your bedroom window, wobbling softly as branches create shadows on your ceiling. Snug underneath your warmest comforter, you clear your mind and willingly sink into the indigo abyss of dreams. Your dream will carry you on a winding path through the infinite memories, fears, and desires that orbit your mind like planets. Some are easy to discern; they are nearby and clear like your mother’s face. Others are obscured by the vastness of space, a forgotten moment as vague as the childhood scent of fresh school supplies. We let our minds travel to places physically impossible to explore in the light of day. The next morning, we remember fragments of last night’s travels: perhaps the image of a raven, an all-seeing eye, or last week’s forgotten homework assignment. And yet, we fixate on these faint recollections, craving access to our subconscious thoughts. Societies across time and space pursue the prophetic power of dreams, driven by curiosity and a need to explore the unknown. But should we place any trust in the omens that history has arbitrarily created?

Growing up, I was mesmerized by Salvador Dali’s dream sequence in Alfred Hitchcock’s psychoanalytic film Spellbound. Attempting to break through the main character’s amnesia by analyzing his dreams, the story recounts a strange dream featuring a curtain of eyeballs, running figures, faceless men, and a mysterious card game. There is something so chilling about his fast-paced and surrealist depiction of dreams, but also something so familiar. The disorientation I felt as I watched the scene is the same feeling we all experience after waking from a nightmare. As a 10 year old kid with a weird imagination, I became obsessed with the alternate universe of dreams. How could I understand the meanings of my own seemingly meaningless dreams? I turned to Google for answers, only to find an abundance of articles featuring headlines like, “Nine dream signs you should never ignore!” and “According to mystics, these dreams predict death!” From boxes to teeth, ants, hair, and the color green, I was confronted with endless lists of objects you definitely do not want 44 • zooming out

to dream about. While superstitions were a big part of elementary school playground lore, I never considered that dreams could tell my fortune. This simple Google search sent me spiralling into the extensive canon of literature dedicated to dream analysis.

The mystery of dreams is emphasized by the slim control we have over their manifestation. To explain the mystifying creation of dreams, ancient civilizations often viewed dreams as enigmatic messages placed in our minds by divine powers. Both Islamic and Christian scriptures mention prophetic messages hidden behind dreams. The Epic of Gilgamesh, written as early as 2700 BCE, is perhaps the oldest record of dream analysis. Gilgamesh dreams of a shooting star, and his mother prophesies new friends. Gilgamesh then meets his friend Enkidu. Enkidu dreams of a falling mountain and an attacking bull. The dream foreshadows his journey to the underworld, and the Bull of Heaven that they encounter later. Stories like the Epic of Gilgamesh use dreams as driving forces for characters and the plot in the same way that humans tend to believe superstitions and omens. During the reign of the Egyptian Pharaoh Ramses II, the fabled Dream Book was written, describing the danger and betrayal implied by mirrors and snakes. In Ancient Greece, Artemidorus wrote Oneirocritica, a fivevolume dream analysis describing omens like wolves, the signifier of violent enemies. Some of these images are as mundane as household items and pets. Yet, entire civilizations believed in their portentous meaning in dreams.

These ancient omens remain foreboding in modern superstitions. Why do we see cats, eyeballs, empty boxes, and roads as ominous? We interact with these images every day, and yet in dreams, society says that they predict danger and misfortune. The dichotomy between your neighbor’s fluffy kitten and the black cat from your dreams is significant and perplexing. Literature and media help to preserve these superstitious ideas over time and space. For example, the infamous dream sequence in Twin Peaks is perhaps

“The reemergence of witches in entertainment is a way to empower women to reclaim their power to fight this endless sexual harassment and abuse prevalent in our society.”

the most eerie and accurate visualization of dreams in visual media. The dream is fairly simple, featuring a red room, a statue of Venus, the character of Laura Palmer, and a dancing man. While nothing in the dream is explicitly foreboding, the imagery is analyzed as evidence in the murder investigation of Laura, a popular high school girl in Twin Peaks, Washington.

We have all seen paintings or sculptures of Venus in museums, or have touched the velvet of red curtains at theaters. The scene captures a bizarre and uncanny feeling by twisting mundane objects, just as humanity obsessively turns everyday objects into omens and premonitions.

The surreal mixture of elements in Twin Peaks, the random images that make up your dreams, and the depiction of dreams in popular media like

Spellbound continue to perpetuate notions of dreamworld premonitions. Ancient cultures and civilizations constructed meaning and divine messages from dreams, producing arbitrary symbols of fate and fortune. These notions live on through centuries of change. The random images that our subconscious’ produce most likely have no implication on our futures unless we allow them to. And yet, no matter how unfounded in science, society cannot help but continue obsessing over omens in dreams. There is a sort of comfort in explaining the unexplainable, even if it is filled with dreadful omens. w

zooming out • 45

Do You Believe in Fairies?

by Emma Bernstein art by Isha Chirimar

46 • zooming out

Second grade was the year of lost teeth.

A few early bloomers began losing them in kindergarten or first, but second grade was when the avalanche really began. By winter, a new kid was spitting a bloody tooth into their cupped hand each week and we all had gummy gaps in our smiles.

Surrounded by this endless barrage of lost teeth, we debated one question on playdates, at recess, and over tubs of glue during papier-mâché: Is the tooth fairy real?

My answer was always a staunch and automatic “of course she is!” I would then launch into a long-winded account of the evidence that I had so far collected: the notes left under my pillow with a few dollar bills, the little bit of glitter on my bedside table, the time I woke up to a cold breeze through my open window even though I could have sworn that I had shut it before falling asleep. If the tooth fairy was a belief system, I was her best missionary, telling anyone who would listen that her existence was an indisputable fact.

Buried under my proclamations of faith, however, was a simple truth: I knew fully well that the bills under my pillow came from my dad’s wallet, that he wrote the congratulatory notes himself, and that the glitter likely came from any one of my many craft projects. It wasn’t that I’d ever caught my dad in the act, but instead that as a Jewish child, both surrounded by and separate from Christian holiday traditions, I learned early that Santa and the Easter Bunny were lies parents told their children. It was impossible not to make the mental leap that the tooth fairy fell into the same category. Then there was the fact that the notes I received were in my dad’s messy left-handed scrawl and only appeared after I made him read to me from a book I checked out from the library about a girl who received similarly friendly notes congratulating her on each lost tooth.

My desire for faith was not limited to the tooth fairy. Despite a fairly religious upbringing, I’ve had a natural skepticism towards god for as long as I could remember, perhaps fostered by my passionately atheistic older brother. However, each time my Hebrew school teacher told us to pray silently during the Amidah, I would dutifully think over things that I wanted (usually, a puppy) and things that I was sorry for and I would try as hard as I could to believe that somebody was listening. While my brother took pride in questioning everything and would announce each year that although he had no choice but to go synagogue on Yom Kippur, he would be thinking about baseball the entire time, I felt a gnawing guilt at my inability to believe wholeheartedly the way I

thought I should.

As I grew up, I haven’t shed either my skepticism or my desire for faith. I may know full well that the stars don’t have anything to do with the kind of person I am or the things I experience in my daily life, but I still check my horoscope and tell anyone who wonders

“As I grew up, I haven’t shed either my skepticism or my desire for faith.” what I think of astrology that I’m not sure, but that I do know that I am such a libra.

It isn’t that I want my life to be defined by stars or planets or feel like I particularly need a higher power to justify the things that go wrong, just like it wasn’t so much that I wanted the tooth fairy to be real, although she seemed like a nice idea. Instead, I think I am a naturally slightly cynical person who wants badly to be the kind of person who believes in things. My first instinct is to question people’s motives, collect evidence, and consider alternate possibilities, but my second instinct, the one I try to follow, is one of elective gullibility—the child in me still wanting to take magic at face value.

Maybe there is a middle ground, though, between skepticism and feigned belief—one where I don’t need a myth to find joy in the things that happen to me. Astrology is fun, and trying to pray as a child was an early step in a long process of self reflection whether or not anybody was listening. And even though I would have liked to have a guardian fairy at seven years old, there is something even lovelier in the reality: that I had a dad who faithfully performed the rituals of preserving innocence, who read to me from the books I checked out from the library, who wrote notes congratulating me on growing up because he wanted me to maintain my faith a little longer. I can and will continue to love both the feeling of belief and of nurturing a sense of doubt, but I am realizing more and more that there is another kind of optimism available to me—one that may not believe in magic as a force exerted on the world, but instead sees the magic in ordinary acts of trust and kindness.w

zooming out • 47

The Power of the Placebo/Nocebo art and article by Claire Deng

When I see the spots of blood, I think, here we go again, get ready for throbbing pain.

And of course, it comes, expanding like a balloon inside me, the swollen monster I’ve been expecting. But then I pop an Advil. A few minutes after the pill passes through my lips, I can feel the pain losing its jagged edge. I buy a hot drink, lie down, and distract myself with YouTube, and the pain recedes. Fifteen minutes later, I’m perfectly comfortable.

For me, every period is a cycle of expectations: the foreboding of pain, the promise of relief. I expect to feel hurt and then expect to feel better. Would the pain be better if I didn’t dread its arrival? What are the actual health benefits of the hot drink, lying down, or even the Advil? How much of the effect comes from our expectations versus the reality?

This is the power of the placebo effect. The word placebo, meaning “I shall please” in Latin, is in itself an incantation. On the flip side, the term “nocebo,” coined

by Walter Kennedy in 1961, fittingly means “I shall harm.” A nocebo gives rise to negative expectations that enhance a negative effect, like believing a flu shot will be painful or that a medication will have severe side effects. If the placebo is the painkiller, the nocebo is the period pain; if the placebo is the charm, then nocebo is the curse.

The spell of the placebo effect goes back centuries.

According to the Journal of the Royal Society for Medicine, “placebos” in the 14th century referred to hired professional mourners that stood in for family members at funerals. As a result, the placebo quickly acquired a connotation of falsity and deception—to the extent that a man called Placebo appears in The Canterbury Tales as an evil sycophant, flattering the vanity of his friend. The term placebo only became associated with medicine in the 18th century, when it first appeared in the New Medical Dictionary in 48 • zooming out

1785 as “a commonplace method or medicine,” or any treatment that had no objective benefits by itself, but somehow made the patient feel better. Since doctors often lied to patients about placebos being real medicine in order to produce the placebo effect, placebos were viewed as sham treatments. Nevertheless, the sham treatments had real effects on people, and by the early 20th century, doctors began accepting the benefits of placebos, though they remained unsure of exactly how they worked.

As attitudes towards the placebo effect evolved in medicine, the placebo effect also found a place in popular culture, becoming a catch-all phrase to describe a moreeveryday type of magic. Placebos and nocebos are the agents of the small self-fulfilling prophecies we seem to encounter every day; any time we expect something, we jinx ourselves unknowingly with the placebo effect.

We expect to feel more energetic after a drinking cup of coffee, tipsier after taking a shot, or (for me specifically) more calm after savoring a mug of hot chocolate. Extreme nerves before an exam, an interview, or audition can cause us to perform worse than we usually do, and the universal dread of organic chemistry also makes the class feel worse than it should, though I know that’s a controversial argument.

Of course, all of these examples have real, objective effects regardless of our expectations, but our expectations enhance the effects. So why would we want to fool ourselves into thinking that things are better or worse than they really are? Why do we want to experience exaggerated emotional reactions to minor experiences, especially if those emotions are negative? If placebos and nocebos are really shams, why should we keep believing in them?

The answer seems to lie outside the bounds of these logical questions, in the realm of emotions. We need placebos and nocebos because they help us deal with our feelings. It’s our instinct to characterize things as good or bad, to reduce uncertainty, to prepare and exert as much

control over our future as possible. And if the placebo/ nocebo effect is our coping mechanism, that’s okay.

Placebos can also help us feel more in the moment.

Some placebos, like being on a sugar high or feeling a heightened caffeine kick, are fun, in the way that fantasizing is fun. Other placebos or nocebos connect us with other people, helping us relate to each other through a common social vibe, whether it’s feeling the buzz at a party or stressing out over a big assignment.

Nocebos specifically represent mutual pain and negativity—which seems like a bad thing at first, but can actually help people sympathize with and support each other. Placebos and nocebos represent the shared beliefs and opinions we hold within our communities, and clueing into them can help us adjust to different social situations.

Ultimately, the sham of the placebo effect is the sham of being human. Sure, we may be deluding ourselves a little bit, but those delusions are necessary for us to function in society and enjoy living just a little bit more.

In the end, what matters isn’t actually what’s real, but what’s real for us as individuals. Placebos and nocebos matter because our feelings matter. Our emotional reactions may not always reflect objective reality, but they do reflect our own reality—how each of us sees the world. The magic of placebos and nocebos isn’t that they create effects out of nothing, it’s that they allow our thoughts to play a part in our reality.

Our thoughts and feelings are real, despite the lines we draw, and the existence of placebos and nocebos reveal that they are often more real than we can rationalize.

So next month, you better believe that I’ll be dreading my cramps, popping my Advils, and sipping my hot drinks—going through the same-old cycle of nocebo and placebo without a second thought. Will I understand in the moment why I’m doing it? No, but that may be precisely the point.w

“Placebos and nocebos matter because our feelings matter.”

zooming out • 49

Jinxed from Birth: does your name determine your fate?

by Jean Cambareri art by Lindsey Potoff

Soon-to-be parents all around the world spend months agonizing over what to name their children, going over all of the possibilities. A lot of people treat naming their children as if it has the power to cultivate who they will become. But do our names actually have any effect on who we are, or are they just arbitrary, random reflections of what our parents could come up with at the time?

When I think of my name, Jean, and how it has played a role in my life, my first thought is that names absolutely do have an impact on who we are.

From the seemingly thousands of times I have been told “hey Jean, I like your jeans,” to the mispronunciations by substitute teachers (they always seem to think I am French), my name shapes both others’ conceptions of me and how I see myself.Besides the “gene” jokes in AP Biology and the confusion that spelling my name causes my Italian family (spoiler alert: there is no J in the Italian alphabet), my name also has meaning, because I, like a lot of people, was named after someone.

I was named after my mom’s sister who passed away unexpectedly at the age of 28. Knowing this has also molded how I perceive myself.

From a very young age, I was continuously compared to my beloved namesake. I strived to live up to all that the name meant in my family. My Aunt Jean loved books so I loved books. My Aunt Jean was funny so I tried to make people laugh. I was always reaching to be someone that was merely an amalgamation of stories I had been told and pictures I had been shown.

When I think of this idea of living up to the potential of your name, and of that name helping to define your fate, the story of brothers Winner and Loser Lane always comes to mind.

52 • zooming out

Winner Lane was born in 1958 in a housing project in Harlem and his brother, Loser, was born three years later into that same overcrowded family. Today, one brother is a respected former student-athlete and detective in New York City while the other has been in and out of prison for most of his adult life. I bet you can’t guess which brother is which.

“When I think of this idea of living up to the potential of your name, and of that name helping to define your fate, the story of brothers Winner and Loser Lane always comes to mind.”

“It’s just some situations I got in,” Winner told the Chicago Tribune about his trouble with the law. In the same interview, Loser (or Lou, as most call him) said that he doesn’t see his brother very often and that as a cop, he has a hard time tolerating Winner’s criminal behavior.

Why their father, Robert Lane, would choose to name his sons Winner and Loser is still a bit of a mystery to most. Winner told the Chicago Tribune in 2002 that it probably had something to do with baseball, given that his dad was a baseball fanatic, but he couldn’t pinpoint a specific reason. Loser, on the other hand, said the story was relatively simple. When Loser was born, Robert asked his oldest daughter what to name the baby, and she responded by saying, “well, we’ve got a Winner, why don’t we have a Loser?” And thus, one of the most peculiar, baby-naming stories was born.

Did their father jinx his sons by giving them these strange names, thus turning them into a makeshift social experiment? Do our names actually have any effect on us—on how we act and who we turn out to be? In the case of the Lane family, would things have turned out differently had the roles been reversed? Or are our names simply arbitrary and completely separate from the path that our lives take?

Names do have an impact on our lives, because they have an impact on the way that others perceive us, on

the way we perceive ourselves, and the actions we take that ultimately make up who we really are. And yet, we are independent from our names as well.

As I have grown up, I have realized that I am different from the woman I was named after, when I used to feel like I could never live up to our shared name. Even if we share some similarities, we are different people with completely separate fates. I don’t use her legacy as a template for who I want to become anymore, and I have realized that while my name holds special meaning, in a lot of ways it is just a name.

In the same way, Loser realized that his name was not a roadmap for who he was going to become, but rather an arbitrary reflection of the circumstances he was given.

It is hard to pinpoint whether our names can jinx who we become or not. On one hand, it is true that a name can hold special meaning, and can help people shape their perception of who you are, thus affecting the way they treat you, and ultimately the way your life turns out. But on the other hand, like for Winner and Loser, names are simply random reflections of your circumstances, and whatever was on your parents’ brain at the time.

Like Loser (Lou) Lane said matter-of-factly in his interview with the Chicago Tribune, his and his brother’s unique names did not seal their fate: “I went a totally separate route right from the start.”

It is difficult to separate which events in our lives are significant, which ones actually have an effect, from those that don’t change anything. It is hard to know if I would have been the same person had I not endured years of “Jean’s jeans” jokes or had I not been named after my Aunt. Just the same as it is difficult to determine if Winner and Loser’s lives would have turned out the same had they been named differently.

Maybe, people are who they are meant to be from the start, regardless of the names they are given, but it takes time for us to separate who we truly are from our names and the perceptions and expectations that come with them.w

zooming out • 53

Materials and Methods art and article by Alana Sullivan

54 • zooming out

I I am thinking back to the day I remember killing it.

We were witches more than we were ourselves most summers, and that July witnessed the height of our powers. We traded our too snug school Mary Janes for bare, dirt-caked, pricker-stuck feet and dragged N’s tin pots and wooden spoons into the yard. The stinking, polluted drainage ditch under the willows was our magic spring, and alongside it we turned mud and stones and newly-bloomed lilac blossoms into spells of protection and self-transfiguration and more-summer-less-school. I watched the daddy longlegs bounce on its thin limbs up over the tree’s bumpy knees, heading nearer to those of my youngest sister. To prevent her widening eyes from turning into a scream, I did it for her with a rock without a second thought. I remembered too late that it was bad luck.

II “If I thought about it all the time, like, really thought about the fullness and completeness of it and sat in it, I wouldn’t be able to function,” T says. “And that would sort of defeat my whole purpose. So I pretend it’s not there, and that lets me do my work.” She is a climate change scientist. Our friend L then brings up the likely surge of emotional support groups in the near future dedicated to helping alleviate the mental distress specifically prompted by the climate emergency.

People trying to cope with the disintegration of their metaphysical selves with worksheets, circled-up chairs, writing prompts, and group process as their futures are gobbled up by acidifying oceans and lakes.

III I learned that social psychologists came up with a name for the system of mental defense mechanisms designed to protect our little eggshell minds from the indisputable fact of each of our impending, unpredictable deaths—“Terror Management Theory.”

The theory basically posits that to keep ourselves from being utterly immobilized and destroyed by death anxiety, we cling to belief systems and values that permit us the illusion of immortality, whether that immortality be literal (as in belief in heaven/the afterlife) or symbolic (as in familial descendants, or the institutions we identify with that will exist long after we do). The researchers who developed TMT even went a step further to suggest that human societies’ systems of thought, emotions, religions, moralities, and understandings of family and other social bonds are fundamentally and primarily influenced by this: our complete helplessness in the face of our own mortality.

IV My sister has found a thing that works for her (though it’s gotten to the point where it seems to be the other way around). She used to tap on walls and drum her knuckles on tabletops (sometimes, they’d even be made of wood!) in specific and wellreasoned number sequences and patterns, and that worked for a while. But now she’s had to show them she means business, and so she just scratches and scratches with the long nail of her index finger at this spot on her scalp right next to where her curls part.

She scrapes her skin until things feel balanced, the evils counteracted, the cosmic, skittering beetles that tickle across her brain coaxed to slowing, placated and tightly cocooned and swaddled. But this ward is only temporary, and its warm crocheted comfort unravels almost as quickly as she can create it for herself, so she must keep knitting, knitting, knitting.

V No, I am not proud of the current ways I stave off the badness. Yes, I know what will happen.

No, I don’t know why. Yes, I do feel ashamed.

VI Some of the earliest documented cases of disordered eating come from medieval accounts of young Western European Catholic women refusing food and water in an attempt to nourish their spiritual lives rather than those of their inherently sinful bodies—an exercise in asceticism and devotion to Christ. Anorexia mirabilis, they call it. “Miraculous lack of appetite.”

Others, like saint, mystic, and theologian Catherine of Siena, claimed their acts of self-deprivation were effective ways of atoning for the past—and future— sins of themselves and those around them. Convinced that this fasting would ensure her soul’s liberation and a true communion with her Father in heaven (her earthly one was preparing her to marry her dead and most beloved sister’s widower) Catherine smiled at the bite of the wooden plank she had placed underneath her head in place of a pillow, and had visions of Christ’s love consuming her whole.

In school I only remember them teaching us that Catherine was what they call a Doctor of the Church, and that she was the 25th child born to her mother. Now, I can only imagine Catherine’s dead body, which was likely jaundiced, frail-boned and fractured when it finally gave out after a lifetime of malnourishment. Her face and stomach were probably covered with a fuzzy layer of brown fur zooming out • 55

(lanugo, they call it) while the little hair she hadn’t already cut off her scalp was dull, thinning, and brittle.

I’m not sure “miraculous” is quite the word I’d use.

VII M’s skin is stained red-purple and is rough to the touch.

I’m not sure why I thought this burn would be different just because it came from a machine instead of the sun. I begin to spread the cream over her shoulders and upper chest, but it is thick, and the soothing it’s supposed to bring seems to be negated by the pressure needed to spread it. She is crying and telling me to keep going, and I am swallowing and trying to look in her eyes and not her port or her bandaged chest or the indentations and depressions on her scalp that should not be visible to me. We have to stop because she is vomiting now, and I just say over and over to us both that I know, I know, but what do I know? I can tell you from experience that things come into existence whether or not you guard your lips against proclaiming their names. You must find a new method.

VIII The ones I’ve known: If a black cat crosses your path.

If you see a white owl.

If you walk under a ladder.

If you open an umbrella indoors.

If you step on a crack.

If you knock over a salt shaker and send the grains across the tabletop.

If you break a mirror (even on accident).

If it is a Friday the 13th.

If a magpie hits your window and falls, dead, to the ground.

If you attempt to contact the dead.

The ones I’ve believed: If I say I am fine, you will actually know that I am not and say come here and hold me.

If I take my glasses off and can’t see you, then I’m also not actually there and can slip up sidewalks and trip down steep hills and flights of stairs with uneven steps and it won’t matter if I fall.

If I make there be less of my body, what I lose in fat, muscle, organ tissue, and cellular integrity, I will gain proportionately in love from others and from myself.

If I can acquire betterness and moreness, then suddenly you will begin to love me the way I’ve been quietly and frantically waiting for you to.

If we say the word over and over again together its 56 • zooming out

meaning will rust and crumble to greasy brown bits in my palm until all that remains are loosely bolted syllables, which I will gather together and fling to the side; the allophones will clump, melt, rise, swirl, and puff into sweet peach and plum clouds; and you will be safe.

IX We are debating the workings of our universe, S, Z, and me. As I am tucking her in, Z says, “Tell me the scariest thing in the world,” but I know what she actually wants, and so I say in my most dramatically low and ominous and suspenseful voice, “The scariest thing in the world is . . . grapes!” And the three of us burst out laughing. “No, tell me the scariest thing in the universe,” Z says in a lisping whisper with her small sticky hands on my shoulders, a small glob of glitter-glue clumping together some of the hair that has escaped her braid. S is still red and shaking and tears are mixing in with the cracker crumbs at the corner of her open mouth. She says that with so many missing teeth it is difficult to keep everything inside, but that she does her best. “The scariest thing in the universe is . . . toilet paper!” I say, and we are all in a fit of giggles again. Even the golden lamp joins us, shaking from the vibrations we send across the nicked wooden floor planks and making the shadow on their bedroom wall jitter back and forth over glossy posters of the Sun, Mercury, Venus, Earth. The three of us don’t know what will be the scariest things in our universes, or the most effective ways of keeping them away. For now, laughing seems to be a good one.w

Writing Selfishly

by Nicole Oliveira art by Jane Jackson, photographs by Nicole Oliveira

I feel the exhaustion in my bones.

I feel weighed down.

I feel tired but not sleepy.

I want to eat but I’m not hungry.

My joints radiate with some kind of ominous feeling. It feels heavy.

I don’t have enough energy to hold my back up, but I know I shouldn’t slouch.

My jaw is clenched and I notice it every now and then.

It will hurt tomorrow if I keep doing it.

But if I let my mouth soften I might scream.

I might cry.

I might collapse from the weight of everything I’m holding inside.

I’m told I’m doing the best I can, that I’m doing a good job, that no one dislikes me.

But it doesn’t change the fact that I punish myself.

I am hard on myself and I really can’t help it.

It’s almost more exhausting to actively think of not doing so.

It’s a catch-22.

What do I do?

That rhymed.

Maybe I should give poetry a try. *** My therapist told me to keep a food log.

BREAKFAST I started the day with a croissant and hummus.

I only took a bite.

My stomach was burning.

This is how my body has signaled to me that it’s hungry.

I decided on an almond croissant even though I know it has too much sugar for breakfast. It has little to no nutritional value, but I ate it anyway.

I was so hungry.

I was swallowing the gooey chunks with so much voracity, my throat hurt after devouring It took under a minute.

I’m not a coffee drinker, but I had two cups while working the register.

I felt lightheaded but lighter. The thoughts weighing me down vanished for a few hours and all I had to think about was handing customer’s coffee cups zooming out • 57

and pretending to be interested in their sweaters or earrings.

myself to have dinner.

LUNCH I had a pretty carb-heavy breakfast which means no bread for lunch. A sandwich is out of the question.

I was going to have soup, but dairy is not the wisest choice. I had to eat a salad even though I didn’t want to.

AFTERNOON SNACK My clothes were sopping wet. I forgot my umbrella. I need to change, but first a snack.

What’s quick? What can I grab before I have to head out again?

We have vegan scones—only two out of half a dozen.

It’s 5 pm. I’m late to the game.

I settle for a banana and torn pieces of white fluffy bread with Tofutti.

The pang is there. I can feel it gnawing at my stomach.

Anxiety and hunger are two of the worst possible combinations.

I inhaled half the salad on my way to class. On my way up the hill, I felt guilty about it.

My bloated stomach reminds of the possibility of weight gain. I feel fat.

I’m not. I know that. I’ve gotten better. I shouldn’t police myself like this.

If I love my body I should nurture it with healthy foods. I shouldn’t beat myself up. I still do.

I don’t think that means I don’t love myself. I’m learning. I get frustrated with how slow I move.

I ate more of the salad.

I didn’t finish it. If I did, I wouldn’t have allowed 58 • zooming out

I can feel the pounds nestling into my sides. Suddenly, my stomach seems to spill over my jeans more than usual. I feel grotesque.

I’m trying to feel beautiful.

DINNER I cried in front of my professor. I was feeling emotional.

Food could be a good comfort.

I’m not one to turn down free food when I have less than a hundred dollars in my checking and savings accounts combined.

Since I ate two vegetable spring rolls, I should have a salad for dinner. If the plate my housemate made for me has too many carbs, I shouldn’t eat it.

It’ll all go to my stomach. I can feel my flesh becoming softer, mushier, oozing out of my gut.

I won’t feel good tomorrow.

After a long day, I couldn’t hold back. I gave in. My will isn’t strong enough.

My mind says to stay strong. My stomach rumbles.

Breadcrumbs are so good.

My body is fueled, but I don’t feel good. Physically I’m okay, but I feel wounded.

I’m getting tired of ripping the band-aid off every time I think I’m better. *** I have to admit to myself: I’m in love with love.

I want to be loved.

I need a cure. I crave the intensity--or maybe I don’t?

I deserve to be loved, or so I’m told.

But I’m not sure I believe it.

Maybe subtlety is my friend. It’s really fucking sad to love someone and not be loved back.

I want to be breathless, overwhelmed, lost in how much happiness has found its way into my open, festering wounds. *** 4:51 A.M. I’m feeling okay. Things are looking up--I hope. The sun comes up eventually. Today I won’t let small things sour my Wednesday. It’s still dawn.

The day is not lost. But yesterday still hangs over me.

It nudged me awake until I could no longer fall back asleep.

I didn’t do what was expected of me.

I didn’t eat a balanced meal.

I didn’t sleep enough. I forgot to take my makeup off.

I didn’t drink enough water.

I haven’t taken my Prozac in two weeks.

Was that person being condescending earlier or was I reading into it?

Why do I continually diminish my feelings?

I didn’t have the energy to address it even though I

wanted nothing more than to speak up—to let out the repressed thoughts I couldn’t verbalize but felt very deeply.

I have to call the pharmacy again. It is with a deep sense of failure that I dial that number.

I’m not ready to go off.

*** I’ve gotten the sudden urge to wear a babydoll dress I don’t like shapeless clothing, loose clothing, clothing that mocks my womanhood.

I’m already thin, devoid of “womanly” curves.

Lately, I’ve wanted nothing more than to envelope myself in a swath of frilly cotton or linen.

The girlier the better.

I feel helpless like a baby, but trapped in a body that tells the world otherwise I’m unhappy.

I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night.

My lips are still tense. They refuse to soften even if I try. zooming out • 59

I’ve realized something recently: When SAD sticks around every season, it’s just depression.

This time it feels more menacing, but surprisingly considerate.

Maybe it’ll smother me with sadness rather than let me suffer.

We’re still getting to know each other, so only time will tell.

But the physical symptoms are beginning to manifest.

My forehead is tense.

The skin between my brows is constantly pinched.

I sulk a lot.

Lines are beginning to settle into my face. ***

I’m in need of a good cry.

I’m in need of physical intimacy: a hug, a hand, the warmth of a body.

60 • zooming out

I’m in need of unplugging, of being a formless blob floating in the ether.

Turning off my phone isn’t enough. The trauma follows me. I want nothing more than to reach into my chest and tear a gaping hole through my rib cage. I’m hoping hollowing myself out will help me feel lighter.

Good cries aren’t always enough. I’ve ceased to find relief in the uninhibited flow of tears. My eyes are weary and a good cry leaves me gasping for air, choking on my own thoughts. *** I try to get up, but I don’t have the strength.

My muscles are slowly atrophying.

I’m weak, but I’m also not. I’m trying—so hard.

I want so badly to feel happy, to feel calm.

But I can’t get up.

I’ve never felt so fragile, like a gust of wind could unravel me.

I can’t stand being this vulnerable, this frail, this helpless.

The vulnerability is no longer beautiful. It’s no longer poetic. It’s just painful.

Words cannot describe what the mind conjures.

Words cannot describe trauma.

Words cannot describe feeling unsupported, abused, gaslighted.

They will never be enough.w

zooming out • 61

Anxiety Native

by Tilda Wilson art by Leo Levy

I’m sitting at my desk trying to focus and twiddling my hair in my fingers. I tighten my grasp. The hairs are taut and I am so close to the ecstatic feeling of plucking them one by one off the top of my forehead. I take a deep breath.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight.

I remove my hand from my head. I keep typing. I get distracted and my hand goes back to the top of my head.

It takes me a long time to write anything.

This is a great accomplishment.

The first time you have a panic attack will be the worst time. It will leave you broken and confused to your core; betrayed by your mind and the sense of self you thought you had.

If you’re lucky, this panic will hit you when you’re older. When you can remind yourself of who you were before this happened, and imagine the carefree times before your brain and your body went to war. A sense of self upon which you can calibrate your future.

If you’re unlucky, you cannot remember the first time you had a panic attack. Your earliest memories of hyperventilation, of trying to curl inside your own skin, of the satisfaction of pulling your hair and biting your nails and gnawing on your gums, already feel familiar. When you look down at your torn-up skin or hide bald spots under the part of your hair, you think of these traits as defining your existence. There has never been a you that isn’t fragile and afraid, always standing on the edge.

At eight years old I have a list of things that scare me. The dark, loud noises, older kids, kids my age, my imaginary friend Carl, rainstorms, my therapist, enclosed spaces, sports.

The wind.

In third grade I get special permission to organize the 62 • zooming out

National Geographic collection by myself in the library during recess on days I deem too windy (every day).

The day the fire alarm goes off starts with my mother convincing me to go to school even though I heard the weatherman say the word “breezy” on the radio. At the sound of the alarm my peers file out the door and I go directly to the librarian, only to be told that this isn’t recess and I have to go outside.

“The first time you are given medication you will feel like a lucky fraud.”

I grit my teeth, imagining the apologetic speech the librarian will be forced to give at my funeral after I am swept away by the wind.

As we line up on the field, I lose my composure and all connection to reality. I’m being personally attacked by this weather. My stomach turns with the swirling of the air and I sink to the ground from the weight of it. I’m crying and not quite breathing, and vaguely aware of my teacher unsuccessfully trying to block me from the wind with a group of my classmates.

After this, my peers are careful around me. They don’t know exactly what went wrong, but they understand that I’m fragile. Like their grandmother’s china or the room with the antiques that they’re not allowed to play in.

The first time you see a therapist, you will enter with optimism. You’ve finally given into the idea that you need help and you’re ready for things to get easier. You’re ready for someone to solve your problems.

This changes the moment she tells you to try taking a deep breath when you’re anxious or asks “have you heard of an app called Headspace? It makes meditation so much easier.”

You will leave that first session angry. Pissed. She’s saying the same things as your mother and your grandma and the wikihow article that came up that time you googled “how to calm yourself down.”

You think maybe it’s just her and you need a better therapist, but then you see another and another until you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that no sentence out of any professional’s mouth will magically calm all the noise in your head. It takes time and hard work and practice and even then it’s mostly about holding the pieces of yourself together and learning to cope. You learn for the first time that you only get one brain, and you’ll be fighting it and loving it and hating it and just stuck living in it your whole damn life.

I’m staring down at the light blue fuzzy carpet. She tells me that we’re going to try and create some space between the things that scare me and the actions I take to try and mitigate that fear. I’m already bouncing my legs and biting my nails but I mumble “ok” and check my watch.

“Can you tell me about something that made you anxious this week?”

I pull my knees into my chest as a thousand little things pop into my head. I start to list them out in my mind: 1. I thought about the possibility of accidentally sending a meme to my grandmother instead of my friend.

2. I heard someone say the word tinder.

3. I tried writing an essay for English but it wasn’t ever going to be good enough so I deleted the entire assignment and didn’t turn anything in.

4. Someone could’ve overheard me tell my Dad I thought Age of Adz was a less good Sufjan Stevens album.

5. People are too loud in my AP World History class.

I stop there because nothing in the world makes me more anxious than thinking about anxiety. I tell her about AP World History.

She asks how I deal with feeling anxious in that class.

I look at her, and then look down at myself as an answer. I am bouncing my legs and pulling at my hair and picking at my skin and breathing like a golden retriever.

She nods.

She starts describing what it’s like to be in that class, and suddenly I’m there. The kids are loud and they’re all saying things I don’t agree with and the teacher is calling on me but I’m about to say the wrong thing and I’m dying to crawl underneath my desk and plug my ears (something I’ve done before).

She tells me to count my breaths.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight.

The room starts to return to focus. I can see the chair and the table and the big green plant that implores me to be calm in this safe space.

In: One two three four five.

Out: One two three four five six seven eight.

I walk home and retreat under the covers of my bed and watch an episode of Gilmore Girls I’ve seen a thousand times until I forget, for a moment, that I exist.

The first time you are given medication you will feel like a lucky fraud. You will take that pill, and then the next day you will leave the house without feeling like climate change is burning off your outer layer of skin and then you’ll think “wow, this is my life now, all I needed was a few extra milligrams of serotonin. Why don’t they give this to babies?”

But then the day after that you’ll remember the climate change. Remember the germs and the other people and the failures and all the embarrassment that makes you want to pull out your hair. You’ll remember your brain, how you’re stuck in it, how it hates you.

And then maybe the day after that you’ll feel better.

Because sometimes you do feel better. Sometimes the deep breathing works or sometimes it’s just a good afternoon with friends and you’re really funny.

And then some part of you will wonder if you’re actually getting better. Are you getting older and figuring zooming out • 63

things out or are you relying on chemicals to pump you full of false confidence? What would happen if all those chemicals went away? Do you really need them or are you a symptom of some deeper American problem where we all fill ourselves with drugs instead of just facing our fears?

I’m in my eleventh grade English class but I’m not really there because I’m busy writing “she has a medical degree” in big block letters in my notebook. My doctor upped my Zoloft prescription to 100 mg yesterday.

My mind starts spinning. Do I even have anxiety?

be a bald spot on the front of my head and now there are bangs that, when swept to the side of my face, look intentional.

I hate them, because they remind me of a bad moment when I completely lost control, and because they grow wildly, as if a toddler took scissors to my head at random.

But on this night, if just for a moment, I can see my accomplishment. This hair is attached to my head. The work of a thousand therapy appointments and pills and reminding myself over and over and over and over that yes, I could pull out my hair right now but no, that is not

“She tells me to count my breaths.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight. ”

What if this entire time I’ve just been acting like a gigantic drama queen and now I’m taking a ton of medication for no reason.

My hand creeps up to the top of my head and twists around a group of hairs.

What if I end up taking so much medication that I lose all my personality and end up super boring? Then, when I’m 30, I’ll have to write one of those memoirs about how I lived a half-life as a teenager because of all the medication I was on, which will inevitably cause a resurgence of the anti-vax movement.

I yank the strands from my hair, stuff them in my pocket with the others, and then write “at least you’ll be famous” in loopy cursive in my notes.

The teacher calls on me and I give her a bewildered look until she moves on.

Even getting better is scary, because it makes you realize that it’s never going to get all better.

I get up from my desk, stretch, and then take one last deep breath.

In: one two three four five.

Out: one two three four five six seven eight.

I put on my pajamas, dump three pills into the back of my hand, and swallow them whole. On the way out to brush my teeth, I catch my reflection in the mirror.

I stare at my bangs. I have bangs. There used to 64 • zooming out

actually what I want to be doing.

I think about where I want to be. The picture that has been glowing in my imagination since I was little where I stand, unafraid, in a crowded city with long braided hair and manicured nails and a thousand other things that would mean I’m just living, not battling the very neurons that define my existence.

I brush my teeth, get in bed, and close my eyes. I decide, for once, to picture a different future for myself.

I’m standing there, in that big crowded city, anxious but adapted. I know when to seek out help and the best ways to quiet my mind, and I’m proud of myself for working at something that will always be difficult.

This, I think, is an achievable goal.w

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