Kitsch Magazine: Fall 2020

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear reader, We’re continuously tethered to each other by what lies underneath our masks: lips, ancestry, reality. The idea of something more than ourselves.

To shed our masks is to bare the multitudes contained within us, giving from the self to another. Historically, kitsch has relentlessly pursued the act of revealing, and celebrated its path to connection; between artist and writer, writer and reader, and the surface self with the ones that remain hidden. Last spring, kitsch connected us from far apart, provided an outlet for our tangled emotions of fear, loss, and sometimes—if we were lucky and with the right people—sudden, unexpected joy. This semester, kitsch helped us to reckon with our new modes of normal, to laugh over zoom about our uncomfortable common room encounters or endless distanced picnics, and, through the act of creating, to make us forget for a moment the physical distance between us.

In 2020, it feels like the whole world is a masquerade ball. We fail to recognize even close friends when we bump into them on campus. TV shows and movies jar us when actors move unencumbered through public spaces without masks. The MASK issue bears witness to this time while also encouraging our writers and artists to reckon with the kitsch tradition of uncovering the deeper self. In a period of tucking away, forcing closed, and restraining, the Fall 2020 issue plays at the awareness of our new boundaries, while also reminding us of the other masks many of us already wore. In “Smudges,” Vee Cipperman explores the power of makeup to both conceal and reveal, creating simultaneously strong and vulnerable new selves. In “Unmasking my Identity,” Bex Pendrak dives into the way quarantine, without the external structure of “society,” provides a new freedom to explore gender presentation and identity. While in “Things to Do With Your Mask when the Pandemic is Over,” Zahavah Rojer imagines a time after the pandemic, what all these objects and memories may come to mean to us.

We hope this issue will give you the same sense of relief as stepping into your bedroom or house, or out into a cool and empty street, and, at last, tugging off the mask.

Love, Emma and Annie

kitsch vol

18 no 2 || spring 2020

editors-in-chief

copy editor art editor assistant art editor web editor social media editor design editor

writers

cover art back cover art advisor

Megan Rochlin Belle McDonald Zahavah Rojer Emma Condie Tilda Wilson Nadya Mikhaylovskaya

Zahavah Rojer Vee Cipperman Bex Pendrak Megan Rochlin Emma Eisler Shahad Salman Stephanie Tom Alex Drake Faima Quadir Christina Ochoa Emma Bernstein Sofia Paredes Jean Cambareri Mariana Meriles Lindsey Potoff Grace Lee Tilda Wilson Olga Khmelnitsky

Belle McDonald

Emma Eisler & Annie Fu

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

artists

funded by

Emma Bernstein Vee Cipperman Nalu Concepcion Jean Cambareri Stephanie Tom ZoĂŤ Robbins Rutkovsky

Zahavah Rojer Emma Eisler Christina Ochoa Shahad Salman Emma Bernstein Belle McDonald Kait Feely Lindsey Potoff Gillian Harril Gabby Commisso

student activities funding commission

Michael Koch

IN THIS ISSUE...

Bite Size Things to Do With a Mask When the Pandemic is Over Smudges Mmm...Ask About It! Lipstick Under Your Mask Ode to My Walk Home Unmasking Dear Dr. Beaky So You Want to be a Plague Doctor

6 8 9 10 12 13 14 17

Watch & Listen Fairytales and Transformations Live Like Legends: The Allure of the Superhero Lessons from Nausicaä

21 23 24

Zooming In Pandemic Etiquette

25

Zooming Out Notes From 3rd Grade Morning After Maslow’s Hierarchy of Expression An Ode to The Six Most Absurd—and Unique—Team Mascots On Latency Things That a Mask is Not Imposter Syndrome “Kau-dher” Looking At You, Looking At Me Mask Up: Wearing a mask for confrontation On Drinking Black Coffee Unmasking My Identity

25 28 30 32 34 37 38 39 40 42 43 44

Things to Do with a Mask When the Pandemic is over

by Havi Rojer Put it on at night as a sleep mask

Make it into a mask quilt and snuggle up

Give it to a mouse to use as a tiny parachute

Use it as basket for collecting wildflowers

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Encase it in glass as a relic For grandchildren

Attach it to a pole and make it into a flag

Keep it as a disguise for spying on your enemies

Wear it as a yarmulke to a cousin’s bar mitzvah

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Smudges

by Olivia Cipperman art by Belle McDonald

I sing a line to life, to me, an ode that’s all my own, I sing of many colors, which I smear across my skin.

I sing from my white bones and from the rainbow of my soul, And write the score upon myself so you can sing along.

My first quest was a barbeque. Smoke and scent and damp summer greenness, piled high on soggy paper plates.

To hold my jeans, Hippolyta’s girdle–a golden belt that cost four dollars To glide across the sprinkler-dewy lawn, Mercury’s shoes–my favorite pair of ratty flowered vans.

I’m wearing a warrior’s pigment Dark eyes with the mess all around.

I’m showing off my power here Purple glitter, black liner, dark and dark and dark.

I want to see. I want to be seen by EVERYONE. I glare.

I sing of black eyeliner, sharp as twin spears.

I sing of smudgy lipstick, matte or dark or gold gold gold.

I sing of too much highlight, patted EVERYWHERE. I glitter.

The second quest was Delaware, the stage within the woods. We entered together, gluing the stars to our skins.

Above my knees, a tiny dress–for I am prismatic and flighty as Iris.

Below my feet, a muddy ground–it stains to remind me I live.

I’m full of light and song and lemonade.

You can see it on the outside with the stars, With the sparkle.

I am alive. I am in love with EVERYONE. I gleam.

I sing of sweat smudging my facepaint, charging through the brush I sing of the blue and pink shine on my nose, howling along with a stadium crowd I sing of diving headlong into saltwater, coming up with inky tears smearing from my eyes.

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The third quest was a snowy night, your scrunchedup face beneath my pen. Stay still! Stay calm! We are both lightly trashed. It is only a trembling line, only a ghost-laugh that echoes on tile, only a night made of snow.

Across blue skin, a netted shirt–I am Khione, and I fear no cold.

The spotlights make the snowflakes dance.

They’re dancing to my song.

I sing of your thighs pressed up against my knees, your soft palm on my cheek, your fluttering brush a butterfly upon my eyelids.

I sing of long walks in a perfumed coat, blue lids matching a blouse that matches the sky.

I sing of a dark lip. I sing of a black heart. I sing of tiny dots, golden stars, making pretty messes.

I sing, I scream, the elements of my own epic ode I write my song and paint my words across my canvas bones.w

Mmm… Ask about it! art and article by Shahad Salman

When the pandemic started, isolation and quarantine suggested a state of disconnectedness.

But my friends and I grew closer by asking obscure, open-ended questions that allowed us to construct realities of altered dimensions. We realized that your weirdest, most complex ideas could be points of relatability or interconnection.

We spent nights sprawled on soft, almost cloudlike fields and went on the weirdest of tangents about meaningless and out-of-this-world topics. Sometimes, it becomes necessary to utilize your imagination for an hour or two and adventure through your creative mind, just to take a break from everything—especially this year. Grab a mask, your desire for introspection, and maybe a friend, and use these questions to foster new, otherworldly conversations.

1. If you could choose one inanimate object to make alive, but you’d have to spend the rest of your life taking care of it, what would you choose and why?

2. If you were presented with the choice, what substance would you choose for facial hair to be made out of instead of hair? (ex. flowers) 3. It’s the most important day of your life, and you’re carrying a bag with five things for this day; what are those five things?

4. What is the one attribute that you would want others to say when describing you?

5. What would you choose for your last meal?

6. What is the one event in your life that you believe changed your entire story’s trajectory?

7. You can make one thing in the world impossible; what is that thing?

8. Would you change the color of the sky if you could?

What color would you change it to and why?

9. A painting of your life so far is composed. What is painted? How much of the painting will be things that you want people to see? How much will be things you don’t want people to see?

10. The moon requests a meeting with you. What do you wear?

How do you prepare?

11. What is one thing you said you would never do and ended up doing? Why do you think you changed your mind about it? Do you regret it?

12. Do you believe everyone has a soulmate? Do you believe everyone will meet their soulmate or one of their soulmates?

13. What is something that is not edible right now that you would want to be edible? (Your forbidden snack that you would want to be able to eat safely?)

14. What do you think is in space/the universe that we haven’t discovered yet?

15. How do you deal with the unexpected? Do you find it stressful, exciting, both? How have you changed the ways you deal with the unexpected?

16. Would your crush/partner be your crush/partner if you had first met them while you were both wearing masks? Would you have pursued them if you had seen them only with a mask?

17. You’re invited to a masquerade party; describe your ideal attire. What kind of mask do you wear? Do you have a date? What are they wearing?

18. If you could teach the entire world one lesson, what would it be?

19. How do you think your interactions and relationships would have changed had you been born into a world of masks?

20. How do you treat yourself?

21. What makes you/has made you feel the freest?

22. What movie scene have you always wanted to be in or recreate?

23. You get the power to pause time three times throughout your lifetime. When would you have paused? When do you think you’ll need to pause?

24. What parts of your life do you mask that you believe would change people’s perception of you if uncovered?

25. What’s a question that you would never want to be asked?w bite size • 9

by Olga Khmelnitsky and Belle McDonald

Climate Comics

Lipstick Under Your Mask

by Sofia Paredes art by Kait Feely “Make yourself look nice, put a little lipstick on!”

You may have heard this phrase many times before. However, with the onslaught of COVID-19 and less and less people (hopefully) leaving the house, it seems as if there is no point in putting effort into one’s appearance. On the surface, not wearing makeup makes sense as half of your face is (again, hopefully) covered by a mask. So you may ask yourself, why would anyone care what you look like under your face covering? This is why since the start of this pandemic, millions-even billions-of people have ditched their usual lip tint... but is this the right decision?

As a society, we have a long-standing perception that the only purpose in wearing makeup is to improve one’s outward appearance. A way to look “presentable” when leaving the house. A task that takes time and effort out of one’s day. A hassle, some may say.

Yet, taking time to work on your appearance shouldn’t be a hassle nor should it be an effort you make for others. If you take the time to put on lipstick, regardless of whether you’re wearing a mask or not, you are bound to feel more confident. View it as an act of self-care.

Self-care comes in many different forms: some do yoga, some meditate, others simply put on lipstick under their mask. If you take those extra ten minutes in the morning to get ready, you are declaring that you are your main priority, and if you are your main priority, then what’s stopping you from achieving your goals?

With this pandemic, we’ve had to let lots of things go, but making yourself a priority should not be one of them. Take the time to make yourself feel more confident. Put some lipstick on, even if the rest of the world can’t see it underneath your mask.w

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Ode to My Walk Home

by Emma Eisler art by Belle McDonald SCENE ONE The girl exits a café and the night awakens [imagine a long, serpentine creature; anything made of shadows]. The streets are empty, lampposts casting yellow haze. She pulls off her mask and lets it dangle from her hand, then a moment later tugs down her hair. She sighs, and tension seems to leave her shoulders. The camera lens [picture the vantage of a lover’s eye] focuses on her mouth and nose, intimate lines of her nude face. Her jacket is a second skin, loose and patterned like a carpet. Maybe she wears headphones. Maybe we hear the music.

END SCENE She stops walking and looks up at the moon [picture a sickly crescent, waning even as she stands under its glow]. She twirls her mask between her fingers, glances down the street. The night seems to hold unlimited offerings, a diorama of a town through which she can be a paper doll spinning and dancing, floating up with the wind amongst the telephone wires. The screen goes dark for a moment [tired eyes that must blink]. When the image returns, the girl is gone from the frame. Leaves tremble and fall. A song becomes audible as if through her headphones, one about a girl who makes herself sad–she takes herself so seriously.w SCENE TWO She walks. The edge of her skirt brushes her tights, then lifts in the wind. She dances slightly, shoulders that sway, hair that floats around her, dyed red gone rust. The street opens its arms, pulls her to its breast.

All the houses with the almond glow of lit windows.

Deer that look up to watch her pass. She walks, and autumn follows in her wake, leaves trembling and wafting down to cement. Car lights rush beside her on the road, jewels in the dark. She walks, and the night slithers indefinitely ahead. bite size • 13

by Lindsey Potoff

Dear Dr. Beaky

by Megan Rochlin art by Havi Rojer

On this day, in the 1348th year of the Lord, the Doctor Beaky of Paris answers all ye questions about the great pestilence that hath descended upon the land.

Dearest Dr. Beaky, My wife is recently beset with large boils upon her face, be this the plague or is her visage simply hideous?

—Concerned Husband

Dear Concerned Husband, Having not had the displeasure to view your wife’s visage, it is impossible for me to say with certainty if this be the plague. It is known by all that boils on a woman who is otherwise fair may signify God’s wrath at infidelity, or a recent foray into the dark arts.

Observe your wife closely; has she been known to flirt with neighbors or commune with cats and other evil beasts? Comfort thyself for if your wife be not fair then this may indeed be the plague, and if so your ugly wife will be in the hands of God shortly.

—Dr. Beaky

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Dear Dr. Beaky, I awoke on the lord’s day with a strange dark patch upon my skin. Fearing it to be the black death, I had my wife perform the following treatments. First, I had her strike me seventy-seven times with a cross so as to rid myself of any evil that might be responsible for the malady. Then, I rubbed myself all over with the dung of sheep so as to counteract any ill humors.

Finally, I drank the piss of a stallion in order to imbibe myself with that virility so as to fight off death. Be this treatment sufficient?

—Anxious Patient Dear Anxious Patient, Unfortunately, none of the ‘treatments’ you have described are known to me, nor will they have any effect against the black death.

As the learned amongst us know, this black death is caused by ill humors, upon which sheep’s dung and mare’s piss will have no effect. To balance the humors, have your wife gather leaches and apply them to all places on your body that are marked with the plague. Then have her rub you all over with lavender, so as to fend off the plague. As to the beatings with the cross, I cannot speak to the effectiveness of this treatment, though if your wife enjoys it I see no harm.

—Dr. Beaky Dear Dr. Beaky, Not two weeks ago I did spy an ugly old woman from my village communing with a black cat. How do I know for sure if she be in league with Satan?

—Nosey Neighbor Dear Nosey Neighbor, I recommend the following course of action. First, question the witch’s familiar. If it confesses to being in league with Satan, then burn the witch alongside the cat on a bough of pine. If the cat refuses to give up its master, burn first the woman. If the woman doesn’t burn, you will know she is protected by the dark magicks and is a witch and you should otherwise dispatch her. If she doesn’t burn, you can be assured

that she was not a witch, but you should still burn the cat so that it doesn’t tempt others to follow the ways of evil.

—Dr. Beaky Dear Dr Beaky, A terrible plague hath spread among the serfs on my land killing perhaps one half or more of their numbers.

Now they refuse to worth the land or pay their taxes.

How can I get these peasants to get back to work?

—Frustrated Landlord

Dear Frustrated Landlord, It is unfortunate that this plague of death is so oft accompanied by the plague of SLOTH. Peasants across the land have been heard to be refusing to work, saying such falsehoods as “I cannot till the soil for my hands have rotted away” and “I am already dead please let me pass on to the other side”. Although it is undoubtedly unpleasant, have your knights visit these peasants and beat them with long sticks (so as to avoid infections) until they get back to the fields.

—Dr. Beaky Dear Dr. Beaky, I wish to hold a jubilee feast in commemoration of the 25th year of my reign, and to celebrate the end of this terrible plague that has so hung so heavily over the hearts my subjects. Some of my subjects wish not to come, fearing the pestilence. How can assure them that the jubilee shall be safe so we can celebrate with high spirits?

—Jubilant King Dear Jubilant King, I must urge you not to hold this Jubilee feast! I remind thee the pestilence rages yet, and that a great gathering such as this will only hasten its spread.

—Dr. Beaky These letters hath been printed in the memory of the great Doctor Beaky of Paris (1305—1358) who died of the plague before this column could be published.w

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I did not anticipate a slilent apocalypse

by Gillian Harrill. Model: Adam Shulman

So You Want to be a Plague Doctor

by Bex Pendrak

Hey you! Yes, you. You’re new here, right? Great.

I’m assuming you saw our recruitment notice on the cathedral doors. So you want to be a plague doctor, kid?

Well, let’s get one thing straight. This isn’t something you can just do for fun, earn some extra cash, and lead a normal life outside. It’s dangerous and all consuming. You can’t half-ass your job because then you’re dead. A lot of the less experienced or cautious plague doctors now need doctors themselves, if you catch my drift. Are you sure you still want to do this?

It’s perfectly fine if you leave now, I won’t judge.

You’re still here? Good. I’ll walk you through the basics. As you’ve probably heard in the town square, the plague spreads through bad air. If you’ve got the plague, the rancid smell of death you emit is how you infect others. Now, as a plague doctor, you’ll be spending a lot of time in contact with this miasma.

That’s why it’s critical to choose the right protective gear, starting with the right aroma to chase away the plague air. Personally, I prefer dried flowers, because it makes me feel like I’m wandering through an open field throughout my day. Carnations are by far my favorite. You can use pretty much anything that has a strong scent, though. Lavender, peppermint, camphor, or other strong-smelling spices are pretty popular amongst other doctors. If you’re on a budget though, and by the looks of it you are, a vinegar-soaked rag or sponge works just as well.

Now you’re going to need a proper mask. Try to get one with the thickest leather you can find. It both keeps the bad air out and keeps your chosen anti-plague aroma in. Sometimes cheaper masks with thinner leather will fit your face poorly and chafe like a bitch. In that case, get the mask that fits your face best. What’s that? What kind of beak should your mask have? Well, that’s a personal preference.

However, I will say that doctors with longer beaks

always seem to be overcompensating for something, and that doctors with too short of a beak are definitely inexperienced. Ideally, you want your mask beak to be at least half a foot long to get the right ratio of fresh air to your strong-smelling scent. You’ve also got several different styles of beaks to choose from. The most common one is modeled off crows’ beaks, and it’s a good starter choice. However, some maskmakers are starting to produce masks with beaks based off of different birds. I’d suggest choosing whatever bird style you think makes your outfit most flattering. I personally like wren-styled or pheasant-styled beaks because of their more slender appearance, although they do tend to cost a bit more. If you don’t like your first mask you can always get a different one later, as you make more money.

You’ll also need a long overcoat to tuck your mask into. You want to limit your exposure to the miasma as much as possible. There’s a couple good overcoat shops around here. Hmm, anything else I’m missing? Oh, that’s right, you’ll need a standard-issue flat-brimmed hat. That’s what tells your patients that you’ve been officially certified as a plague doctor. You don’t actually know how to treat patients? Don’t worry about that, we’ll give you a handbook on what we’ve found works the best. And if the patients are too sick, don’t be afraid to use a wooden cane to interact with their body. No, there’s no number of patients you have to cure to remain certified. As long as you don’t catch the plague, we’ll maintain your status as an official plague doctor. How do you get certified? Well, you’re still standing here listening to me, aren’t you? That’s good enough for us. You can go get registered and get your official plague doctor certification papers at that table over there.

Well, that’s all the guidance I can give you. Good luck, little one. You’ll need it.w bite size • 19

Fairytales and Transformations

by Alex Drake There was a gorgeous princess who—by some means, or feats, or whatever, don’t ask me—was long, long sought after by all the men around. So some guy—a prince, probably, but you could say a shepherd, that’s how it usually goes in these things—spent a lot of cash or magic or something, or maybe he got buff in a gym or from fighting trolls, or maybe a magic fish leapt into his ear and gave him the answers to a pixie riddle—again, don’t ask me why. Stop laughing, bitch, I’m doing my best. it’s been a while. So somehow, he got this girl or her father or both to agree he was marriage material.

And—and this is the part I remember best—there was a moment after the wedding, when they were finally alone—stop laughing, you whore—when they were alone, and the guy started getting ready for bed. Maybe he turned around to whip his dick out, or maybe he went to the bathroom to freshen up, but either way, he turned around, and instead of seeing a nice-looking girl spread out on the bed, he finds she’s been replaced by some old hag. Don’t be dirty, shut up. And he’s furious. He asks her where the hell she put his wife and, like, almost beats her to death. Then she tells him she’s his wife but some dumb old witch cursed her to look ugly for 12 hours a day or said she could only look pretty for 12 or some such bullshit. Of course it’s got to be daylight or nighttime—no sliding date range, no. And she says it’s up to him whether she’s pretty all day when everyone can see her, or at night when they’re… you know—stop saying she can do it with the lights out, I see you smirking.

But you’re right, it’s what he decides at least.

He believes her, sees through this, I think he called it a mask of ugliness, I guess, cause he sees the engagement ring or a special tat the girl had, and he buys that she is what she says she is. And he thinks, thinks a long time, because he’d rather keep a pretty wife just for him—I didn’t know this was code back then—then he says, sure, be pretty in the daytime.

And the version I remember had them live a long time and gave him a whole lot of credit for not picking her pretty side at night. ****** Man, she says, that’s a rough one.

Yeah, I go. Real tough.

Do you think it messed them up? She puts her 20 • watch & listen

legs up on the side of her bed.

Her, probably a little. She got to spend the day looking the way she wanted and her private hours getting done by someone, so it wasn’t like her life was gonna change much. It’s not like she’s not wondering what would have happened if she hadn’t been so pretty, though. And him, he’s definitely super tortured—a real princely douche—you know. Probably thinks he gets extra credit for not making her be hot while he gets down; it’s definitely going to wreck things when they get into financial entanglements and gambling debts and shit.

Be serious. She kicks my foot lightly. I raise an eyebrow, climb down onto the floor next to her. The ceiling is so white it seems to spin.

I don’t know, I say. And it’ll probably mess him up. He’ll spend the rest of his life wondering if he married the woman he thought, when half the time she’s old and ugly, or maybe not. But he’ll feel like he got pulled in by that nice looking part, tricked or something, never mind that it’s the same person.

But everyone gets old and ugly eventually, don’t they? She kind of looks up to face me.

Not if you keep dating younger girls.

Be serious. She squeezes my hand, though. I guess she gets it.

I mean, yeah, that’s the point of marriage. Trick someone into loving a future, old, ugly you with a good-looking side. Hide what’s coming next in a bunch of sex appeal.

She kicks me— —and tight cheeks. Without it, who bothers?

Hmph. She’s serious now, brows together. It’s pretty messed up that the girl only feels comfortable being pretty in public, though.

Yeah. Well, I say, they get to be superficial with her. They’re strangers. Ideally, he would love her for what she is, but people as a whole are kind of shitty.

But he doesn’t, really.

Ehh, I say. Maybe he comes around. Definitely does some interim side dishing, though.

Interim side dishing. She’s not impressed.

Yep. We stare at the ceiling in silence.

If anyone got to pick how pretty I was, she whispers, I’d cut my nose off.

Easy enough.w

art by Gabi Commisso

Artist statement This candle holder consists of individualized eyes swirling up the length of the candle. While everyone has masks on, often the only thing visible are their eyes. As someone who has difficulty recognizing faces in general, a masked world makes every face look the same. Although each eye in the candle is distinct with its own color, pupil shape, and eyelashes, all the eyes blend together into one long twisting shape. It’s a dizzying world out there. The eyes are watching, passively or judgmentally or hungrily or sadly; its anonymity to a fault, and perceiving without being truly perceived.w

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Live Like Legends: The Allure of the Superhero

by Stephanie Tom Like most people who procrastinate, I enjoy taking Buzzfeed quizzes. I enjoy the brief moment of imagining other scenarios that I exist in—besides the one where I have yet to do my problem set for statistics. It’s a thrill of a pseudo-science—despite knowing perfectly well that these quizzes are arbitrary, compiled at the whim of an anonymous Buzzfeed staffer or community member, I enjoy seeing what others can glean about my personality from the mundane choices I make about the color of nail polish I prefer or what my favorite season is.

My favorite quiz genres are the deterministic ones, asking me “Which Iconic Pig from Pop Culture Are You?” (Olivia) or “Which Combination of Disney Princesses Are You Externally and Internally?” (Mulan and Cinderella, respectively). Among them, there are pages upon pages of superhero and comicthemed ones. Variations of “Which DC Superhero Are You?” or “Which Marvel Character Are You?” often accompanied by videos of the actors from the most recent Marvel movie taking the same quiz linked underneath. As a casual fan, I too enjoy taking these quizzes alongside the cast members modeling said superheroes.

Why does the concept of superheroes fascinate us anyways? What about The Avengers captivated the minds of multiple generations in 2012 when it was released? Why has the lore of Superman and Batman lived on for close to a hundred years now? How have supers come to dominate global box offices and work their ways into the upper tiers of film legend?

I believe in a range of reasons for this. There is, of course, the appeal of nostalgia, and how, for older generations, it is a fond memory. For younger comic enthusiasts, it is the excitement of seeing your childhood come back to life in a new way, growing and changing with the times side by side with you.

Sitting beneath the simple nostalgia perhaps lies a deeper belief that there can still be good in the world and in yourself.

Heroes emphasize doing the right thing and being a noble character, a good person, whether or not someone can attribute a good deed to you.

Of course, to be considered a hero, you must have a good nature on the norm, but you also must be humble enough, self-sacrificing, and giving enough to separate the good deeds you do from the person 22 • watch & listen

you are. In a world that has grown increasingly fraught with danger and rife with selfishness, we long to cling to some semblance of hope that there is still an inherent goodness in people, and that there are enough people who choose to consciously live up to that goodwill.

As much as we love the drama of a villain, and how they often tend to represent the most extreme emotions that we can relate to as humans—love, hate, obsession, rage, envy—villains are far too volatile.

They are a mirror of who we would be at our worst.

Many villains cannot separate their actions from themselves, turning into the physical embodiments of the darkest versions of who they are. Look no further than the Joker, from Batman, who wears his “Clown Prince of Crime” moniker in his physical appearance, and to Lex Luthor, from Superman lore, who uses his platform as an ordinary billionaire industrialist to fight a never ending personal, public, and political war against Superman. Villains, when written in the best way, can exemplify the danger of embodying the most selfish and destructive versions of the people we could be.

Unlike villains, heroes are able to detach themselves from those dark moments. Superheroes often undergo difficult trials and transformations, often as part of their backstory, before donning the cape or cowl or as part of their character arc. Yet one of the most powerful optimisms they embody is the ability to be stronger than our base instincts, and to reason with the moral self. They serve as ideological role models, and give us hope that despite negative emotions or moments of weakness, we are strong because we choose to be.

I suppose that’s why we’re curious enough to take Buzzfeed quizzes after all. Not that I actually need to know “Which Batman Character Matches Your Personality?” (Batgirl) or that I expect to learn something deep and insightful when I click “Which Combination of a Marvel Superhero and Secret Identity Are You?” (Wanda Maximoff and The Hulk, apparently), but I delight in knowing that, even if on a shallow level, I have the potential to grow and learn as my favorite superheroes do.w

Lessons from Nausicaä art and article by Havi Rojer A masked figure stands at the edge of a forest unlike any on Earth. Instead of trees, giant fungi stretch towards the sky, folding and unfurling in strange, mesmerizing patterns. Glowing spores float gently around a young woman named Nausicaä who carefully catches one in a glass vial. She walks deeper into the strange forest, stopping to marvel at the shed exoskeleton of a gargantuan, insectile creature. Only one thing about this scene feels familiar: Nausicaä never removes her mask. However, this is not due to a respiratory virus. Instead, in this fantastical world, the air itself is poisonous to all of humanity.

This is the opening scene of Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind, a 1000+ page manga epic by Hayao Miyazaki. Miyazaki is best known as the director and creator of Studio Ghibli films. While many Ghibli movies incorporate political messages into their plots, none are as blatantly obvious as Nausicaä, which was Miyazaki’s first full manga and, later, the film that allowed him to create Studio Ghibli. The basic plot of Nausicaä centers around a scattered humanity’s attempt to survive in a far-off future world that has been poisoned by their ancestors. The poison, called “miasma,” is especially concentrated around fungal forests, like the one in the opening scene. Human settlements are built far from these deadly growths, yet everyone must still wear gas masks whenever they leave their villages, or else they will die a slow, painful death. The bleakness of Nausicaä’s world seems inescapable.

This year, we have seen rapid change in our own

society. Less than a year ago, wearing masks in public (at least in the US) was a little strange at best. Now, masks are ubiquitous. Our whole world has turned upside down in the past few months, but we have changed to meet it. However, despite the progress we have made in dealing with the pandemic, our world is still on track to become like Nausicaä’s for different reasons. Miyazaki may not have seen COVID coming when he wrote Nausicaä thirty years ago, but he tackled the increasing threat of climate change with undeniable prescience. We are still killing our planet, even as we actively work to prevent a virus from killing us in the meantime. Our masks are a necessary precaution, but even when we eventually make it through this coronavirus pandemic, we may still have to wear them for the same reasons as Nausicaä when our polluted earth becomes inhospitable.

The fact is, we need to treat the threat of climate change with the same gravity we give to COVID. The crude oil and lumber companies that are causing the worst harm must be put on lockdown until we can establish a viable way to live off the earth without destroying it. Our home is quickly sickening from a plague that we are amplifying, and we are running out of time before the fantasy world of Nausicaä becomes our reality.

The characters in Nausicaä have not given up hope. The world around them may be poisonous, but they continue to fight for the survival of themselves and their loved ones. They build meaningful relationships and invent new technology to better persevere in their challenging environment. The world itself has turned against them, and although their bodies have not adapted, their way of thinking, living, and interacting has. We have to do the same.

Miyazaki ends the story on a note of uncertainty.

Will the characters be able to survive the challenges ahead of them? Will they destroy themselves before the world does? Either way, as the story ends, Nausicaä turns to the people around her with the only true words she can offer them: “No matter how difficult it is, we must live.”

No matter how difficult the journey ahead is, COVID in the short-term, and climate change in the long-term, we can only continue to live and work to make the world around us better. For now, at least, that must be enough.w watch & listen • 23

Pandemic Etiquette

by Mariana Meriles I think many of us spent our childhoods being taught social etiquette—you know, things like chewing with your mouth closed, giving a proper handshake, avoiding (and on my end, failing to avoid) crying in public, etc—but I feel like this pandemic has made most of that stuff obsolete and has introduced a new set of rules we need to follow. And sure, etiquette might seem pointless during the end of the world, but then, etiquette always did seem pointless. So here’s a comprehensive guide to etiquette during the pandemic, because as the world seems to collapse in on itself, we might as well stay classy.

1. Greeting people A few things have changed with the way we’re supposed to greet each other. For one, there has been a lot of debate about the “death of the handshake” after the pandemic, but then, there have always been contactless ways to greet people in the first place. My main concern is that with masks on, waving at another person from six feet away tends to look more contentious than friendly. To counteract that, squinting with your eyes is necessary so that they know you’re smiling. Don’t get me wrong, you don’t have to smile if you don’t want to—that’s the beauty of mask wearing—but squinting will usually suffice. You’re also going to want to make sure that you’re talking at least two decibels louder than you normally would so people can hear you through your mask. Don’t worry about overshooting it—if you end up yelling, they’ll just assume you’re frustrated with the pandemic, and aren’t we all? Screaming, then, has now become socially acceptable.

2. Table manners On the off chance that you’re eating out with other people, there’s a few things you’re going to want to keep in mind during meals. Though most table etiquette has remained the same, there are a few new additions to the list. For one, make sure to always keep your mask on when you aren’t eating. You’re also going to want to make sure the space you’re eating in isn’t too crowded, ideally being outside (who doesn’t love a good picnic?). Lastly, forget about the 24 • zooming in

nice silverware—cleaning them from the virus can be such a hassle! Paper plates have become the new chic. And that obsession with eating with your mouth closed you learned as a kid? Yeah, there are some benefits to wearing masks.

3. Zoom Now that most of our human interaction has moved online, it’s important to go over the way we should act on Zoom calls. Firstly, you’re going to want to unmute yourself in smaller discussion groups, so that the conversation is a bit more organic—it really makes the whole online interaction a bit less awkward. Don’t get me wrong, it’ll still be awkward, just less so. But more importantly, turn your camera on—I know it can be such a hassle, especially if you’re still in bed (hey, I am too!), but it shows respect for the other person’s time and helps with the awkwardness. Just please make sure you’re wearing pants before you stand up.

4. Dating For single people, the pandemic has only made it harder to find love—whether you‘ve decided to settle for that one annoying-but-slightly-good-looking kid in your math class, or you’ve finally given in to downloading Tinder, new relationships during the pandemic are difficult to navigate. There are a few important things to keep in mind here: make sure to get tested before dates (yes, both tests); keep dates outdoors (more picnics! Okay, I think I’m starting to get tired of them); and, most importantly, make sure you’re not mask-fishing (trust me, he looks cute in class, but have you seen him without his mask on?)

But honestly, if you’re even able to find someone new, you’ve already succeeded in half the battle.

5. Mask wearing Just wear your damn mask, it’s not that hard.

And that’s all there is to it! The pandemic has definitely thrown the world into a frenzy, but hopefully with these guidelines you can avoid making a fool of yourself in front of those you respect—even if it is online.w

Notes From 3rd Grade

by Tilda Wilson This morning, after 20 minutes on hold, I spoke to a woman in the Cornell financial aid office named Karen. Had she used a different name, our conversation would not have felt so much like a foregone conclusion. A “Susan” or even a “Sharon” might have lulled me into wistful imaginings of the kind of old lady who just wants me to get a good education and has power over Cornell’s grant allocations.

“I just got my financial aid decision, and it’s for less than half of what it was during my last two years of school…” I said, allowing my words to trail off and hoping to be interrupted with a hasty explanation of how it was all a grand mistake/hilarious prank/“well, yeah, obviously, because you won 200 million dollars in the lottery over the summer, did you not know that?”

There was a long silence.

Eventually, Karen looked up my account, and confirmed my previous statement. “I’m in a hotel in Nebraska on the drive to Ithaca right now,” I told her, as if this fact would somehow shift the algorithms that got us here. “I don’t know, should I just turn around and go home?”

“Well…”

“I want to speak to your manager!” I thought about yelling into the phone. I decided against it. It’s been a tough year for Karens. ~~~ I’m moving to Portland now. I need to figure out this financial aid stuff, and Mom’s friend knows a family looking to hire someone to help their kid with online school. I’m not sure how much I can help, given my lackluster arithmetic skills and inability to get myself to pay attention in online school, but it seems like the obvious job to be doing at the moment. ~~~ This morning I went to meet Finn, the 3rd grader I’ll be helping with school for the next couple months. He seemed completely disinterested in me. He sat on the couch holding a giant wriggling hornworm caterpillar and singing “caterpillar caterpillar caterpillar.”

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When we talked on the phone last week, Finn’s mom informed me that her son is very smart, but has some behavioral problems related to schoolwork and socialization. He’s at a new school this year for the kids who scored highest on a placement test, so his mom is worried about him catching up to and interacting with the kids who have been there for longer. Mostly, Finn seems to exist in his own world, which, from what I could tell from the hour I’ve been around him so far, seems populated with caterpillars, facts about natural disasters, and no other people. ~~~ School for Finn consists of two half hour long classes in Google Meet in the morning, then another half hour class later in the day with a smaller group of kids. In between those, he’s supposed to work on assignments that the teacher gives him in a program called Seesaw.

Half of the kids are clearly playing games on other websites during their meetings, and some of them just leave their computers behind completely so that we just get a live feed of a random room in their house. The teacher, Mr. Reed, ends up spending most of class time trying to show the kids how to get to, and do, the assignments he put in Seesaw. Yesterday, he asked “does anyone know how to open a blank document?” and the class turned into a pandemonium of kids unmuting themselves to say things like “what’s a document?” or “I already know how to use excel” or “my mom uses google documents her name is Carrie her birthday is on Tuesday.” At one point he said, perhaps to nobody in particular, “I actually majored in journalism in college. I wanted to be a reporter.” ~~~ Finn abruptly left the room ten minutes into class this morning. I thought about trying to stop him and get him to sit back down, but he left with such purpose that I could tell he had something to do. A minute later, he returned with a fitted sheet.

Carefully, he placed his computer on the floor, zooming out • 25

and then wrapped the sheet around himself and the computer and lay down on the floor. I honestly couldn’t tell whether this was more comfortable for him or if he just wanted to go back to sleep, but it was certainly resourceful, so I let him be.

computer for the first ten minutes of class. Then, just when I was starting to think of myself as a miracle tutor, he turned to me and said: “Do you want to know which bug is most likely to survive a nuclear bomb?”

The cockroach, apparently.

~~~ After class today, Finn wanted to go outside to catch moths in his bug net. I had to tell him we couldn’t because the wildfires are making the air quality so bad. I just checked again and it’s up to 546–which is particularly concerning because according to Google, the AQI is on a scale from 0-500. I guess I made the right call.

~~~

~~~ Everyone in Finn’s class was told to watch the presidential debate yesterday, as part of a project about the election where they’re creating an imaginary political party. I couldn’t stomach the debate myself, but Mr. Reed must have attempted the viewing in solidarity with his army of 8-year-olds. He seemed reluctant to bring it up.

“What did everyone think of the debate last night?” he finally asked this morning.

Raven was the first to respond, not even waiting for the teacher to call on her. “It was just two people screaming at each other!”

“You’re right,” Mr. Reed nodded. I could tell he was choosing his words carefully, not wanting to appear partisan. “I don’t think it was a good example of how debates usually go.”

In an attempt to get Finn to engage with the class discussion, I asked him if he’d watched the debate with his family. He was underneath his desk, fixated on a tiny calculator and pressing seemingly random buttons. “Um... no,” he responded, a full 30 seconds after I’d asked. I let him keep the playing with the calculator–I thought he was better off. ~~~ It’s impossible to tell whether Finn is paying attention during class. Sometimes he’ll be in the far corner of the room absentmindedly singing to his caterpillars, and then abruptly get up and give a succinct answer about how “video game allocation is nice and all, but I think our class political party should be focused on climate change, which poses an extreme threat to our future.”

Today, Finn sat perfectly still in front of his 26 • zooming out

When I arrived this morning, Finn had already carefully chosen and lined up 5 of his caterpillars next to his computer. It felt like a sign that he wasn’t going to be interested in listening or participating today, so I was a little apprehensive when Mr. Reed announced that he was going to go around the room and ask everyone what their favorite food is. My worry was mistaken-Finn was very prepared to answer.

When it was his turn, Finn pressed his face right up to his computer camera and said “It’s-a-me-a-

mario and also I don’t have a favorite food and I don’t even play Mario”. Then he leaned back, muted himself again, and turned to where I was sitting. “Did I do that right?” he asked. Two thumbs up. ~~~ Today the librarian took over one of Finn’s classes to teach the kids how to check out books online. She asked all the kids to introduce themselves with their names and pronouns-a very good thing to do, but a chaotic move when asking of a group of kids who

don’t know what the word “pronoun” means. Most of them said that they didn’t have pronouns, perhaps assuming this was yet another thing their parents had forgotten to buy them for school. Dave informed us that his pronouns are “The best chess player ever!!!!!”.

The librarian smiled, said “nice to meet you Dave,” and then moved on to the next kid. It also hadn’t acquired pronouns. ~~~ Today was Finn’s last day of class before Halloween. It has been a disappointment for him, not only because he doesn’t get to dress up for school, but because all the adults around him only seem to want to think and talk about the election. None of his classmates are wearing Halloween costumes.

Mr. Reed started class with a lengthy explanation of how important it is for young people to vote. An admirable cause, to be sure, but of questionable effectiveness when directed at a group of nine-yearolds.

Ten minutes in Finn left the room in a rush. I assumed he was going to the bathroom, so I let him leave. When he returned, he walked directly to his chair and sat back down at the computer as if nothing had changed-except for the fact that he was now in a full werewolf costume, including a mask. Nobody in the class even made a comment, despite the fact that Finn’s wolf form participated significantly more than his human counterpart.

At the end of class, it was time for everyone to cast their ballots in the student election they were having for the candidates that each of the classes in the 3rd grade made up. Finn was terrified of voting.

“I just don’t feel comfortable voting,” the werewolf informed his classmates. “I don’t even know who the candidates are.”

“Well,” said Mr. Reed, “You created one of them, remember? You helped us make her a platform about climate change.”

Finn shook his head and said, “I just don’t feel comfortable.” Werewolves are such a difficult demographic to reach.

associated press, a biased news website, or social media” would be the best place to find the results of the election. A bunch of kids raised their hand and said social media because they didn’t know what the associated press was. Finn got very frustrated because the teacher wouldn’t call on him and he knew it was the wrong answer. He turned to me and said, “How could they even think that? They’re so obviously wrong!”

Finn remained frustrated for the rest of the day.

At one point, his mom walked by and he ran up to her and told her about the question. “So many of them said social media! How did they even get that idea? I can’t believe it!” he kept saying. His mom and I locked eyes, and I could tell we were both thinking “get used to it kid.” ~~~ I have things figured out so I can go back to Cornell in the Spring. It’s melancholy, knowing that I’ll be leaving Finn and his caterpillars and online classmates behind so soon.

About 40 minutes into class today, Jack raised his hand and asked, “Do we have school today?” Perhaps he was hoping Mr. Reed would pause, think about it, and say “you know what? No. Everybody leave.”

That isn’t what happened, but there was a noticeable pause. I imagine if I could’ve replayed the scene, the “What am I doing right now? Does this actually count as school?” crisis would have been visible in his eyes.

“Yes!” he said, finally. “That’s what this is, right now.”w

~~~ It’s election day. In celebration/general apprehension, Mr. Reed had the kids do an online activity together about the election and where to look for well sourced information. There was a quiz at the end, and one of the questions asked whether “the zooming out • 27

Morning After

by Christina Ochoa

It’s the morning after a long but good night.

We attended a wedding together. His cousin from Miami was getting married, and his entire family was in attendance. They were a conservative religious family, and he had warned me that they could be judgemental of newcomers. I wore a shawl to cover the tattoos on my arm and tried to dress in a way that would be easy on the eyes of his family. I didn’t want to become a source of scandal or drama. I wanted to package my personality and self into an easily digestible morsel that no one could say anything about.

It felt disingenuous, as if I was preparing to present myself at an archaic debutante ball, where I would dance like the ghosts of tradition and become as unnoticeable and faultless as possible.

We glided through introductions and pleasantries, creating a slideshow of faces and names I couldn’t possibly remember; a coworker, a sister, and an old friend from high school. An evening full of sweaty handshakes and awkward embraces.

It felt surreal, almost as if I were floating outside my body looking down on myself, tethered to the physical world only by holding onto his arm. From above I could see myself, happy and smiling, and dressed to the nines. I had spent the entire morning unable to get out of bed, staring at the wall, deep in a depressive state, but you wouldn’t know from the looks of it. I had successfully concealed the heaviness and replaced it with a soft smile.

I look through the pictures we took and struggle to recognize myself. The dress is beautiful, but it doesn’t feel like me. Looking at the pictures makes my feet throb in memory of the heels I wore. My nails are still perfectly done and hide the fact that I chew them down to stubs, a bad habit that only gets worse when I am off my medications.

I wasn’t unhappy with the pictures, despite how unrecognizable I felt. It represented who I wanted to be. Other pictures on my camera roll show my faults and shortcomings; I look sad or just not quite a full 28 • zooming out

person. It is easier to put on an acceptable persona than to be genuine to myself. I try to be true to myself in the name of self-confidence, but I feel the sting of a stare or the looks of pity when my makeup is smeared from the tears.

I do not usually try to hide who I am. A quick search on Instagram will show my tattoos and piercings, my artistic endeavors, and colorful outfits that intentionally make me stand out from the crowd. But I choose to protect him and protect myself at this wedding. In deference to his family’s views, and in deference to the fact that I am not in a state to be receiving criticism.

Strong and unapologetic statements are fun in safe spaces, but to make them in unfamiliar places takes bravery I do not yet possess.

Even within my group of friends, there are questions that reek of teenage sleepovers drenched in truth or dares, of drunken nights staunch with oversharing.

They are well-meaning, but invasive nonetheless.

When people say coming out is a process, they really mean it. With every new relationship or experience, my friends are the first to try to understand what it means in a grander context or scale. They ask me how things change and try to understand my fluid nature, even though I barely understand it myself.

What I can confirm for them is that every experience is different, and this one is no exception. Mainly in the very “vanilla” nature of it. Dating a straight person comes with a lot less exploration, everything is already pre-defined. I don’t need to think about things such as who is going to pay for dinner because I can safely assume he will offer, and then as a modern woman I can decide if I want to foot the bill or split it 50/50. It can almost be boring or predictable, but I appreciate being able to take for granted our societal norms.

However, these assumptions go out the window with people who are more familiar with my past. It becomes my responsibility to dictate and define my identity to them, and help them make sense of my situation. Before I was out, I was more content with being unlabeled. But now I feel that without definitions,

I can’t set parameters, I can’t explain to the people around me what they’re getting into when they sign up to be my friend or date me. It wasn’t until I started dating that I felt ashamed for not having answers to everyone’s questions. Their discomfort with my vague explanations made me question my adequacy and introduced insecurities I didn’t realize I needed to have.

At the wedding, these thoughts didn’t even cross my mind. I was surrounded by people who appeared to fit the rules of heteronormativity, and they just assumed I did too. I got to be around a bunch of strangers who would simply think there was nothing to distinguish me and them. It was eerie to think of how different it would have felt if I had been with a woman, or even if my tattoos were more easily on display. Maybe they would have said nothing, or I only would’ve received a couple of errant stares, but you never know.

I look at the unrecognizable pictures from last

night, where I seem like the shiny happy girlfriend I want to be. I give what I can, but I’m still discovering myself in every sense. One day I want to be an artist and the other I barely feel a speck of life, but that’s okay. The fun is in the journey.

When I look back at our pictures, I feel accomplished. We presented ourselves to society and passed with flying colors.

When I look back at him, I’m reminded of the only thing that really matters right now: I am happy.w

zooming out • 29

Maslow’s Hierarchy of Expression

by Christina Ochoa

First category of expression: Safety I don’t want to be seen.

I don my oversized sweats like armor, to envelop me in the same way my depression has. They swallow every noticeable form, shape, and contour of my body. I become a clump of cloth, finding safety in the certainty of my anonymity.

The gray halls of Olin are never-ending, always too full for my comfort. I float through them, a ghost.

My earbuds block out the chatter, and my eyes look down to avoid seeing their faces. My world is the yellow tiles and my hoodie. My feet drag across the linoleum floors, only getting heavier as I approach the classroom.

I signed up for this course. This is a core course for my major. If I don’t enjoy even this I must be a horrible student. A horrible student and a horrible person. A person with no direction or passions. What a sorry excuse for a human being. I’m just a strawman in a hoodie.

Second category of expression: Presentation The subway is always an uncomfortable space.

There is a silence that wraps itself around me like a protective blanket, accompanied with the gentle rumble of the train on its tracks that feels like a gentle lullaby. I cross my arms and rock with the movements of the subway.

Everyone is focused on themselves. I know this, but I still feel whenever someone’s eyes pass over me. Especially when it’s a man’s eyes. I am waiting for someone to question my existence. I know they won’t, but I have my earbuds in just in case.

There’s no reason to feel so afraid. You’re being stupid. Nobody would notice a stupid girl wearing a ratty tee who is just barely presentable.

Another stop closer to my destination. People flow in and out of the train. I sit forward in my seat and take a deep inhale as the car starts to decongest with every stop further from the city center. I reach into my pocket and open my phone to avoid eye contact with 30 • zooming out

the other passengers.

I arrive at my stop and walk out into the station. I look at the daze of people around me and hold my phone to my chest. People push past me, knocking me around the platform. I feel as though I am going to drown until I spot my friend in the crowd.

“Hey!” He calls to me, “You look nice today” Third category of expression: Exploration We spent the morning hiking along a steep trail to reach an overlook. I’m out of breath, partly from the view, but mostly from the effort it took to get here. My breath feels jagged and lacking.

“We should take some pictures while we’re here,” he suggests to me. I oblige. A month ago I would have said no; I probably wouldn’t have agreed to come on the hike at all. I’m grateful for his patience but worry that I’m a burden.

Worthless. You’re nothing but a negative influence on his life.

“Whoa, look at the bug on this tree!” He exclaims, causing me to laugh a little. The critter in question is a small beetle, donning a beautiful holographic cobalt shell as his cape. The critter crawls up the trunk of the tree with an admirable determination, carrying a leaf on its back.

I feel comfortable in my outfit. The temperature allows me to cover up with a nice sweater, but I am no longer hiding. I want him to notice me, and tell me I’m beautiful. It took me a while to get ready this morning, but I like the way it feels to care.

We take some pictures, immortalizing this moment forever. I feel better than I normally do. He knows this but chooses not to address it, careful not to break the streak of laughter and smiles. It’s the first good day after a lot of bad days, but I feel like I have reached a turning point in my journey to reclaim myself. Leaves crunch under my feet, and I feel the sensation as a part of me. I know that my past is close behind me, but I want to stay in the present. I want this moment to last forever before it fades away.

I glance over the overlook, taking in the view of the autumnal trees. Colors in every shade of red, orange, and green. The sunlight accentuating their vibrancy. A light breeze blows through and rustles the branches above us. A couple of orange leaves fall down slowly and add to the growing pile on the floor.

I am so lucky to be alive. I want to live and experience a full life. I swear to myself I will take any moment I can to reclaim the human experience as my own.

He pulls me into his arms and kisses me on the top of my head. “You’re the most beautiful person here.” I don’t want him to ever let go.

Fourth category of expression: Actualization I’m wearing a red blazer. A bold choice for a job interview. But I want to stand out. I want to be remembered against every other candidate.

I enter the lobby and see the other applicants sitting and waiting for their turn. I clutch my folder a little tighter and sit among the sea of beige suits and pleated pants.

You look so dumb right now.

No matter how I look, I am here now and I have to see this through. My best bet is to keep my head held high and smile. I check my makeup again. Nothing’s changed since the last time I touched it up, but that’s

not going to stop me from checking five more times before I get called.

I review my materials and pick lint off my skirt. I breathe in and take another glance around the room.

It wouldn’t shock me if everyone in here has already pegged me as the stupid girl who only cares about her looks, but I know I deserve to be here. I gather my belongings and walk across the lobby to go to the restroom. Once the door shuts behind me I breathe a sigh of relief.

The pressure is lifted off my chest, even if just for a moment. I am no longer being watched. I look at myself in the mirror. My blazer clashes against the white walls of the restroom. I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth.

Don’t cry. You made it this far. Don’t cry now you’ll look even more pathetic.

A toilet flushes and out pops another woman dressed in navy blue. She sees me and asks if I am interviewing as she washes her hands. “You’re going to do great hun! Don’t worry about it!” She chirps as she exits.

You will never get this job.

Then that means no one will remember me. Good.

I give myself a couple of light slaps on the face and go back into the lobby.

The air conditioning makes me shiver. I sit and wait for what feels like an eternity.

I count the tiles on the floor. I count the chairs in the room. I count my breaths into the air. I rub my palms on my skirt, but I can’t get rid of the clamminess.

They call my name. I stand up, smile, and begin the walk towards the conference room. The sound from my heels echoes through the room as loud as bullets. I know this is the moment to suck it up and deliver.

The woman opens the door and I step into the room. Four men are looking back at me, eyes unflinching. I’m given the option to go into fight or flight mode, and I choose to fight.

I flash them a smile. “Hi, nice to meet you all.”

I shake their hands one by one, and then I proceed to answer their questions. The more I talk, the more I realize I have nothing to fear. I talk about my resume, make jokes, and laugh. I deserve to be here and I know it. I am armed with my red blazer and a confidence I didn’t know I possessed.

The interview ends, and I am ushered out of the room. I feel good about the interview, but no matter what the results, I have proven to myself that I am worthy.w

zooming out • 31

An Ode to The Six Most Absurd—and Unique—Team Mascots

by Emma Bernstein

From the ghosts that supposedly haunt Ithaca’s centuries-old buildings, to the various pumpkins that have been tossed, flaming, into gorges or been found perched atop the clocktower, to the legend of certain campus statues’ vested interest in the social construct of virginity, our school is no stranger to the unique or the absurd.

However, when it comes to our mascot, we are seriously lacking in individuality; a point underscored by the fact that Touchdown is not even the only bear in the Ivy League (he is accompanied by Bruno, of Brown University). UC Berkeley, UCLA, Baylor, and six more Division I schools are all represented by bears as well, along with the Bruins of professional hockey, the Cubs of professional baseball, and the Bears of professional football.

Touchdown, while always a delight to see riling up a crowd on Schoellkopf Field or getting a pie to the snout on Ho Plaza, is certainly not winning any points for uniqueness—but many other college and professional mascots are. Here, for your consideration, are the top six strangest mascots in all of sports. Perhaps one of them will inspire our own dear Touchdown to, at the very least, spruce up his look by the next in-person homecoming.

6. Mr. Met (New York Mets) The oddity of Mr. Met is somewhat obfuscated by his secure place in the upper echelon of the mascot establishment. Since making his first appearance, and the first of any live mascot in all of Major League Baseball, back in 1964, Mr. Met has been listed by Forbes Magazine as the greatest mascot in sports history and has been elected to the Mascot Hall of Fame. Mr. Met may have enjoyed mainstream 32 • zooming out

success, but his concept was always fundamentally avant-garde; instead of choosing an animal or even a person to represent them, the Mets went with an anthropomorphic representation of the sport of baseball itself. This choice may be fitting for a New York team named, descriptively, the Metropolitans, but the resulting creature is unlike anything else in this world, leaning so far into a nondescript abstraction that he comes all the way back around to the bizarre.

Here’s to almost fifty years of Mr. Met terrifying New York’s children—may we be blessed with fifty more!

5. Stanford Tree (Stanford University) Fear may be one ingredient of the full meal that is Mr. Met, but when it comes to the Stanford Tree, terror is the main course. After Stanford finally abolished its offensive Native American mascot in 1972, the university did not pick a replacement; like Cornell’s “Big Red,” Stanford’s official team name is now simply “Cardinal,” after the color of their uniforms. Unofficially, however, the school has been represented by the Tree, in honor of the city of Palo Alto, ever since it was first introduced by the marching band in 1975. It is tradition for the band to redesign the costume each fall, but each incarnation shares a few notable features: a misshapen green tent to fully disguise the mascotwearer from the knees up; a pair of bulging, semiattached eyeballs that point in both directions; and a toothy, oversized grin. The real nightmare, however, is knowing that the Tree’s frightening appearance is not just for show—on multiple occasions, the Tree has been known to throw punches at other mascots or referees, including one occasion on which it ripped the head off of a fellow bear, UC Berkeley’s Oski.

Reader beware: the Stanford Tree may be one of the most unsettling mascots to look at, but years of scorn and mockery have also primed it for a fight, earning it

fifth place on this list and the hallowed distinction of being the mascot most likely to start dropping bodies.

4. Fighting Pickle (University of North Carolina School of the Arts) UNCSA might not have an official sports team, but they do have one of the greatest mascots of all time: the Fighting Pickle. This beret-and-tutu-clad, paintbrushwielding, mustachioed aesthete was created by a student to represent the school for an annual touch football contest in 1972. Remarkably, this makes the teamless mascot the second oldest featured on this list, younger only than Mr. Met. Also notable is the fact that, while a mascot costume is, in its way, already a kind of mask, the Fighting Pickle also seems to be wearing a second, masquerade-like mask in honor of the school’s theater department. This hat-on-ahat absurdity, on top of the inherent silliness of the dancing pickle and the senselessness of its very existence in the absence of sports, earns the Fighting Pickle the number four spot. Keep fighting, pickle!

3. Big Red (Western Kentucky University) Another Big Red mascot sheds light on what could have been if early Cornellians had only had the pure gall of Western Kentucky University. These true heroes did not pick an animal at random from the pantheon of lions, tigers, and bears. They did not stoop to an offensive caricature. They did not give a nod to some obscure Kentuckian or little-known scrap of University history. No, WKU made the bravest choice available to them: they chose, as the mascot for Big Red, the very concept of “red” itself. Potbellied, long-legged, with brows so luscious they would make Cara Delevingne blush, Big Red is everything Touchdown wishes he could be, breaking down the boundaries of what constitutes a mascot without ever uttering a word.

Good on you, WKU. And Big Red, you magnificent beast: you earned this third place finish. Enjoy it.

2. Keggy the Keg (Dartmouth College) Ah, Dartmouth, Cornell’s older brother to the East— united in geographic isolation, frigid winters, and inferiority complexes that lack even a whiff of selfawareness. Dartmouth, like Stanford, was, in 2003, looking to replace an offensive former mascot with something other than the uninspiring, and uninspired, “Big Green.” After students were unable to agree on a replacement, their comedy magazine, the Jack-OLantern, pitched an idea that would live on in infamy: Keggy the Keg. Originally a joke, the costume has since become the accepted, if unofficial, mascot of

Dartmouth College, which raises the all-important question: if a student were to start showing up at Cornell events dressed like a half-empty can of Keystone Light, the unofficial sponsored drink of freshmen from Risley to High Rise 5, how long would it take for cartoons of “Kylie the Keystone” to start appearing on $40 University merchandise? Chilling, I know, but I do have to hand it to Dartmouth—Keggy may be a disturbing distillation of college students’ unhealthy fixation on binge drinking, but he is nothing if not unique; more so, in my estimation, than any other mascot... except, of course, for one.

1. Gritty (Philadelphia Flyers) What do you get when you combine Keggy the Keg’s terrifyingly empty eyes, Mr. Met’s ability to win over hearts and minds, the Stanford Tree’s propensity for violence, Big Red’s uncertain genetic code, and the pure gumption of the Fighting Pickle?

A menace. An iconoclast. A hometown hero. Gritty.

Gritty was first introduced by Philadelphia’s hockey team, the Flyers, in 2018. Like the Stanford Tree, he was initially criticized for his, quite frankly, disturbing appearance—but he was not about to go down without a fight. Within days of his debut, he threatened violence against the mascot of the Pittsburgh Penguins over twitter, bodychecked fans on the ice, and shot a stadium staffer in the back with a t-shirt gun—in short, he did not run from accusations that he was “scary” or “ugly” or “looked like if the hair that gathers in the shower drain started killing people for sport.” No, Gritty did not pretend to be anyone other than who he is. He stood proudly, t-shirt gun cocked and ready, and publicly threatened to injure an anthropomorphized bird. In that moment, he shrugged off the meager label of “mascot” and became something else entirely, moving from cuddly sports sideshow to bonafide Philadelphia icon.

Gritty, you nightmare, you bully, you furry bastard— this one’s for you.w

zooming out • 33

On Latency

by Emma Bernstein

Latent. /’lātnt/. Adjective. In biology: “(of a bud, resting stage, etc.)-lying dormant or hidden until circumstances are suitable for development or manifestation.” In medicine: “(of a disease) in which the usual symptoms are not yet manifest.” In speech: “(of a quality or state) existing but not yet developed or manifest; hidden or concealed.” In memory: It had been three days, and I still hadn’t told anyone that I got my period.

Or else: years earlier, Nov. 4, 2008, listening to election results crackle over the radio from the back of my mom’s Ford Explorer. Barack Obama would 34 • zooming out

declare victory before I fell asleep that night, a blur of confetti and popped champagne on the television, but what I remember most is pulling into the driveway as we heard the news: Prop 8 had passed in California, banning same-sex marriage state-wide. My mom cried that night in the front seat, knuckles gripping the steering wheel. I don’t know that she ever really wanted to get remarried, but she heard, then, what the people of California, what her people, had to say about her.

Throughout my childhood, I saw, up close, so much of what my mom felt-contagious joy, contagious sorrow,

affection, bitterness, relentless hope, and bouts of rage so powerful they could shake a house from its foundations-but in all of those emotions, the good and the bad, she never seemed as hurt as she did that night, face slick with tears in the moon-white glow of our porch light.

But about my period: I was thirteen, drowning in the oversized t-shirt my friend lent me for the night. We lay side by side on the nylon carpet of her bedroom, snug in the sleeping bags her mom brought up from the garage. My cotton underwear was stuffed with half a roll of toilet paper, and as she and I traded theories about the next season of Doctor Who, I was preoccupied with a growing stickiness between my legs and the distinct possibility that I would bleed through to her loaned pajama shorts by morning.

Only a week earlier, I’d been terrified that my period would never come. I worried that all my girlhood friends would leave me behind, one by one, to plunge into a world of tampons, padded bras, and boyfriendsone I would never be able to gain access to. But when I pulled my underwear down in the bathroom to discover-as promised by the “changing bodies” movie we were all forced to watch the previous fall-a streak of red-brown blood, I was not relieved. I felt, instead, thrust against my will from childhood into an unsteady future, one whose rules I could not and did not want to fathom.

Since my mom lived that year mostly out of state, she was not there to hear the news, or to show me the place under the sink where she kept the pads or how to seal the sticky edges to the bottom of my underwear. Instead, I dug desperately through my dad’s medicine cabinet, searching, to no avail, for the stash of tampons I was sure my stepmom kept somewhere in that bathroom. Too embarrassed to say anything about the whole ordeal to her or my dad, I packed as much toilet paper as I could fit into the bottom of my underwear, buttoned my pants, and determined to go about my life as if nothing had changed.

And nothing had, really, except that a few days later I found myself unable to focus on a conversation in my oldest friend’s bedroom because I was too busy trying to feel, with my fingers, how precarious the situation was downstairs. My friend had gotten her period a few months before. I could have asked her for a pad, but I felt in too deep with my toilet paper strategy, like just admitting that I’d had my period since Friday would unravel not only the last three days’ worth of white lies and lies of omission, but a more fundamental lie that, although I could not put my

finger on exactly what it was, would surely devastate me.

I was scared, too, that if I told anyone about my period, my new adulthood would render the affection that I had felt for my best friends since childhood suddenly inappropriate. I often lay awake in my friends’ beds late into the night, body mummy-stiff to ensure that I did not brush against them or, god forbid, try to spoon them in my sleep. At Bar Mitzvahs, I was careful not to dance too close to other girls, and when we all changed for soccer practice or for bed, I avoided even a passing glance at their training bras.

I was now, according to every educational pamphlet I’d been given, a grown woman, and I worried that this meant that if I tried to express the love I felt for my friends or if I let myself relax around them, they would see some secret predatory or twisted thing in me, and I would lose them entirely.

I felt, in those years, like the changes to my body and to the bodies of my friends were signposts, pointing to the undeniable fact that everything we’d shared, the popcorn movie nights, the whispers of family strife passed under pillow forts, the practice kisses and games of truth or dare and long afternoons spent reenacting scenes from our favorite television shows, would all soon be left behind. A few of my friends were already dating boys, a development that had me seasick with a resentment I could not name. I decided that the tugging I felt in my gut must be what it felt like to also want a boyfriend, and so I set my mind to deciding on a boy to have a crush on. I was scientific in my process; I made pro/con lists of the boys in our grade, took into account the looks of their older brothers or their dads to get a sense of how they’d age into their features, ranked them by both popularity and attainability. I ran for a while through a rotating cast of passive crushes, boys who were nice to me once in study hall or kind of looked like a younger Chad Michael Murray. I moved from crush to crush, convinced that my non-investment in actually dating any of them was how everybody felt about boys until, to my surprise, one kissed me.

It was one week before I woke to the unpleasant surprise of my first period, and two days before my thirteenth birthday. I met him at the beach Bar Mitzvah party of twin boys I barely knew. He went to a different school and paid attention to me and, when I tripped and plunged headfirst into the waves in my little plaid party skirt, he pulled me out of the water like a fireman, with his arms around my shoulders and under my knees. Later, when I had changed into someone else’s t-shirt and baggy shorts, we walked hand in zooming out • 35

hand down the beach, away from our parents and the huddled tiki torches of the party. At some point he stopped and fell silent. His mouth curled into a smile as sharp as a switchblade, and he asked me: “Spit or swallow?”

A late bloomer, I didn’t know what he was referring to. I took a wild guess and said, swallow. Without hesitation, he lunged his freckled face towards mine and drew my lips into his mouth. The whole thing was over in a few seconds. I wiped the slobber from my chin, thanked him, and walked alone back to the party to ask if we could go home. That night, I sat under the scalding water of my shower, trying to make myself rewrite the night so that I was happy he had kissed me, so that I had liked it, so that he hadn’t said something that, though I didn’t know what it meant, I was pretty sure was demeaning. Most of all, I tried to make myself believe that even if he’d been perfect, even if he hadn’t said the wrong thing, that he was the person I really wanted to be kissing.

It didn’t occur to me until much later to wonder if I was attracted to any of my friends, but the kernel of fear was there: when we lay side by side in bed or jokingly slow danced together after not being asked by any boys, I felt my heart seize with the thought that some small action or gesture would give away the game, and they would think I was what we all said we wholeheartedly supported but didn’t want to be.

And I wasn’t. I couldn’t be. I had crushes on boys, even if they were calculated and passionless. I had kissed a boy, even if I didn’t like it, even if, afterwards, I wanted to spend all night washing his mouth off of me in the shower. I dressed like a girl’s girl, for the most part; I liked picking out high heels and party dresses so much my mom would joke with her girlfriends about how straight her daughter turned out to be.

It wasn’t until high school that I admitted that I found girls attractive; it wasn’t until college that I let myself love one. Sometimes I wonder what those early years could have been like if I wasn’t so afraid of myself, especially since many of those childhood friends have since come out as well. I think about how, if I had just asked my friend for a pad at her house, I could have avoided the embarrassment of the next morning, of waking up with my backside darkened with blood, of having to stand with her mom while she put the soiled shorts and sleeping bag in the wash, my voice wobbling as I said, over and over again, “I’m 36 • zooming out

sorry.”

I think, too, about how much unnecessary pain I could have avoided, how many sexual experiences with boys I wouldn’t have had to regret, how many friendships I wouldn’t have ruined with careful distance, if I had just dug a little deeper and let the unsaid something bloom. But at least latent doesn’t mean never; it means until; it means dormant and not yet. I did, eventually, love a woman, had my heart broken, and loved another one. Years later, I would meet my childhood friends for coffee or to share a joint at the beach in our hometown. Caught in the surprise of our newfound adulthoods, which, as it turns out, took something more than body hair or menstruation to set into motion, we laughed together about all the secrets our younger selves had kept-the many truths we did not yet know we were allowed to speak.w

Things That a Mask is Not

by Jean Cambareri art by Belle McDonald

The coronavirus pandemic, however terrible it has been, has given many a chance to slow down, learn new skills, dive deeper into hobbies–you know, get creative. They do say that Shakespeare or one of those other old white geezers was most productive and creative under quarantine.

But Shakespeare didn’t have TikTok to distract him, so, yes, he wrote a couple hundred depressing plays. What the hell else was he supposed to do– watch paint dry?

Anyway... I digress. The point is that a lot of people have gotten creative while social distancing.

But for most, unfortunately, it’s not quite in the way that old Willy S. did back in the day. The problem, in my humble opinion, is that the majority of this newfound creativity is not directed toward writing the newest, most brilliant screenplay, or painting the next Mona Lisa. Instead, it is directed toward finding the most extravagantly inventive ways to almost follow CDC guidelines, but not quite. To nearly prevent the coronavirus from spreading, but just miss the mark.

Take the “socially distanced” outdoor dinner party, for example. Great in theory, sure, but everyone knows that once Uncle Kenny has that fourth martini pulsing through his veins, he’s gonna forget all about that whole six-foot rule.

Or how about the whole ride in a cramped car together, but crack a window so that you’re not “breathing the same air” tactic. Honestly, I think we can all admit the logic is just shaky on this one, even if carpooling does make things easier.

My personal favorite outlet for creativity during the pandemic: people using masks in the most outrageously, inventively, wrong ways.

So, for shits and gigs, here’s a list of everything that a mask is not, since it’s pretty clear that some of you need a quick refresher:

A face mask is not a: - Chinstrap (unless you are breathing from your chin, this is not gonna cut it) - Drool drain - Large cotton earring (could be fashionable if it wasn’t putting others at risk) - Strangely ineffective glove - Eye mask - Dishrag - Tiny little disposable hat (the fact that I’ve actually seen this makes me want to scream) - Fishnet (I’m looking at you, Lana) - Little blue frame for your nose (no seriously, if you cut a hole in your mask “to breathe”, I’m calling your doctor) - Knee pad (I know you learned to roller skate during quarantine, but I’m betting you can splurge for the amazon knee pads) - Slingshot (fun, but no) - Comforter for your pet iguana A face mask is a: - Protective tool when fully covering the nose and mouthw

zooming out • 37

Imposter Syndrome

by Grace Lee

I’m friends with a lot of brilliant people. Not to brag, but it’s true-they’re intelligent, mature, empathetic, and passionate. They’re the kind of people who excel in life, who win flashy awards, write brilliant papers, and get accepted to prestigious programs. However, very few of them, if any, feel like they deserve it. These girls, who study for hours and practice for days, consistently feel like they’re not enough. Somehow they feel like they’ve cheated their way into accomplishments that everyone else has earned. They’re the biggest witnesses to the work that they’ve put in and to the ideas that they’ve fostered, and yet few see this as evidence of their own merit. How is that possible?

Simple—imposter syndrome. It’s the idea that you, despite being absolutely incompetent, have scammed everyone else into thinking you are good at something, whether it be school or a sport or an instrument. It’s pervasive, and it’s damaging. It instills a fear of failure, a fear of being called out for your flaws, into everything you do.

My high school was competitive. My freshman year, the girl next to me at orientation said she wouldn’t go to any college that had an acceptance rate above 10%, and this set the tone for the next four years of my life. Existence was a giant round of sink or swim. You either pushed yourself to the limit in an attempt to walk on water, or you drowned as your classmates watched like piranhas, desperate for that extra 0.01 boost in GPA. The culture, especially among the “smart” kids, sacrificed integrity and happiness for A-pluses and leadership positions.

This insane environment birthed and then cultivated imposter syndrome, but the thing about imposter syndrome is that you don’t think you have it. For ages, I was familiar with the idea of imposter syndrome, but I was convinced I was the exception.

Sure, there were many, many deserving people who didn’t see their hard work (like every one of my incredible friends!), but I believed that I was a case where I actually didn’t deserve my accomplishments.

When my other friends felt the way I did, I had the clarity to see how ridiculous they were being, how obviously they had earned their accomplishments 38 • zooming out

through their own merit, but I could never apply the principle to myself. Windows clear; mirrors distorted.

And so I felt out of place everywhere, trying to tell myself that I belonged but failing again and again.

There’s the mask of confidence, the mask of calm, that makes all this possible. On me, that mask felt like it was coming apart at the seams so that everyone could see what a disaster I was inside. But when I looked around, everyone else’s mask looked perfect, flawless bright colors and cheery expressions grinning back at me. It’s a perfect illusion.

Think of it like this: a TV show ending can’t be both good and bad. It’s either Avatar: The Last Airbender, satisfying and neat, or it’s Game of Thrones, a complete implosion of a pop culture phenomenon. The same show can’t do both. For me, I thought I couldn’t be both the low-lying, constant buzz of panic in the back of my skull and the well-adjusted, accomplished girl that others seemed to claim I was-one had to be false.

So my brain selected the former as my true personality and rejected the latter as an 18 year long con job that I’d been pulling on my family, friends, and teachers.

I hope that one day, my friends and I can look back on the things we have accomplished and feel that we really, truly deserve them. I hope we can see our losses and our failures as blips on the screen rather than a completely fractured display. I hope we can recognize our own duality and know that a few days of total failure don’t cancel out months of hard work.

I hope that one day, we can stop holding ourselves to an impossible standard and just let ourselves try things without fearing that we will be revealed as the imposters we think we are.

In the two hours since I started writing this article, I’ve already considered quitting twice. I’ve gone back to the last issue of Kitsch and decided that everyone else is a thousand times smarter, more creative, and more talented than me. And who knows? Maybe they are. Maybe I actually do write like a sixth grader with a Wattpad account and way too much time on her hands. But I think I owe it to myself to give it a shot. So here it is.w

“Kau-dher”

by Faima Quadir

Qadr ( ‫—)قَا ِد ر‬power; one of the 100 names of God in Islam, meaning "Almighty."

I went to preschool in the basement of a church in suburban New Jersey. I did not realize it at the time, but in hindsight the room with stained glass windows and columns of benches was definitely a tell. I was the only brown girl there and definitely the only Muslim. It was not a religious preschool. We learned the usual things, learned counting and reading. We learned that the letter combination QUA made the kwa sound. Like in quack, or quad. Or like Quadir. And so I became Faima “kwad-eer.” This simple English lesson would completely redirect how I viewed myself for the rest of my life. What started as a way to help teachers locate my last name on a roster soon defined who I was. I began introducing myself as Faima “kwadeer” everywhere I went, even to other Bengali people. I had fully convinced myself this was my name. It was not until very recently, at the age of 20, that I realized: this is not my name.

As much as I wish I could say this experience is unique to me, it is not uncommon for people with nonEuropean names to not know how to pronounce their names. When asked how to pronounce their name, I have heard many South Asian people respond “I don’t really know.” Or worse, “You can say it however you want.” I have heard many guttural ao’s transformed into nasal a’s and long ee’s into quick i’s. I cannot count the number of times I have let out a sigh of defeat and said, “sure” after listening to a half-hearted attempt to pronounce my name. Having relived this scenario time and time again, it is clear that my role is never to be comfortable, only to make other people comfortable.

Most of the people I went to high school with would describe me as a quiet person. While this is not entirely wrong, hearing my peers make terrorist jokes in the hallways did not exactly entice me to come out of my shell. But it was not just them. Students who would laugh with me over our shared inability to roll our Spanish r’s would later that day in history class insist that Muslims should not be able to purchase guns. I learned to watch what I said around everyone.

I was quiet when my class agreed it was selfish of immigrants to want equal rights when America had

already given them so much. And I was quiet when they insisted Islam oppresses women. I thought it better to let the moment pass than to create a disruption. The moment never passed, because it was not a moment.

It was a mentality. I had fallen into the trap of trying to be the model minority. I was not keeping the peace, I was protecting their peace and in doing so, I stripped myself of a right as basic as the right to be called by my own name. While I was so worried about pleasing other people to avoid conflict, I was never able to make a home for myself. This hurts even more when I think about the meaning of my last name. Power. My ancestors graced me with one of the 100 names of Allah, and I let people step on it. And for what? I share a name with God and I do not even have the pride to make people say it correctly.

Even now, part of me still has reservations about switching to the authentic pronunciation of my name, “kau-dher.” After twenty years of letting people disrespect such a historically significant name, am I still worthy of it? Have I strayed so far from my ancestors that I do not deserve to identify with them?

My grandmother takes notice when I do something as simple as eating pasta for dinner instead of chicken and rice. “American,” she says to me, as if she's labelling inventory to be stocked, “not Bengali.” So if I am too American for my Bengali household and too Bengali for my American school, where do I fit?

I do not fit anywhere. I am not a piece of inventory to be categorized. My name does not decide who I am because my name is nothing without me. Faima Quadir is someone who puts her tikiya kebabs on a ciabatta roll and eats them like a burger but also rips her pancakes apart and eats them like roti. Faima Quadir is a Bangladeshi-American whose two cultural identities should be able to coexist without fighting for power. I am someone my ancestors would be proud to call their own.w

zooming out • 39

Looking At You, Looking At Me

by Emma Eisler

In high school, my flirtations are riddled with small lies: Of course I’m from San Francisco, not the suburbs; fake names and alter egos when my best friend and I sneak onto the college campus at night. A friend reveals to me that an acquaintance in our English class has developed a crush on me. This same acquaintance has apparently also been secretly capturing photographs of me staring off into space, or of my hair falling into my eyes as I bend over a book.

Although I am not really interested in this particular person, I become fascinated by the idea of these photographs. Do I look like myself? How do I shift and morph when captured through the lens of this adoration? I tell the friend, Well, I don’t mind. I want to be somebody’s dreamboat. I begin to imagine myself this way as I travel through the small movements of daily life; climbing into the shower, I turn my head to the mirror and observe the arch of my back; aboard the bus, I view myself through the eyes of the other passengers, scuffed boots and head against the window. Though externally I am shy, I desire more than anything to be watched—noticed. Until I am loved, I will be my own audience.

40 • zooming out

I fall in love with a friend I am too scared to touch.

Instead, we talk. I ride the bus the wrong way just to spend a few moments longer with her, spinning tales of my future life as a famous and prolific writer, a confident and assured lover. Under her gaze, I become a braver, brighter version of myself; nude and running full tilt into the swell of the sea, dancing with wild joy on her roof. Once, she describes me as someone who changes the essence of the meadow merely by lying amongst its flowers. I clutch her vision of me to my chest. When she starts dating a boy in our class, I stand in the bathroom and watch myself cry. I cannot reconcile my own ugliness with the version of me she claims to love.

I fall in love again while taking a year off between high school and college. He is older and unlike anyone I’ve ever met, a self-imposed vagabond. At a bonfire in a canyon, he runs his fingers through my hair and my breath catches. He reveals to me later that, looking back, he knew from the first moment he touched me that I would love sex. I become obsessed with this detail, with my body’s apparent receptiveness to pleasure. Nights in the desert under the wane of moonlight, I float up and watch him watching me. Silver streaks that travel my skin, my moans that mingle with the distant howl of coyotes. Of all the seasons, to him I am spring, and if I were a weather pattern, I’d be a flash flood. Driving back from Capitol Reef, I tell him: I want to love and be loved by many people, even if that comes with loss. He tells me later: I knew then what I was getting into—you’re a natural born heartbreaker. I formulate my sense of self around this vision; I am feral with desire; the desert pulses under my skin, and I can never be hurt or abandoned.

Freshman year of college, I sleep with boys who are not interested in doing more than touching me. I dissolve under their hands, come apart into seafoam. One tells me, I feel like I’m going to hurt you. I shrink smaller and smaller against the sheets. How

can this be the same girl who slept under tapestries of stars, who felt love on her skin in every shade of coral and sienna? I don’t stop sleeping with these boys until they discard me. I don’t know how to say no to someone else’s desire—even if that desire is limited to my body, even if that desire hurts me. At the end of one of these not-quite relationships, a boy says to me: You seem like a resilient person. I am disgusted by the flush of pride I feel at this description. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I want to be loved or just want to be described in vivid and unending detail.

While section hiking the Appalachian Trail with my best friend, I kiss a boy who calls himself Street Jesus.

Evening light spreads between the branches of trees.

same to each of them; was I precious to each in the same way? What about the parts of me that weren’t the same—the person I am on the bus and the person I am under the stars; made-up or messy-haired; quiet or overflowing?

And if I were to compile each version of myself who has been loved by another and let them wander a party—what would happen to them? Would they find one another, wink in recognition? What if they disliked each other? Or worst of all, what if they didn’t even recognize one another? Sometimes I don’t feel like the person I am right now is the same as any of the selves I’ve been while in love, and I wonder if being purely, fiercely who I am requires aloneness. I wonder,

He pulls me to him, and I gasp against his mouth. He whispers: Who denied you this so long? My cheeks flush. I feel half shame and half pleasure. How can he know the longing pressed against my ribs, the loneliness perched in my throat awaiting voice? In bed after a party, a girl tugs down my underwear, whispers: You’re so responsive. I am so quick to give, to bend into the arms of another and empty myself out in sighs and gasps, my mask rendered transparent under darkness.

I wonder what would happen if I gathered in a room every person who’s ever wanted me. What shared qualities did they see? Were my eyes the

too, if I will ever be able to look at someone else without also watching them look at me, and if doing this would mean I am loving selflessly. I don’t know if I am ready to let fall the mask and be my full self for someone else, rather than the version of myself they bring to the surface, or that I think they want. For now, at least, I try to hold all the pieces of my fragmented self together, accepting even the parts that don’t seem to fit.w

zooming out • 41

Mask Up: Wearing a mask for confrontation

by Shahad Salman

The human practice of adornment and accessorizing clearly showcases itself in the range of different masks people choose to wear. On a daily basis, I encounter a plethora of unique art and expressions in the masks of strangers. Picking out a mask to match with my outfit has become a new routine of mine-a weird and unexpected routine, but a routine nonetheless. Do I want my mask with flowers to match the sunny day and my sunny outfit? Maybe I’ll opt for my basic black mask for a more mellow day? Or maybe the mask that exhibits my favorite local artists? A mask not only ensures that the general population can be kept safe in this pandemic, it communicates to passersby a certain aesthetic, ideal, or another personal attribute.

Thinking of the function of physical masks in our everyday lives leads me to think of the metaphorical masks we choose to adorn ourselves with-especially the emotional masks we put on for tense situations or confrontations. There seems to be an opposition to these emotional masks, a notion that a confrontation should be between two individuals baring every part of themselves to each other. But I challenge this idea.

Just as our physical masks exist in different contexts and are chosen based on our outfits, our interests, our niches, our access, our jobs, and a multitude of other factors, I think that one should approach confrontation and other emotionally taxing events with the proper mask. I personally dread confrontation, but I have attempted to investigate my fear of it in order to incorporate it into my life so that I am not stagnant in my relationships. I have found that the prerequisite of completely exposing myself in a confrontation deters me from ever entering the situation. Equipping myself with the proper resources and emotional mask before I face someone has proved instrumental to my interactions. In confrontational scenarios, the emotional mask acts not as a tool of concealment but rather an adornment, communicating my goals for this confrontation and what I intend to resolve. It offers a sense of control that is usually lost in highly emotional situations, and it allows me to navigate confrontation in a collected state.

For example, choosing a mask of patience in a situation where the other side is quick to challenge you on your points. Or choosing a mask that intentionally only focuses on one problem or goal instead of tackling every point of stress. There is a certain creative and emotional power awarded when one chooses to dictate the tone of their conversations 42 • zooming out

and confrontations with these masks. A mask of patience can be soft and layered with cotton, silk and luxurious materials that promote serenity. But it can also be an armored mask, that’s dark and structured and sturdy enough that it grounds you. With infinite imaginary supplies, there are infinite designs.

I crafted my first emotional mask during quarantine. As a high school senior last year, I was tasked with not only choosing the trajectory of my life for the next four years, but also convincing my parents of my decisions. I unexpectedly faced intense pushback from my mom in what I wanted to do, which in that scenario was to go out of state for college. I felt as if I was drowning in uncertainty and doubt about my future and capacity to self-sustain if I had to be so far from my family, but I realized that I would need to present Herculean confidence to persuade my mom about my decision. Thus, my mask on the exterior exhibited bright colors of firm conviction and abstract designs that hinted at the possibility of an exciting future if I took advantage of this opportunity to move away from home. But on the interior, my mask served a self-care purpose. I had to find ways to support and believe in myself, so I provided myself with a mask material of nice cushioning and cooling features. The interior reflected the serenity of cloud doodles and the color light blue. The interlacing of these different materials proved instrumental to convincing both myself and my parents to trust my future plans and current decisions.

I advocate that we reflect on how something in our daily lives, like wearing masks, can be extrapolated to more abstract ideas about emotion and allow us to navigate these complex yet inevitable situations. I challenge myself and others to reexamine the things that we pass over. We should recognize the endless interconnectedness of our environments and lives.w

On Drinking Black Coffee

by Mariana Meriles

I start my day with coffee. Black. And if anyone has ever told you that they genuinely enjoy the taste of black coffee, let me be the first to say: they’re lying. Or the coffee has burned off their taste buds.

Still, I don’t think I’ve put any milk or sugar into my coffee since last year. And a lot of people get confused when I tell them that, because why drink it if I don’t like it, right? But to me, the reason is obvious— it’s because it has zero calories.

I don’t know exactly when I started paying attention to the number of calories in my food—I mean, the concern has always kind of been there.

To be clear, I’ve never technically needed to go on a diet—my weight is in a healthy range, and I am fairly active—but diet culture has convinced me otherwise.

Advertisers are obsessed with telling us to lose weight—from stick thin models to incessant dieting and exercising ads, it’s become ingrained in our culture that women need to alter their lifestyles in order to be healthy. But advertisers’ idea of “healthy” is a little off, too: Special K advertised only eating cereal, protein shakes, and protein bars; overpriced blenders convinced us that juice cleanses would make us lose inches; fast food chains advertised “healthy options” that were usually just two pieces of lettuce and a tomato. The idea of “being healthy” isn’t about a healthy lifestyle—it’s about being skinny, and getting there with as little food as possible.

And it’s not revolutionary to point out that society wants women to be skinny—the recent pushback against this beauty standard through vocal body positivity activists is evidence of that. But despite the body positivity movement, despite the rise in plus size models and plus size stores, these toxic beauty standards remain pervasive, fundamentally changing the way we see our relationships with food.

I don’t have a single friend who hasn’t been on some sort of diet, and these diets are never healthy.

Whether it’s eating only sweet potatoes and protein shakes, eating in only a four hour window of the day, or eating exclusively eggs and berries (all things my friends have tried, by the way), their diets are always radical, and always fail after a few weeks. We’ve tried veganism, going keto, going paleo, Atkins, intermittent fasting, even juice cleanses—honestly, I’m surprised we’ve never gone carnivore—but with each diet failure, our relationships with food became increasingly more toxic. We download apps to count our calories and make sure we never go above

the maximum, don’t eat before a day out to ensure that one bubble tea doesn’t ruin a week’s worth of restriction, and feel a wave of guilt each time a day-in includes one too many brownies.

It’s not just my friends and I, either. To find evidence of diet culture’s effect on teenage girls at large, we don’t need to look much further than TikTok. As a diet conscious person, my feed quickly became full of healthy eating tips and fifteen second “what I eat in a day” videos, all of which only made me feel worse about my food choices. Of course, the food eaten in these videos is generally healthy: there’s always some sort of smoothie or oatmeal for breakfast, some sort of salad for lunch, and either salmon, shrimp, or chicken breast for dinner. The problem is that the amount of food eaten is incredibly low, rarely surpassing 1,200 calories. As a result, the comments are full of people who feel bad about the amount that they’re eating, and who start to believe that it’s necessary to start eating less. In this way, these videos draw in at-risk people to develop unhealthy eating habits under the guise of promoting a “healthy” lifestyle, no differently than the way advertisers have targeted the same vulnerable people for decades.

I find, too, that there seems to be a sort of pride on the Internet about how little one eats, and slapping the “healthy eating” label on restrictive diets masks underlying issues with how we as a society view our relationship with food. Healthy eating has become equated with eating nothing, and it’s this problematic view of dieting that can give rise to guilt we might feel after eating too much, or an unnecessary obsession with calories—or a refusal to drink coffee with anything else in it. When these habits are pushed to their limits from constant societal pressure, they can quickly become serious eating disorders. And though most of us may find ourselves in the gray area between full fledged eating disorders and positive relationships with food, it’s a fundamentally unhealthy position women are often coerced by society into taking.

Of course, healthy diets do exist, as do healthy relationships with food (even if I might not know what that looks like). But because of society’s obsession with being thin, “healthy eating” is often just a guise for habits that ultimately perpetuate unhealthy eating habits and problematic beauty standards. Still, my coffee for now remains tasteless, at least until I figure out what, exactly, that elusive healthy relationship with food looks like.w zooming out • 43

Unmasking My Identity

by Bex Pendrak

I sat nervously on my porch, staring out across the backyard at the line of trees shielding my house from the rest of Ithaca. What if I had made a mistake, if my impulsive decision would lead to months of regret?

My legs began to bounce in a futile attempt to release my mounting anxiety. I tried to think of something else, to focus on the light streaming through the leaves as the sun began its slow descent below the horizon.

No matter how hard I tried, all I could focus on was the soft hum of clippers shaving a new identity into my head. I hadn’t had a short haircut since childhood and I certainly had never rocked a buzz cut. Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything, I thought as my hair gathered in larger and larger piles around my chair. When my housemate told me she was done, I was almost afraid to look at myself in the mirror. What if I didn’t like how it made me look? What if I wasn’t able to defend my decision to my mother, who already thought I looked too much like a dyke? What then, as I wait for my hair to grow out?

I wish I could say that all these questions disappeared when I looked in the mirror. I wish I could say that I loved my haircut instantly. My appearance had gone from feminine to fairly androgynous in under an hour, which at first made me dance around the bathroom in happiness. But later that night, as I was getting ready for bed, I felt quite a bit of dysphoria.

I wasn’t sure how much I would like presenting to the world in this manner for a long period of time.

I had always presented as a female that dressed androgynously, bordering masculine, rather than a person of ambiguous gender presenting as slightly masc. And even if I enjoyed presenting this way, how would it be perceived by others? I went to bed that night on the verge of tears, questioning my gender presentation more than ever.

Prior to quarantine, I had never seriously entertained the idea of drastically changing my appearance. Maybe it was a function of attending an all-girls Catholic school my entire life or members of my family being strongly averse to androgynous gender presentation. Growing up, I always felt that no matter what, I needed to present myself as recognizably female. Despite the fact that I was never 44 • zooming out

femme growing up, the critical gaze of those around me helped me convince myself that the only way to exist in society was not to challenge the gender binary.

The communities I was a part of obligated me to telegraph my gender assigned at birth, even if it made me uncomfortable. The comfort of others around me took priority over true freedom of expression.

This feeling persisted, even after coming out as queer. My “baby gay” self was worried about appearing too queer or too outside of the societally accepted queer presentations. So I experimented with clothing, but not too much, and I cut my hair shorter, but not that short, and I let myself feel placated with the barest minimum of self-expression. And because of my upbringing and a carefully curated skill of repression that most queer people know well, I was satisfied with the limited freedom of being queer within the gender binary. Then quarantine hit.

There’s nothing like the complete and utter destruction of all forms of routine to prompt introspection. Normally, I was too busy for serious reflection. I would simply go to class, then cram in homework around activities and hanging out with friends, then go to bed and do it all again the next day.

Cornell has a sneaky way of convincing you that you aren’t doing enough even when you’re spread so thin you hardly have space to breathe. And perhaps our capitalist society teaches us that self-improvement is only valuable when it’s adding value to things outside of ourselves. Nevertheless, the sudden and immediate shuttering of society left a massive void in its wake. When you can no longer turn to external places to occupy your time, you’ve got no choice but to turn within yourself.

In a way, quarantine marked a return to childlike exploration and discovery. As a kid, you don’t have a full-formed perspective of what society expects from you - how to act or how to dress or what hobbies you should like. For a brief window in time, you experience life and all it’s potential exactly how you want to. Unfortunately, this sense of exploring your world without the intense pressure of societal

obligations disappears over time. You become more aware of your peers and what they think of you, and it begins to influence how you present yourself. Maybe you stop pursuing a hobby because someone in your class told you it was stupid. Maybe you start wearing a certain style of clothing because everyone else is wearing it and you desperately want to fit in and make friends. Maybe you turn to alternative forms of presentation to set yourself apart from your peers, but only an acceptable kind of rebellion. This takeover of societal pressures is insidious, like the proverbial frog in a slowly boiled pot. But the onset of quarantine removed all those external rules and guidelines that became internalized over time. No longer did you have to leave your house, to exist in places where you would be judged according to societal standards. This absence of a framework of how to relate to the world effectively placed you in a world where you were a child again, learning how to relate to the world for a second time.

It was perhaps this sense of re-learning one’s place in society that prompted my journey into gender expression. Since no one would see me (save for the few people in my Zoom classes), what did it matter if I radically changed my hair? If I got rid of the last remaining femme clothes in my closet and embraced a more androgynous or masculine look? There was no pressure to completely figure out my presentation before I entered into society, because there was simply no society to enter into. Unsurprisingly, this freedom of expression was liberating. I found myself enjoying the times I would be skateboarding in downtown Ithaca, and the few little kids who were out would stare at me, trying to figure out my gender behind both my physical mask and my masc presentation. This sense of anonymity, of complete freedom from social norms, helped me start to interrogate why my androgynous presentation felt so affirming, even if I didn’t quite have the language to name it at the time.

Later on in quarantine, I was talking about this exact phenomenon with my girlfriend (just in case you forgot, I like women). The conversation eventually got around to the fact that as a child, I never liked presenting in a particularly femme manner. I played a lot of sports, and I enjoyed the strength and muscle definition that my body gained in return. I always had this desire to be mistaken as a man by strangers, to have people be surprised that I was female. I always chose masculine video game characters or pretended to be a boy when I was role-playing with my friends as a small child. There was always an urge to be both pretty and strong, masculine and feminine, to exist

in between the stereotypical gender definitions. My girlfriend, after listening to my bumbling and awkward journey of my childhood queerness, brought up the words of genderfluid/genderqueer to describe my experiences. She described that tension I had felt so acutely within my childhood - of identifying as female but never quite feeling like that definition applied fully to myself. Although it took me another few weeks to really interrogate my gender, I felt seen in a way I had never felt prior. My lived experience outside of the gender binary finally had a name. I started trying out they/them pronouns in addition to the she/her I had exclusively used prior. I felt safe and supported by the people I was living with as I took the time to reflect and figure out how I wanted to present my gender expression to the world. For the first time in my entire life, I felt like I was able to express my fullest, truest self to others around me.

After the big chop, my hair remained in the trash can on the porch for months. Every time I saw it, I would think to myself that I should take out the trash. But I never really wanted to. For me, the scraps of hair lurking in the trash felt like a final “fuck you” to heteronormative society. It was a physical manifestation of how I had stopped viewing my gender and gender expression as an obligation to others. I finally had the confidence to present to the world in the same way as I perceive myself. As time passed, my buzz cut grew out into a style best described as “discount e-boy.” And yes, eventually I took out the trash, discarding my old hair forever. However, I’ll always carry that March day with me, with its nervous tension and excitement and unlimited possibility. So if you’ve been wondering if you should shave your head, my answer is yes. Get a buzz cut and dance on the grave of the gender binary.w

zooming out • 45

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