Medley Magazine / Fall 2016

MEDLEY MAGAZINE FALL 2016

COLLINS CORNER

LOST IN TRANSITION

LADYFEST + LADY PARTS

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In between cuts, a local barbershop builds a community.

After their first 90 days in the U.S., refugees still struggle to assimilate.

An introverted writer navigates an all-inclusive feminist festival. itness a writer’s experience at a feminist festival.

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CONTENTS

ROAST RESPONSIBLY

Learn about Café Kubal’s community initiatives. page 4

LIVE OAKS & DEAD FOLKS

Watch the Oakwood Cemetery come alive. page 6

LOST IN TRANSITION

Acknowledge the everyday obstacles refugees face. page 8

COLLINS CORNER

Meet the family behind a beloved local barber shop. page 10

A WOMAN’S WORDS

Understand a journalist’s perspective on the election. page 14

LADYFEST + LADY PARTS

Witness a writer’s experience at a feminist festival. page 17

PASSING

Explore the complexities of racial identity. page 23

250 SQUARE FEET

Look inside one solution for Syracuse’s homeless. page 26

MOMENTS ABROAD

See a snapshot of life abroad from SU students. page 28

image by Joey Marion

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MEDLEY MAGA ZINE

S TA F F F A L L 2 016

TA L K TO U S — @MEDLEYMAGAZINE

FIND US ONLINE — ISSUU.COM/ MEDLEYMAGAZINE

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF VICTORIA RODRIGUEZ

CREATIVE DIRECTOR JOEY MARION

EDITORIAL

ART

EXECUTIVE EDITOR DANIELLE LAROSE

DESIGNER KYLE DRUMHELLER

MANAGING EDITOR PAIGE KELLY

PHOTOGRAPHERS SAMANTHA LEE ROBLES BRIANNA MONÉ WILLIAMS KELLI COLLINS BEN LEE JESS BAYER LAURA FIDATI CLAUDIA RUBÍN CIARA REINA

EDITOR-AT-LARGE RILEY BUNCH SENIOR EDITORS LAZARE DE MONTILLE ERICA PETZ ASSISTANT EDITORS MADISON BREAUX DANIELLE MARIE AGUGLIARO ELLIOT WILLIAMS PROJECT CONSULTANT JUSTIN PATRICOLO ADVISOR HARRIET BROWN

ON THE COVER COLLINS CORNER Charleston Collins preps Quintal “Q” Stitt for a new cut. Collins, along with his brother, mother, grandson, and daughter-in-laws, runs the barbershop in honor of the late Carlton Collins Jr. Together, they work to create a relaxing environment for all who visit.

cover photo & right by Joey Marion

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about us MEDLEY MAGAZINE shares stories from our campus, our city, and our globe that explore the intersection of cultures from a socially conscious perspective. The magazine publishes once a semester with funding from your Syracuse University student fee. All contents of the publication are copyright Fall 2016 by their respective creators.

photo by Joey Marion

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L E T T E R F R O M T H E E D I TO R written by Victoria Rodriguez

T H I S I S W H AT A M E R I CA LO O K S L I K E Dear Reader, The morning after the election, I canceled the editorial meeting that was scheduled for 7:30 p.m.

I spent most of the day scrolling through Twitter and reading people’s reactions. Somewhere along the line, I retweeted a jarring image. It placed Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton's election parties side by side.

To the left of the image, white men, dressed in red hats and red ties, smile and cheer. To the right, a brown woman wraps her arms around a white friend. Below them, an Asian-American boy pouts. Joey Marion, our Creative Director, sat next to me when the image popped up. He pointed to the right of the image, quickly noting the racial and ethnic diversity. “That’s what America looks like,” he said. That’s what Medley looks like, I thought.

After I took some time to heal and reflect, I scheduled another meeting. In between edits, the team

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experienced a range of emotions.

Together, we cried and laughed, but most importantly, we listened to one another. Those couple of hours reminded me why Medley is so important.

You can read our mission statement, but in plain words, Medley Magazine respects, represents, and embraces cultural differences. Unless we do so, hateful rhetoric and violence will continue to rise across our country.

So whether we explore our local barbershop (page 10), tour the city’s cemetery (page 6), or attend a feminist festival (page 17), we strive to provoke thoughtful conversations and build an inclusive community. Ultimately, no matter who you are, we want you here.

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R OA S T R E S P O N S I B LY At Café Kubal, every cup serves.

written by Danielle Marie Agugliaro

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s one customer orders a small Brazilian pour-over to go, a group of students discuss their geography project among the low chatter in Café Kubal. Several others sit on wooden pews, chairs, and tables. Mason jars dangle from the ceiling to provide additional light.

Katherine Kokeas, a sophomore at Syracuse University, frequently visits the café for a good latte. “Unlike Starbucks or other coffee shops, Café Kubal has a true café vibe on campus,” Kokeas says. “It’s one of the only coffee shops around campus that offers a big enough seating area. I feel comfortable meeting friends and staying for a long time.” Café Kubal exists within a larger roasting company called Kubal Roaster.

Matt Godard, the owner of Kubal Roaster, started roasting coffee from his parents’ basement after he took a trip to Guatemala in 2004. The trip showed him how coffee can positively impact a community. The Syracuse native has since opened La Roasteria, an office and wholesale roasting space that supplies five Kubal cafés in the area.

Those cafés are known as much for their coffee as they are for their partnerships with local non-profits.

The SU Cafe is perhaps the most well-known location to Syracuse students. It sits right across from the Whitman School of Management and shares a space with 3fifteen, one of the several Thrifty Shopper stores run by the Rescue Mission. 3fifteen uses profits from donated clothing to

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photos by Brianna Mon é Williams

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“ Café Kubal is really designed to be one with the community.” provide food, clothes, and a place to eat for the local homeless. According to the Kubal website, the café sends eight percent of its profits from every sale to the Rescue Mission. Plus, anyone who donates a bagful of household items to 3fifteen receives a free coffee.

Eric Veaudry, a manager at 3fifteen, notes the partnership’s positive impact on both businesses.“It’s been very beneficial through a traffic standpoint. People come into Kubal and aren’t familiar with 3fifteen, but they’re familiar with Kubal because there are different locations around town,” he explains.

One of these locations is now housed in Upstate Golisano Children’s Hospital.

In May 2016, Kubal partnered with Upstate Golisano for an in-hospital café

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on the eleventh floor, replacing Tim Hortons. This 24-hour location is in a space managed by Advocates for Upstate Medical University, a non-profit raising thousands of dollars to support Upstate hospitals. In Godard’s style, the café donates a portion of the proceeds to Advocates. The money improves patient care and funds medical education. To cater to children, Café Kubal even alters their menu to include things like mac and cheese, corn dogs, and ice cream.

Megan Ferreira, a barista at Upstate, previously worked at Tim Hortons and noticed a big difference in the atmosphere between Tim Hortons and Kubal. “People are happier and more friendly with us,” Ferreira says.

“They really appreciate the good food and coffee, and kids love ice cream.

That definitely brightens their day.”

In September, Café Kubal partnered with the city for the national “Imagine a Day Without Water” campaign. They raised awareness in their downtown store by putting “No Water, No Coffee” stickers on all of their coffee sleeves.

Audrey O’Donnell works as a barista at the SU Café, which took part in the campaign. “Café Kubal is really designed to be one with the community, so we’re always willing to incorporate and help out local campaigns or organizations in our stores,” O’ Donnell says.

Kubal’s dedication to benefiting local charities serves the Syracuse area and enhances the customer experience.

“It’s important to me because of how much a community like Syracuse thrives due to places like Kubal,” Kokeas says. “Personally, because of how much Syracuse has shaped me, I love to see this city thrive.”

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L I V E OA K S & D E A D F O L K S A class trip brings about unexpected characters and conversations.

written by Erica Petz

photo by Joey Marion

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n the heart of the 160-acre cemetery stands a deteriorating chapel. My fellow classmate says dead bodies were stored in there when it was too cold to bury them. In the shade of the adjacent forest, Karli Gasteiger, having survived a “Live Oaks & Dead Folks” tour before, clues us in on what to expect while we await the others. For the next 80 minutes of this mid-September afternoon, our magazine writing class will tour Oakwood Cemetery. Gasteiger halts when two cars roll down the gravel road.

Professor Melissa Chessher and the rest of our class emerge from one car. Our guide, a 70-year-old woman named Sue Greenhagen, emerges from the other.

“Gotta get wired up!” Greenhagen announces as she adjusts her microphone and straps her “shout box” — as she will later call her speaker — to her hip.

Her wavy strings of shoulder-length white-blonde hair peek out from under a straw hat with a green ribbon matching her Oakwood shirt. A lanyard hangs from the belt holding her khakis up.

Greenhagen welcomes us to Syracuse’s historic cemetery, describing its late 1800s heyday like she lived through it.

I raise my eyebrows when she mentions Oakwood served as a destination for Sunday outings away from the city.

Her squawking voice competes with the roaring of nearby Interstate 81.

Greenhagen laments that she can’t bring us inside the mortuary chapel since someone changed the locks, and she leads us to our first stop: abolitionist Amos Granger’s grave. There, she recites one of Amos’s speeches for several paragraphs. “Slavery is war, open war, against the rights of man,” she reads, her voice increasingly louder and emphatic with each phrase. The glazed eyes in her audience fail to reflect her enthusiasm. We meander through green hills of gravestones, tombs, and obelisks, meeting a doctor who sold the recently

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deceased poor to Syracuse University as cadavers and a woman who married the “father of the American Christmas card.”

My eyelids grow heavy. The rain left hanging in the air from yesterday’s

Environmental Science and Forestry, respectively. Ignoring the Resident Advisors’ warnings, he first visited Oakwood after his freshman-year orientation and frequented it ever since,

“ We ascend the hill to our next stop, and my drowsiness snaps when I see a man launch himself into a tree.” deluge and the gentle sunlight breaking through the clouds lull me to sleep. We ascend the hill to our next stop, and my drowsiness snaps when I see a man launch himself into a tree. Another slouches on the tomb about which Greenhagen starts droning on. Neither man budges, seemingly indifferent

" Her squawking voice competes with the roaring of nearby Interstate 81."

toward our presence. However, our first live encounters have become the object of a pop-up paparazzi — phones and cameras materializing. The moment Greenhagen stops talking, we bombard the poor guys with journalistic curiosity.

I chat with the dude on the grave and learn that his name is Nathan. He looks carefree in his backward baseball cap, boat shoes with socks, and jersey.

Nathan and his buddy in the tree are sophomores at SU and the State University of New York College of

typically on Sundays, with his friends.

“It’s more of a park to us than it is a cemetery,” Nathan says, recounting memories of exploring the catacombs, playing football in the fields, sledding and building igloos in the winter, and nighttime drinking and smoking in the company of up to 60 people.

Nathan still hangs out here despite witnessing something spooky. Using two tombs as posts, Nathan’s friends set up a hammock. When both friends climbed in it, their weight pulled down a post — the 500-pound monument of George W. Weed — onto one friend’s leg, crushing it. “It was just really bad karma,” Nathan says, unruffled; I bet Greenhagen would blame Weed’s ghost.

Speaking of Greenhagen, she’s gone — only my classmate Anna Leach and I remain. We hastily wave goodbye to the guys as we hurriedly search for our group. Thankfully we find them, but I struggle to focus on Greenhagen’s “Westcott Curse” theory. I will later Google it and find no results. When she finally concludes the tour, a few pathetic claps chip at the silence. “Make them do more!” Greenhagen urges Chessher. I oblige, but I’m thinking of Nathan, not Greenhagen, as I plan my next Sunday.

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LO S T I N T R A N S I T I O N Despite government efforts, refugees struggle to assimilate to the nuances of American life.

written by Riley Bunch

photo by Riley Bunch

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ee Lee, along with his mother and brother, follows the bright pink clad real-estate agent up the steps into a house in South Utica.

An older man sits in a rocking chair on the porch and gestures them inside when they ask about touring the house.

Upon entering, an older woman props her feet on a coffee table. She glances at them angrily. “No one told me people were coming to see the house today,” she says. “Nope, go away.”

The family follows the agent around

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the back of the house to the entrance of the vacant apartment upstairs. Lee notes the large backyard as his mother walks silently around, stamping her feet on the soil to determine its quality; it’s decent enough to plant a garden. Lee’s mother wants to grow crops that are harder to find at the local market: lemongrass, chilies, beans, and pumpkins.

Barefoot in the empty kitchen, the family speaks in Burmese. “How much is this one?” Lee asks. It’s $84,000, with some wiggle room — still over

budget. The Lees plan to buy their first house almost a decade after being resettled in Utica, New York. Refugee families like the Lees make up 17.6 percent of the city’s foreign-born population. They usually live in various rented apartments or with relatives for extended periods of time after resettlement due to lack of bank credit.

When refugees resettle into cities like Utica, the government gives them a 90 day period of support.

Government funded agencies pick up

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refugees from the airport and transport them to furnished apartments with fully stocked fridges. Nonetheless, refugees still face what seem to be insurmountable problems.

Chris Sunderlin, having spent a few years working with the refugee population, sought to turn the remains of a closing church on Scott Street into a resource center for those with post-resettlement issues. In the spring of 2014, the Midtown Utica Community Center opened to bring refugees and the community together. The center, completely volunteer-run, offers “mentoring” to refugees. Kathryn Stam, an associate professor of anthropology at SUNY Polytechnic Institute and volunteer at MUCC, began working with the refugee population after discovering the community center.

Not long after arriving at MUCC, she started helping community members with post-resettlement issues.

Soon, Stam became friends with refugees and they began confiding in her how overwhelmed they felt.

“When refugees first get here, they have orientation, but the problem with orientation is that they cover so much ground,” Stam says. “People are just getting here, getting used to where their houses are, how to use all the things in them, how to reconnect with family.

The things that will matter to them later won’t matter the first couple of weeks when agencies are still involved.”

During the first few months of resettling, government funded agencies provide cultural orientations, which show refugees how to do everyday tasks such as using a stove, using a telephone, and turning on lights.

Doctors’ appointments administer health exams and shots that will allow refugees to begin integrating school and work. Regardless of this aid, refugees still face a harrowing transition.

Stam and Sunderlin recall a horror

story of a young boy whose fingers were cut off by a factory machine on the job. By the time doctors saw him, they couldn’t reattach his fingers.

As a result of the language barrier and lack of personal documents, he moved from hospital to hospital.

For brand new residents, cultural literacy can’t be taught or retained within a 90 day period. Phone calls to legal offices for services such as food stamps, driver’s license exams, or even the process of scheduling medical appointments seem impossible.

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better than being in a war torn country,” Ali jokes. “But Kenya is also a war torn country.” Ali struggles to assimilate to American culture while also dealing with pressure to maintain Somali-Bantu traditions. Ali and her siblings often felt like the odd ones out in school. “Oh my god! A colored person,” Ali says.

“With a head wrap! I wonder what that means?! So I was ‘that’ girl. That mystery girl.” The traditions don’t end there. For Somali-Bantus, it’s common to marry daughters at a young age. Her mother started pressuring her to marry early on.

“ For brand new residents, cultural literacy can’t be taught or retained within a 90 day period.”

After initially resettling in Indianapolis, Layla Ali, along with her mother and nine siblings, moved to New York when her parents separated.

“The stress of coming to a new country can put pressure on parents,” she says.

“If you don’t know English, who are you going to ask for help?” In the case of the Ali family, the parents took their eldest out of school to act as a family translator. This damaged his education tremendously and made integration more difficult than it already was.

Cultural tensions between older and younger generations of refugees add another divide within the community.

Ali, a Somali-Bantu, was born in a refugee camp in Kenya after her parents fled the Somalian Civil War. “Maybe they thought a refugee camp would be

Ali constantly battles marriage pressure from the older women in her community.

“I want to make sure my family eats before I eat. If I get a college degree, I can show the younger generation, look, I didn’t have to be that girl that got married at 16 or 18.” Ali says.

Fifty miles away from Utica in Syracuse, New York, community members are finding large numbers of refugees who need post-resettlement help, as well. Nicole Watts and a group of other volunteers took note of the issue six years ago when they began to cook weekly meals for the refugee community. Three to four months into those efforts, the weekly program manifested into Hopeprint, a nonprofit dedicated to helping the refugee community. Watts, the executive director,

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photo by Riley Bunch

now lives in a house on Lilac Street in the Northside with a handful of other volunteers. Two nights a week, they open their doors as hundreds of refugees dressed in garb from all over the world flood in to share a family-style meal.

Through sharing meals and conversation, the volunteers at Hopeprint use friendship and the sharing of knowledge to help refugees go from surviving to living. “Our mission is to empower resettled refugees to thrive. The idea behind this is that pretty much at 90 days they’re still surviving,” Watts says. “While resettlement agencies work very hard and it’s a very overwhelming job, there has to be more.”

When poverty is at play, problems are constantly present. When living on the edge of crisis in an environment that is not only foreign to you but also skeptical of you, it’s easy to get overwhelmed. When the government funded agencies leave the picture after 90 days, it is up to the community at large to play a role in the flourishing of refugees. Organizations like

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“ I want to make sure my family eats before I eat. If I get a college degree, I can show the younger generation, look, I didn’t have to be that girl that got married at 16 or 18.”

MUCC and Hopeprint are essential in helping resettled refugees gather the resources and building blocks toward having the fullest life.

Sometimes, even with the help of volunteer organizations postresettlement issues remain unsolved.

In Utica, the Lees have yet to find a home for their family that fits both their needs and their budget.

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COLLI N S COR N E R A family-owned barbershop provides more than just cuts to the community.

written by Elliot Williams

photo by Joey Marion

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hen Quintal "Q" Stitt moved back to his hometown of Syracuse, N.Y. to work at the SU College of Law, he knew he would have to find a barbershop. His brotherin-law told him about a spot near campus that was open later than most barbershops on Saturdays. Stitt thought he’d give it a try, and on a Saturday afternoon in September, he made his first visit."I wasn’t looking for anything too edgy,” Stitt says. “I like that Collins has the 'watch your

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language' and ‘keep your pants pulled up’ signs on the door. That’s the type of stuff that will make me come back.”

And many customers do come back. Collins Barber & Beauty Shop is a second home for a community that has been loyal to the family for almost half a century. Like many AfricanAmericans who migrated north from the 1940s and sixties, Carlton Collins Jr. moved to Syracuse from Apopka, Florida in 1963 looking for work. As a young barber, he bounced around from shop to shop until he established

his own business in 1970 at a rented space on Irving Avenue. A few years later, Carlton and his wife, Juanita, purchased a building just a block away on the corner of South Crouse and East Fayette Street, which would become the barbershop the family currently operates.

A plaque on the wall behind the barber chairs holds the first dollar Carlton made at the shop. Photos of the family’s elders, or “pictures of the ancestors,” hang on the wall and a spray-painted portrait of Carlton is visible from anywhere in the shop,

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above & opposite by Joey Marion

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reminding everyone of its roots.

Carlton passed away in 2014, but Juanita still owns the shop. Sons Eric and Charleston, grandson Tyson, and daughter-in-laws Mary and

back to Syracuse and stop by.”

The corner by the shop was named “Carlton Collins Corner” in July. The result of a project between the Collins family and Common Councilor Helen Hudson, the name is a testament to the city’s rich black history in which the family has played a significant role. “It’s a good feeling knowing that a lot of people looked up to my father,” Charleston says. “We have a responsibility to carry on what he started.”

The Collins have hosted barbeques, participated in golf tournaments with the Central Baptist Church, joined bowling leagues, and coached baseball teams in the Inner City Little League for 16 years. They gave out free haircuts at People’s AME Zion Church on Martin Luther King Jr. Day and worked closely with local gospel radio shows.

“ We want our atmosphere here to be a place where grandma can bring the kids.”

Kadijah maintain the shop and salon in Carlton’s honor.“People know us in this neighborhood,” barber Charleston Collins says. “A lot of SU students and faculty come here. Even some alumni – people who don’t even live in the country anymore – come

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The family is well known for promoting other black-owned businesses on Facebook and on flyers around the shop.

“They are good role models,” says Kirk Savery, who has gone to Collins for 30 years. “They are godly people who go to church and do the right thing.”

Three years ago, the Kennedy Square housing projects across the street were torn down, and the shop lost many customers. The university grew and the community changed. But business is good, Charleston says, which is evident on Friday afternoon when the weekend rush comes in. Even at 5:30 p.m. when the shop is preparing to close, it’s packed. People come to chat with the family about life and spirituality, or just relax and watch an SU game.

Mary, Charleston’s wife, runs the beauty salon upstairs. She has a base of

“ I love how you can come here and get treated with respect.”

photo by Joey Marion

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customers who usually come in once every two weeks as early as 7 a.m. to get their hair curled, relaxed, re-touched, cut, washed, styled, or braided.“I thank the Lord that Carlton did this – for us, for this community,” Mary says. “I love how you can come here and get treated with respect. It’s a place you can bring your wives, your girlfriends, and your kids. I’m not saying other barbershops and salons aren’t like that. But here, you get the respect you deserve. You should feel relaxed. Whether you’re black, white, Asian, Hispanic, or anything else, it doesn’t matter. They all come here.”

Jacoby Loury, a master’s student at SU’s School of Education, has been going to Collins since he was a freshman six years ago. Loury says he tried other

shops in the area, but something keeps bringing him back to Collins.“I just like that the shop has an old school feel to it,” Loury says. “It’s a very welcoming environment. I know the guys by their names, and they know me.”

There are plenty barbershops in Syracuse, and some go for more of a modern atmosphere to appeal to a larger crowd of millennials. Yet, the Collins family focuses on remaining a positive influence in the community, not emulating other popular locations.

"The only other shop I could tell you about is from the movie Barbershop — and that’s not us,” Charleston says. “But I like that. We want our atmosphere here to be a place where grandma can bring the kids. A place where anybody can come in and get a haircut without being disrespected.”

For $12 a cut, customers get more than a clean fade. They gain a family.

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A WO M A N ’ S WO R D S An emerging journalist uses her platform to amplify the concerns of underrepresented groups.

written by Danielle LaRose

photo by Joey Marion

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hite walls pinned with proofs and past articles closed in as tensions rose; the blare of laptop screens reflected onto widening eyes heavy with fatigue; and hands reached up for hair to grip in frustration. Welcome to a newsroom deep in the bowels of election night. It was 2:46 a.m. and Caroline Colvin, editorial editor at The Daily Orange, had been sitting in the room since 8:30 p.m. Morale was plummeting around her, but she didn’t — couldn’t — care yet. She was not just a Clinton supporter right now, but an editor with word counts to meet.

Only when she caught a ride home an hour later could she breathe long enough to let the disappointment roll in. Now, Colvin sits in disbelief with her head in her hands processing what this means, both as a journalist and as a queer woman of color. “I was coming at it as a DO editor. It didn’t settle for me until I saw tears,” she says. “For me it’s that we had one of the most qualified people who had the experience of working in a male-dominated field and who has always been feminism™.

But she still couldn’t break the glass.”

In the early morning on Nov. 9, Donald Trump swept 290 electoral votes out from under Hillary Clinton.

Though most coverage since has focused on protests against Trump from liberals, women, immigrants, people of color and members of the LGBT community, concerns remain regarding what Trump’s presidency means for media.

The President-elect’s past attacks on the press and on liberal-leaning news outlets have many journalists like Colvin, a junior magazine major, worrying about the future of the free press and politics.

“We need to uphold free speech. So many people admire Trump for how he speaks his mind — we should be afforded the same opportunity,” she says. “If someone as vulgar as Trump

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can be elected, you better not tell me I can’t speak out against injustice.”

While Colvin prepared the Opinion page for election night for weeks, she spent her free time engaged in politically charged phone calls with her girlfriend Genna Williams, a canvasser for Clinton’s Florida campaign.

On Wednesday, between drops of prewrites and language changes in Trump-related articles from “won’t be’s” to “might be’s” to “will be’s,” Colvin live-texted Williams about her resolve to participate in social justice conversations as a career. “This solidified my interest in political journalism,” Colvin says.

“I’m compelled to speak up because clearly half of y’all don’t get it — there’s over 270 electoral votes for people who don’t grasp basic human rights.”

Colvin has always had a clear interest in writing. Starting at age two, her mom put together makeshift bound books of printer paper for Colvin to scribble in. In grade school she won a Harry Potter contest with an essay she wrote in the car and slipped under the door of the local bookstore after closing time. Soon, she’d graduate to writing supernatural fiction and cutting up collages from Nylon and her favorite hip-hop or alt-punk music magazines. She didn’t find a voice for social justice, however, until her senior year at Bishop England High School.

Surrounded by mostly white students and a Catholic school rhetoric that discouraged same-sex marriage and bi-curiosity, Colvin sought solace in tumblr and feminist-centric blogs online.

When she got to Syracuse in 2014, she was finally able to fully explore her identity and given the tools express it.

What started as a post about Trans Day of Visibility became “Brown Girls Only,” an online forum dedicated to pushing back against systems of privilege and creating a safe space for queer women of color. Colvin’s mom, Dr. Cindy

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Colvin, watched her writing grow from waxy Crayola circles to narratives about National Coming Out Day. “She writes with a lot of strength. She’s not meek at all and I’ve never seen her like that,” Dr. Colvin says. “I know some people

“After reading her pieces, I found a passion for things I didn’t know about,” Mozden says. “She’s taught me a lot.”

This education is something Colvin strives to continue, now through narratives rooted in public policy.

“ I’m compelled to speak up because clearly half of y’all don’t get it — there’s over 270 electoral votes for people who don’t grasp basic human rights.” think writing is safe, but her voice is powerful. It needs to be out there.”

Colvin, who came out as bisexual to her mom two summers ago, feels coming out is different for people of color and cultural backgrounds often clash with being LGBT, ideas that compelled her to start BGO two years ago. Now she’s in her first same-sex relationship with Williams, and her blog still directly addresses issues facing underrepresented females that Williams says Colvin deals with daily. “What Caroline writes about is a lot of who she is and who she surrounds herself with,” Williams says.

“She really likes to study the intersection between being queer, being a woman and being a person of color all together.”

In light of the election and its implication on minorities and free speech, Colvin is determined to get contributors for her blog and amplify more voices than her own. Still, for Colvin’s best friend Sam Mozden, one voice was enough to open her eyes to the importance of voting, feminism and the struggles of women of color.

For Colvin, the media is in danger of being too normative, whitewashed and censored. It’s more important for her than ever to create safe spaces and forums of expression. Journalists, she says, need to educate the ignorant on identity and social issues.“A lot of it is life experience and exposure and if you don’t have that, or if you have exposure with a prejudiced lens, then there’s a lot you don’t see,” she says. “I think change takes people recognizing privilege and understanding there’s more to think about than what we can see on the surface.”

On the surface on election night, Colvin was an anxious editor trying to meet deadline. But underneath it all she was worried about her own rights and resolved to use her words to protect them.

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L A DY F E S T + L A DY PA R T S One modest writer interacts with a cheeky feminist festival.

written by Danielle LaRose

photo by Joey Marion

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rom a coveted wooden bench, I counted seven pixie cuts and four pairs of Doc Martens. No more than 15 people stood in the room, but they all managed to mingle, forming small groups around common threads of conversation. In an effort to entertain myself, I knocked my heels together, bumping a pair of acid wash jeans. My gaze followed them to the front entrance and stopped when a bare ass hit my peripherals.

“Is that a butt?” I asked my friend.

Two cheeks peeked out between a leather panel and the top of a barstool. Bright, white skin blared from between the patent of the fabric and the dark cherry wash of the wood. Dressed in a Fifty Shadesesque skirt/leather strap hybrid, this person’s body was covered only in strips of fabric from the waist down.

Earlier that night, this same guy greeted me, but our interaction left more to the imagination. I ambled in, my gaze cast down as he smeared a green “X” across the back of my shaking hand. My eyes followed the meshcovered arm encircling mine to greet a platinum blonde in a skintight velvet crop top that failed to conceal a navel.

Catching sight of some unseemly hairs, I looked up. At first, I was shocked to see a masculine jaw line and stared at his smudged black eyeliner, a stark contrast to the to the white hairs of his pompadour cut. He half smiled at me. Then, his eyes wandered to the two smiley faces strategically placed on my white t-shirt. Any other day, I would have worn high-waisted trousers and a cozy Madewell sweater, but for the sake of Ladyfest, I dressed the part.

First encounters over, I shuffled my black ankle boots into a sea of vans and scribbled-on red, green, and purple colored converse. My eyes flickered,

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jumping around the room from booth to booth. A deep breath later, I began talking to one of the tabling artists. Welp, this is uncomfortable, I thought. Not sure how to handle myself, I checked my phone for the fourth time that night. Minutes aren’t 30 seconds apart, but I kept looking.

Restless, I swiveled towards a booth with a banner reading “Feminist Kill Joy.” Floral patterns collided on petite pillows and multi-patterned zip wallets. It looked kitschy, but cute, and the complete antithesis of my minimalist, monochrome life.

I sidled up. A “Hey, boi” postcard and a quilt of embroidered commands greeted me. “Stop slut shaming,” one square read. “Sex is healthy,” said another.

The last one told me to “shut up.” I listened and looked down where even cheekier stitches greeted me. I blushed at the R-rated graphic images, which included embroidered boobs, handstitched IUD’s, and soiled tampons.

The vendor and I commiserated on the bullshit that is cat-calling for a couple of minutes, but I quickly ran out of words. I awkwardly stepped back and looked for other booths to occupy my time. Not wanting to converse with anyone else, I hesitated to move and teetered on the edge of my heels. That’s when I spotted the free food, a commodity at an event that offered “pay what you can,” but charged a dollar for bottled water. A small plate of what looked like cubes of cheese stared me into submission. I approached slowly, knowing it was a vegan booth, but praying the “pepper jack” would taste relatively decent. The second I put it in my mouth, it slid and crumbled in ways cheese never could.

The feeling of regret overwhelmed me and I resisted the urge to scrunch my nose or spit it out. I succeeded, but the taste lingered as I made my way downstairs to the open mic space.

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A long, mostly empty rectangular room opened before me. A “Ladyfest” banner and a single strand of pink lights added festivity to the all-white space.

Light poured in between taped together trashbags from a large window on the left-hand wall. Although the open mic was scheduled to start at 6, none of the performers had shown up yet.

Again, I dug my hands into my pockets. I tiptoed between patches of people. Tattoos crawled up arms and rested on clavicles. Septum piercings begged me to be bolder. Pops of color crept into my peripherals, and I started to wonder how much damage my hair could handle in the quest to dye it pink.

“Excuse me.” A voice interrupted my mental bleaching. I snapped into focus as a girl in a leather jacket and yet another enviable nose piercing approached the mic and apologized for the delay. The crowd didn’t seem to care. Instead, their eyes followed an orange balloon as it bounced from palm to palm.

The guy in the barely-there leather bottoms readjusted the mic for the first performer. She twitched awkwardly.

I saluted her, knowing I could never be so brave. From a distant corner, I saw the glitter smeared across her cheeks. It caught the light as she pulled out her phone, the vehicle for her reading of “Wild Geese.” Mary Oliver’s words rang into the room.

I attempted to listen, but small talk distracted me. After the reading, flecks of glitter trailed behind her and found a home on the hardwood floor.

The bathroom across from the stage flooded the back of the room with light.

It bounced off the speckled boards.

Peeking in, desperate for entertainment, I began to read the sharpie-tagged memories across the walls.

photo by Joey Marion

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“I’m just trying to hug a wall, here,” I overheard.

Me, too, I thought. Alone and miles from my comfort zone/bed, I stood against an air conditioner, stuck to its stability. This space, so inviting to every gender, sex and age, still couldn’t make me outgoing. Instead I clung to the perimeter, hiding from the growing crowd and its influx of small talk. I was a sober stranger in a sea of acquaintances and of-age artists.

At 7:53 p.m., I had seven minutes to distract myself before the first band.

My phone was nearly dead, thanks to my incessant time checks. I twiddled my thumbs, bit my nails and fidgeted, trying not to drown the battery. Two other introverts stood next to me.

Instead of talking, we stood restlessly alone together and I reveled in knowing I wasn’t the only loner there.

Soon, I looked up from my concentrated fiddling to find I was the youngest in the room, save for an eight-year-old whose familiar balloon had served as my sole entertainment for a sad amount of time now. I watched her cowboy boots float her from person to person. Her smile stood constant under blunt bangs of cherry Kool-Aid hair. I pictured myself at eight years old and cringed. This little girl’s grey and black striped tunic and leggings were more sophisticated than anything the early 2000’s had to offer and her eye makeup wasn’t bright blue shadow and misplaced body glitter, but perfectly swept lids of gold and subtle swipes of mascara. She had the excitement of a child in a room of new friends and approached almost everyone there.

Somehow at 20 I was unable to leave a wall; she was eight and finding common ground with people more than twice her age. She’s so confident, I thought, and totally won’t have an awkward phase.

The crowd shuffled to make room for a drum set. We part and glom back together as mic static signals our attention. Her leather jacket discarded,

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above & opposite by Joey Marion

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“ A quiet, half naked bystander until now, he manned the soundboards and the entrance, but never uttered a word.

Rather, he let his music and his outfit speak volumes.” the earlier emcee tuned her keyboard.

High notes bombarded the airwaves.

A familiar crimson velvet and patent leather peek out from behind the drum set. Now a regular character in my night, the same pantsless guy who greeted me slicked back his hair and started to tap his foot to the coming beat. I had no idea what to expect, but what happened next was absolutely not it.

Power chords pierced the room, cutting it with a volume so violent you could feel it. The room pulsed with inaudible sound. A drum solo shook the ground. Waving hands and wriggling bodies cut through clouds of smoke as a mosh pit took hold of the crowd.

A mosher shoved her way into the perimeter and tossed fistfuls of glitter into the air. I watch, unscathed but afraid to move; MTV’s Awkward once called glitter “the herpes of arts and crafts.”

Truer words have not been spoken.

Meanwhile, the drummer scowled in fury, shoulders hunched as he fueled the shaking crowd. The singer, whose screams were merely ornamental and utterly drowned by the beat, ran off the stage and circled the space.

She bumped me and I recoiled.

I stayed for their full set, and even halfway through the next band, but the image of the drummer stayed with me. A quiet, half naked bystander until now, he manned the

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soundboards and the entrance, but never uttered a word. Rather, he let his music and his outfit speak volumes.

At 9:45 p.m., I walked out to a cover of “Cherry Bomb.” I lingered at the entrance, overhearing film analyses of “The Lobster.” After passing smokers

“ The room pulses with inaudible sound and a drum solo shakes the ground we stand on.”

taking drags, I realized I couldn’t keep pretending. I felt like an intruder. I was an outsider looking in, even though I paid the optional entry fee. My car, which I spent the latter part of the night praying for not to be booted, welcomed me warmly with familiarity and a phone charger. I scrolled through Spotify, searching for something to sing to.

“Shorty Don’t Wait” flooded the speakers as I pulled up Google maps to guide me the four minutes home. I lacked direction everywhere, not just Ladyfest.

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photo by Samantha Lee Robles

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CAMPUS

PA S S I N G This is what happens when race is assumed.

written by Brianna Moné Williams

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hree biracial children sat on the sidelines of the gymnasium during recess, watching all the other kids play basketball. Although similar in ethnicity, two of them had noticeably darker complexions. In the middle of talking and watching the game, one of the children stopped and pointed to himself and the girl next to him.

“We’re Oreos because we’re black on the outside and white on the inside,” he said. “Sarah, you’re an uh-oh Oreo because you’re white on the outside and black on the inside.” For Sarah Heikkinen, a Newhouse graduate student, this memory still stings.

It took her almost 10 years to realize how much of an impact that statement had on her. Her racial identity was reduced to nothing more than just a novelty cookie — one that doesn’t even exist anymore. “Even today, I struggle with hating the white part of me, especially because it’s the part of me that everybody sees,” she says. “I kind of resent it because people automatically make an assumption about me.”

Heikkinen’s mother is black and her father is white. Still, she possesses predominantly white features: blonde hair, green eyes, freckles, and pale skin.

These features allow her to white present, causing her to struggle with accepting herself and being accepted by others.

More often than not, people perceive Heikkinen as white, so she finds herself in the borderlands between two races.

White presenting, or passing, is having the ability to pass as another

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race because of the paleness of your skin. In the Jim Crow South, it was common for mixed individuals to pass.

Yet the “one-drop rule” — where a single drop of "black blood" made a person a black — reigned. Now biracial, black and white Americans deal with similar discrimination in reverse. That one drop may be too insignificant to be considered part of the black race. In fact, if an individual can pass, he or she may experience difficulty fitting in with the black community.

In 2000, the Census Bureau began to allow people to check more than one box to describe themselves.

Because of that change, the number of black and white biracial Americans has more than doubled. But with this

“When I was younger, I never wanted to pick a side. Now, I want to make sure people realize I am a black woman because I feel like that gets overlooked.”

From checking boxes on forms to fulfilling quotas, society often sees race as a way to define various criteria as a part of everyday life. Sometimes this means having to choose one race over another and dealing with racial assumptions. For Boyd, it’s confusing when others don’t know she’s biracial or assume her race. “I guess being able to pass as a lot of different races makes other people not know how to categorize me, but it has also made me second guess how to categorize myself,” Boyd says.

Like Boyd, Kiara Bunting, who has brown hair and a little darker than fair

“ Even today, I struggle with hating the white part of me, especially because it’s the part of me that everybody sees.” change came introspective questions in regards to identity, racial ambiguity, and classification. For Kayla Boyd, a graduate student, often mistaken for being Mexican and Puerto Rican, these are questions she’s only just started to answer. “In my mind, I always saw myself as being mixed,” Boyd says.

complexion, is racially ambiguous upon first sight. Bunting, a junior advertising major, doesn’t deny that her physical appearance gives her privilege, but it hurts her to know that she won’t be fully accepted into different cultures, black or white. Despite being half black, she often struggles with saying “they”

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above & opposite by Samantha Lee Robles

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MEDLEY MAGA ZINE

or “we” when it comes to including herself as part of the black community.

“It’s scary because I’m like, ‘No I am black, and I do identify with this culture,’ and on the other hand, I’m like ‘Do I?’ because a big part of the culture is the struggle that they’ve been through, the camaraderie they have because of those experiences, and the victories they can share because of it,” she says. “I’m not a part of that a lot of the time. It’s hard for me to distinguish when it’s okay for me to be a part of it and when it’s not.”

Heikkinen, who self-identifies as biracial, has the same struggle in recognizing the privilege of being able to pass as a white person. She believes it’s important if you’re passing not to deny your privilege, but to realize that the color of your skin can present an advantage in certain situations.“Just like with any ‘white looking’ person, you walk into a store and people aren’t going to follow you around,” she says. “A cop isn’t going

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CAMPUS

to pull you over and question you or think you’re a threat. I guess it’s a privilege of blending in, of invisibility in a way because people just don’t notice you.”

Growing up, Heikkinen wrestled with thoughts people had about her. She often wished she had darker skin so she could encounter the same experiences

“ A cop isn’t going to pull you over and question you or think you’re a threat.”

as her mother, brother, and sister, who are a few shades darker than her. She felt as though people took her less seriously because she didn’t experience discrimination in the same ways they did.

“As someone who passes, I feel guilty in a lot of ways that I was afforded this

privilege because of the way my DNA spliced,” Heikkinen says. “You feel helpless because it’s like how can I help a race that doesn’t fully accept me.”

Still, she hopes to use her “white privilege” to open a dialogue for mixed, biracial, and multiracial people. Although forward thinking in her mentality, she is not sure if she’s ever going to have to stop explaining herself to others. After spending so much time having people discredit her blackness, Heikkinen started to casually show a picture of her and her mother to those who needed validation of her race because of her deceiving physical appearance.

“I always had a hard time because people don’t understand that struggle,” she says. “I think that sometimes people forget that at the end of the day, I am still black. I am just a different type of black and I have a different type of experience.”

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25 0 S Q UA R E F E E T Small spaces are making room for Syracuse’s homeless population.

written by Erica Petz

photo by Kelli Collins

D

olphus Johnson was one of about 800 homeless people in Syracuse. His thin build, emphasized by his baggy polo and jeans, hints to all the meals he has skipped. The lines etched in the 40-year-old’s face suggest years of stress over where to rest his head for the night. His back brace implies a complex medical history, adding to his plight.

After over a decade of drifting amongst acquaintances’ houses, Johnson wound up on the harbor side of the Onondaga

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Creekwalk one night with nowhere to go. While he appreciated the help of shelters like the Rescue Mission and the Oxford Inn, Johnson didn’t like such temporary stays. “The reason I want a home is so I don’t have to be in and out. I wanna be at home,” he says.

Today, Johnson has his wish.

This past July, he and another former homeless man moved into the 250-square-foot homes on Rose Avenue, the first two of many to be built by A Tiny Home for Good.

Executive director Andrew Lunetta, a tall, fresh-faced man tanned from building under the summer sun, founded the organization in 2014 after eight years of volunteering at the homeless shelters and asking people like Johnson what they wanted in a home. “Nobody says they want a mansion. Guys want a place that’s small and manageable, and when they close the door, they know their stuff will still be there when they come back,” Lunetta explains.

He fulfilled those needs with tiny

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homes. Similar programs around the country include those in Chicago, Madison, Austin, San Jose, and several other cities. Melissa Cadwell, the coordinator for sustainability management at Syracuse University, thinks the program could be “a start” to eradicating homelessness in Syracuse. “What they’ve done in the city, giving people who need homes their own personal space that is just large enough for them, is an amazing program,” Cadwell says.

With three more houses built on South Salina Street in November, A Tiny Home for Good will have housed five people total in 2016.

The organization already secured six more lots to build on next year. As the program expands, Lunetta will fill the houses based on references from the homeless shelters. He is currently choosing guys he’d feel comfortable moving into a neighborhood. Unlike in the tiny house villages cropping up nationwide, the houses built by A Tiny Home for Good mix in with the rest of the city. Erin Fitzgerald, the digital communications specialist for the National Alliance to End Homelessness, praises Lunetta’s approach. “It’s really reintegrating back into the community as much as you can, and that’s huge,” she says. In September, Johnson had already met his neighbors and even hosted a barbecue on his lawn. “I got some cool neighbors,” Johnson says, “People are legitimate with me around as long as I don’t bring them problems.”

Born in Rochester, Johnson enlisted in the Army in 1996 and was sent to Fort Jackson, South Carolina, but he left after two months because of medical issues. He wasn’t there long enough to use the GI Bill to attend college, so he claimed himself as a disabled person at Social Security. Johnson moved to Syracuse to live with his then-girlfriend, who would soon give birth to the first of

three children. When their relationship ended and the kids entered foster care, Johnson had to move out, and that’s how easy it is to become homeless.

A wide, bright grin spreads over his face as he waters his already lush, green grass, his flowers, and his vegetable garden. “I got squash, spinach…I don’t know what the other thing is, but there’s three of them,” Johnson says, gesturing at the wooden enclosure in the backyard.

A stick that reads “radish” pokes out of the soil. Inside the house, a bed with a fitted sheet sits in one corner, Johnson’s

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find some of the worst poverty not just in Syracuse but in the entire nation,” Lunetta says. According to the most recent Census Bureau report in 2015, 31 percent of Syracuse’s population lives in poverty, but it’s difficult to get them recognition and support. Lunetta recalls how when seeking community approval for the tiny homes, people would angrily storm out of meetings before Lunetta could even finish his presentation, saying things like, “Look, we don’t want to have to step over people when they’re drunk in the

“ According to the most recent Census Bureau report in 2015, 31 percent of Syracuse’s population lives in poverty.” clothes rest in a pile in the closet, and the bathroom gleams spotless. A card reading “Take care of yourself ” and a metal crucifix adorn the kitchen table.

Johnson views the tenant-landlord interaction as a 50-50 relationship with both parties carrying equal weight. He pays Lunetta the rent with his Social Security money, and Lunetta provides the roof over his head. “I’m just a 50 guy. That’s what I’m doing up in here, keeping my house clean and doing what I’m supposed to do. And I just got my laundry did — that’s a 50,” Johnson explains, “I just try to keep it real.”

In the university bubble, it’s easy to forget — or be indifferent to — how much of the city’s residents are struggling like Johnson. “You walk 10 minutes away from campus and you’ll

morning,” Lunetta says, “The stigma that surrounds homelessness is so negative.”

Fitzgerald says attitudes like these are common. “It’s helpful to make it so your neighbors understand it’s not ‘us’ versus ‘them’ — anyone could become homeless. These are your neighbors, your friends, your family,” she says.

However, Johnson has faith that tiny houses will make getting out of homelessness easier. “I look over my friends and hope they can get somewhere in life and get tiny homes.

Most of them is in shelters. They don’t know when to get out and they ask me, ‘How did you do that?’” Johnson says.

With Lunetta and A Tiny Home for Good leading the way, tiny houses could be the way out for Syracuse’s homeless, until 800 dwindles down to zero.

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GLOBE

M O M E N T S A B R OA D international photos from Syracuse University students

(clockwise from top right) photos by Jess Bayer, Ciara Reina, Laura Fidati, & Claudia RubĂ­n

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“ THE FIRST STEP TO CONTROLLING YOUR WORLD IS TO CONTROL YOUR CULTURE. TO MODEL AND DEMONSTRATE THE KIND OF WORLD YOU DEMAND TO LIVE IN. TO WRITE THE BOOKS. MAKE THE MUSIC. SHOOT THE FILMS. PAINT THE ART.”

Chuck Palahniuk, American novelist & journalist