stanford university
winter 2019
style & culture
MINT
LETTER FROM THE EDITORS dear reader, This winter we explored the concepts of warmth, security, and intimacy in contrast to the cold, wet season we have come to know as Stanford winter. The arrival of winter often invites quiet introspection on oneself and one’s comfort spaces. Winter quarter also always seems to stand out during the academic year as a time during which the weather urges us indoors and we are challenged to finding comfort and connection through new outlets. In this issue, we explore how the concepts of warmth, security, and attachment manifest in a variety of modes, both in the context of fashion and in our campus culture. Our earth-toned cover swaddles the pages of this issue, with our cover image providing an intimate introduction to the inviting photography pieces in this issue. Our photographers represent the concept of warmth in a multitude of visual concepts. We showcase the ‘privilege of warmth’ through a stylish coat editorial series and explore the nostalgic idea of the security blanket in a cleansing spread. We highlight the beauty of our scars, often lesser seen under heavy winter dress, showcase the different manifestations of intimacy through our couples series, and fuse style, design, and color to celebrate eclectic personalities in fashion. Our writing dives deep into our key concepts as seen through our reflective, vulnerably written pieces. We explore the concept of ‘cuffing’ and its lesser known experiences from the perspective of a Black woman. We provide a truly raw interview with incarcerated artist Mesro Coles-El and highlight an introspective look at homophily, the “tendency of individuals to associate with similar others.” We tackle the issue of imposter syndrome through the personal narratives of several artists on campus. Finally, we address the loneliness and discomfort that accompanies success within the black community. We extend a warm thank you to everyone who contributed to this issue. We hope this issue brings you closer to your own intimacies, and our expressions of such intimacies. As always, we hope you enjoy exploring the pages that follow.
Mirna El-khalily Daniel Sanchez Iman Floyd-Carroll MINT Editors-in-Chief
MINT STAFF
editors-in-chief
social media directors
mirna EL-KHALILY iman FLOYD-CARROLL daniel SANCHEZ
diana KHONG
creative director
kiara BOBOFF markie WAGNER
annie NG
managing director
web directors sponsorships directors
alexa DAVY
lyndsey KONG serena SOH
design directors
financial officers
izzy AMPIL nova MEURICE
writing director em WILDER
poetry director maya SALAMEH
photography directors chloe PETERSON-NAFZIGER jessica YEUNG sarah OHTA
modeling directors ryan WIMSATT
marketing director daniel SANCHEZ
web content managers udani SATARASINGHE katie SMYTHE vanessa FELIX katherine WAISSBLUTH
hannah PARK meghana REDDY
makeup artist em WILDER
designers izzy AMPIL isabel BENAK arkira CHANTARATANANOND eunice JUNG caitlin KLAUER miranda LI ciera OKERE alex POPKE udani SATARASINGHE griffin SOMARATNE kelsey WANG
stylists kali HOUGH jabreea JOHNSON bradedon SILVERS griffin SOMARATNE ryan WIMSATT
IN THIS ISSUE 6
14 24 34 40 46
56
62
68
cover and table of contents photos by Chloe Peterson-Nafziger modeled by Ashlan Best
82 86 92
eclectic personalities imposter syndrome security blanket success and loneliness ode to soybean milk sporting your jacket a conversation with mesro coles-el healing without hiding racial diversity in the latinx community homophily cuffed privilege of warmth 6
PERSONALITIES
photographed by Petar Hristov styled by Braedon Silvers
PERSONALITIES
modeled by Kamilah Arteaga, Tanya Otsetarova, Jessica Gonzalez, & Emilie Kono clothing courtesy of Bloomingdale’s The aesthetic of eclecticism has stormed the world of contemporary fashion seemingly overnight. Mixing countless garments, textures, and styles dominates the runway and it is here to stay. The different faces this trend enables us to put on constitutes our personality. And what better represents our cravings, fears, and insecurities than the way we go about hiding them? What do all of those fabrics hide beneath the surface?
PERSONALITIES
PERSONALITIES
IMPOSTER IMPOSTER POSTER IMPOSTER IMPOSTER POSTER POSTE OSTER IMPOSTER POSTER
SYNDROME
SYNDROME S Y N DR O M E SYNDROME S Y N DR O M E SYNDROME S Y N DR O M E SYNDROME photographed by Jessica Yeung modeled by
Cairo Mo Annie Ng Sarah Ohta Benny Siam
Shannen Torres Aja Two Crows Jessica Yeung
E
“
Imposter syndrome for me manifests via constant comparisons of myself with others - even when I receive praise from those exact people... As a digital artist, it’s extremely easy for me to see someone else using a piece of software or a technique I haven’t experienced and immediately feel I’m somehow falling behind. Even though I know everyone else is probably just trying to figure it out too, it’s a thought pattern that emerges all the time without intention.”
“it’s a thought pattern that emerges all the time without intention.”
A N N I E
N G
f r o m t h e P H O T O G R A P H E R :
R
ecently, I have questioned my place in the art world at Stanford. Before college, I practiced photography independently without formal instruction; taking classes and incorporating photography into my academic pursuits challenged how I viewed art and my position as an artist. With this newfound pressure to create, participate in gallery shows, and pursue art as a purely intellectual field, I started to question the validity of my work and my intentions as a photographer. Especially when the
professional art world is a space not established for minorities, it is hard to feel like your work belongs and will be appreciated. Thoughts like: “Am I focused enough?” “Do I put enough thought into my work?” “I always feel like others are doing more, doing better than I am.” “Do I need some grand philosophical quest to be an artist?” “Does my work matter? Do people care?” “I don’t belong here.”
J E S S I C A
crept into my head after numerous failed attempts to become more involved in the arts. I realized I could not be the only one with these doubts, so I wanted to explore how other student artists felt about their experience at Stanford and outside. Ultimately, I have tried to accept that it is okay for me to still be exploring my aims as a photographer, and having multiple sectors of interest does not make my work any less valid. Not everybody will like your work, but find the people that support you and help you grow. I interviewed just a small sector of art students, but even then, it shows that we are not alone in our struggles to feel like we belong. Please reach out to me if you have any questions or want to be part of this project – I will be continuing to interview students about their experiences.
Y E U N G
“ “i was very lost during the p
first u
r
months s
u
i
n S A R A H
of g O H T A
p h o t o g r a p h y because i was learning completely on my own.”
Looking back, though, working independently forced me to find a purpose behind my photography that was completely internal. I’ve definitely grown the most when experimenting for hours on my own with different styles of editing or executing strange concepts with friends that are very open to my crazy ideas. I now use my Instagram to create art for myself and include my friends in my work by teaching them to pose and ideating my most experimental concepts with them. Even wthough Instagram can create a new type of imposter syndrome because you’re constantly and immediately compared to other artists, it still helps me stay motivated... but I have felt pressure to not declare a completely artistic major because of the lack of respect for less technical majors at Stanford.” S A R A H
O H T A
A J A
T W O
C R O W S
“
Usually the art speaks for itself. And at some point, if you’re producing quality content and quality work, then other people’s opinions are really not important at all...Filmmaking, especially, is such a long term process. It requires you to have an extreme focus on one subject for so long while also taking artistic considerations into account. So there isn’t really a lot of room left over to consistently and constantly – at least for me – mull over in my mind whether I feel like an imposter or not.”
“the only way to overcome imposter syndrome is to try your best not to engage with it.”
S H A N N E N
“
I feel imposter syndrome all the time. I subconsciously pat myself on the back every day for pretending to know what I’m doing. I’ve yet to distinguish between everything being a result of luck or hard work, and even then I tell myself that it’s just a matter of what’s meant to be... I have to remind myself, even when I’m producing work, that its me producing it. Otherwise, I look at my art and think that there’s no way I have true “talent.” It’s weird being paranoid that you’re going to be exposed for being a fake artist when you literally use your hands and your mind to produce original work and you see yourself doing it.”
T O R R E S
“art here is often
fundamentally
e
“
l
i
t
i
s
t .“
There’s this ‘renewed’ interest in urbanism, and in Black and brown culture, that forwards a pattern of appropriation. Class fetishism, appropriation of poorness, and just a culture of collecting identities to showcase them – such as posing as a marginalized identity to gain clout and to feel like the true suffered artist – is difficult to have to live with at Stanford and anywhere outside of my hood.”
“i have been systemically told that my voice does not matter or that my thoughts are not of value.�
B E N N Y
S I A M
“
Having my work put next to other people’s work, especially in the context of something with a structure or standard like a juried exhibition, has made me doubt the value of what I do. When I make art, I’m usually working through a troubled idea, something that demands my attention in many ways. But when I am confronted with what I have made, it is hard sometimes to acknowledge that it is “good art” or even “good” when it is constantly compared to others’ work. I learned a lot of my art through years of teaching myself, so the lack of a formal technical foundation sometimes feels very prominent in my art when it’s placed next to other art... I think being an artist at Stanford makes you inherently prone to imposter syndrome because the very practice of artmaking is not valued or seen as profitable.” C A I R O
M O
security blanket
by Kelsey Wang modeled by Alice Artica & Dylan Sherman styled by Kali Hough
clothing courtesy of Bloomingdale’s
it’s so easy to hide
to stay with what’s familiar
but we cannot simply always seek security
because there is worth in taking risks
and there is joy
to be found in the unknown
it is only in the absence of certainty,
that we can become who we really are.
SUCCESS and
LONELINESS
By focusing on issues of identity and identification, I attempt to examine the feelings of doubt and discomfort which face blacks who wish to succeed in a system which is structured to deny them access. How do systems of representation, and the portrayal of success both seduce and repel? I wish primarily to give voice to the psychic spaces in which exist both hope and frustration, faith and failure, and the compromises which must be negotiated in order to survive. This allows for an examination of the psychic conflict which results in a desire to both belong to and resist a society that denies blackness even as it affirms. MICHAEL
RICHARDS
written by Allison Oddman & Esther Osmole modeled by Alexa Davy & Mwengwe Mpekansambo photographed by Helen Liu
A
s soon as I enter that room, I feel it. I am something like my father, the first one in his classroom at a university in Oklahoma, rearranging his notes as his peers file in. Each new set of eyes regards him cooly, taking the seats on his left and right, ensuring that he is surrounded. Now, I too am regarded with a mix of curiosity and boredom, in a room devoid of any trace of my father, of the home that built me up, and with a clamor of impatience, love, and discipline, pushed me here, promising that a better life awaited my efforts. A glance around the room reveals that I am not a part of the majority. The American Dream fights against my reality – I feel completely alone. This loneliness is almost inevitable. You aim high and push forward into spaces where there are so little people with faces like yours that your color becomes stark, undeniable. The word “mistake� comes to mind. Inclusion and diversity can at times become an attempt to usher in people of color in the name of progress and only do half the work. The structures built for them, if they exist at all, are built intentionally fragile because they lack a simple truth: access does not mean acceptance. How can you build yourself into the narrative of success, when, if you disappeared, all evidence of you and what you represent would be wiped clean, unnoticed? As in many immigrant households,
the American Dream was sacred in my home – it became law. It necessitated studying, speaking, and assimilating to the American way of life. Although my father spent countless hours conversing with family, reading newspapers, and listening to traditional music from his home country, as soon as he left the
house, he spoke only of software, stock, and the recession – in impeccable English. I was raised in an uproar of laughter and music and culture, but it was understood that there was no need to bring those things into our education, careers, or upward journey. In all the best places, my home was not present, and to me, this
As artist MICHAEL RICHARDS insists, the great irony we face as people of color in pursuit of success is the will to belong that so fervently pushes us to find new ways to resist.
made complete sense. However, these numbers prove especially dismal: ascending into the top 1% means joining the 3.9% made up by people of color and diversifying a class that is 96.1% white. Despite the work and sacrifice, success in predominantly white spaces becomes a struggle all on its own. And on your own. The American Dream cannot hold against reality. For many people of color, striving for the Dream means reaching its peak – the top of the American socioeconomic ladder. A large part of the minority student experience is grappling with the fact that institutions like Stanford
were never made with you in mind and don’t even put up a pretense of guilt about it. When I got into Stanford, the first thought birthed in my mind, the first thing that so easily slipped off the tongue of others as they uttered their congratulations was: “You made it.” And yes, from a certain perspective, I had made it. There’s something to be said about getting into the most selective school in the country. But while Stanford offers immense opportunity, it’s also the quintessential reminder that the American Dream is unattainable for people of color. Meeting with my Pre-Major Advisor was something I always
dreaded: my classes, major questions, or even my general well-being never seemed to be at the forefront of her mind. Instead, her interest laid solely in my box braids. Without fail, every meeting we had would start with her asking me whether or not I washed my hair, how long the braids took to install, and if they ever started to smell. My dorm provided no haven for such ignorance. Throughout fall... and winter... and spring, my Black dorm-mates and I were frequently confused for one another, and when we confronted the perpetrators about it, it was brushed off and met with, “Well you would see why we would confuse you all. You guys look a lot alike from certain angles.� Stanford and its white majority not only love to make a spectacle out of students of color, but they also find pride in reducing us to a monolith. The microagressions I face on a daily basis have made me deeply question my place here and if it will all be worth it. Malcolm X once said that in order to free ourselves from the confines of white supremacy, we must recapture our culture and identity. Do-
ing so at Stanford is far more easier said than done when the pinnacle of intelligence here was intended to be the antithesis of you. However, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who boldly proclaimed, “Next time someone tells Bronx girls to take off their hoops, they can just say they’re dressing like a Congresswoman,” empowered many students of color to wear our skin and our backgrounds proudly and with no regard for who it offends. In lieu of respectability politics, we boldly proclaim that we’re Stanford too. This loneliness can act as a purposeful call to action that can help develop points of
connection. In the individual, it is the willingness to stand and make a “home” for oneself in the face of the unfamiliar, through small markers of culture like my skin, my clothes, my mother’s wooden bracelet, my father’s favorite proverb, and a willingness to reveal these parts of myself to those around me. If that familiar glance around a room reveals at least one face like your own, the opportunity for building a presence for experiences like yours exists. Even in spheres of success made intentionally and implicitly to exclude communities of color, we are not an isolated, lonely minority.
photographed by Eunice Jung & Sarah Ohta modeled by Helen Liu, Kelli Santos, & Niall Sohan
an ode to soybean milk what does strength look like to you?
drink milk, it makes you strong. and to be strong is to survive in america and you must be strong because like the nights i’ve spent memorizing the alphabet or rehearsing american idioms, you too will feel so a l o n e
drink milk, it makes you strong. and to be strong is to be taller than the walls that were built against you so you can look over the other side.
drink milk, don’t choke. drink, don’t.
SPORTING JACKET Beyond physical touch or romantic gesture, there exists a form of intimacy between partners in the donning, sharing, interacting with, or shedding of clothing. We attempted to capture the many ways couples express love and intimacy with clothing and fashion. photographed by Olivia Panarella & Paul Phan written by Malia Mendez
S
cuffed heels in hand, mascara smeared below my eyes, and voice hoarse from screaming the words to “September” for likely the fourth time that night, I ambled, shivering, out of my junior prom. My date offered me his suit jacket, and judging from his drenched undershirt, he surely didn’t need it—so I accepted. I regarded it as a gesture of platonic chivalry, unbothered by questions of significance. We were just friends, anyway. I wore the jacket until he drove away from my best friend’s house that night. That summer, my date became my boyfriend. I wrapped his blanket around me in June, threw his undershirt over my drenched lingerie after our friends decided to run into the ocean at midnight in November, and stole a pair of socks in January. After all of that sharing and washing and returning, I still wasn’t prepared for the night he outstretched his arm and offered me his old track jacket—with no conditions, no expectation that I would return it at the end of the evening or after I did another load of laundry, but indefinitely. Taking what he held meant acknowledging that we both wanted to stay. It wouldn’t be a quick return. I hesitated, but I took it. I spent the entire drive home wondering if I’d made the wrong choice. The idea of sporting a man’s jacket had previously struck me as antithetical to feminism—it was a literal representation of being claimed. A girl says no to a guy, and he insists;
a guy sees another guy’s name on her back, and he concedes. I wanted to hold my own. Anyway, wouldn’t it just make the end that much more brutal? Somehow I even managed to think that I seemed clingy by taking it—when he had literally offered it himself, unprompted. But I kept the jacket and soon after gave him an old sweatshirt. People had opinions and oppositions to this part— “What’s a guy going to do with a girl’s sweatshirt?” “Isn’t that kind of backwards?” “Was his family not weirded out by that?” I didn’t care. We were happy. The clothing allowed closeness in spite of distance—home was building itself elsewhere, outside of me. I’d made him a duplicate key, invited him in, told him he could use the chestnut lotion in the bathroom, all by letting go of a lintball-coated sweatshirt. Undressing is intimate and vulnerable, of course, but there’s something even more sacred about dressing each other, bounding ourselves in what
belonged to the other. The jacket quickly became inadequate for my craving; I wanted to be covered from head to toe in the socks from ski trips, pajama pants from last Christmas, sweatshirts from college trips. Seeing someone you love dressed like you, dressed in you, is an intimacy of spiritual nature. It is a universal practice charged with memories, nostalgia, and hope. The clothing likely will never be touched again without releasing a bit of them. Even after they give it back, you know better than to ignore the fact that some of the possession remains. This frightened me when I viewed it as one-sided predation, especially given the tendency of men feeling the manifest destiny to conquer and provide. But in mutualism, in sharing with each other rather than claiming each other, it was uniquely beautiful. It was generosity, not territorialism. He wouldn’t be keeping me safe as I cowered in the cold; I’d be keeping him safe too. It was defiance, but a gentle kind.
modeled by Brandon Simmons & Breeana Fairley
modeled by Esther Tsvayg & Syd Westley
modeled by Pilli De Jesus & Emily Elliot
modeled by Neville Muringayi & Chakia Hall-Watley
Fluid ownership, as manifested the communal sports bras or cocktail dresses in your high school friend group, is all the more weighty when it is romantic. It means allowing yourself to be unfolded, seen, and then folded up again with more intentionality and form. Sharing means surrendering some control, and when both partners choose this route, it constructs more space for growth together in vulnerability. Clothing has a unique ability to absorb—the fabric adopts its experiences, like songs adopt associations, and allowing someone to deliberately weave in whatever they want requires trust like no other. Wearing someone’s clothing gives you access to the past they lived in it as well as the future of its significance. To be content in those pieces is to assure them your cravings are for more than physicality, but for full envelopment in each other—falling into the gaps between the two of you and building them up even if they may eventually crumble. We broke up, and that burgundy Jack’s Surfboards sweatshirt is not just my bargain from the outlets at home; it’s the sweatshirt that belonged to him for months. His smell left in it was so brutally tangible that I even had to wash the sweatshirt when he gave it back. I’m sure his jacket is as polluted with me. Still, I won’t change my mind. When I love someone that much again, I won’t mind the process. I won’t mind the new gravity, the woven memories, the giving and getting; all of it is worth it for that night he’s away and I listen to the first date song wrapped in his jacket (blanket, shirt, sweatshirt). Sharing is surrendering in confidence that I can trust you with pieces of me, and you with me.
illustrations by Nova Meurice
A CONVERSATION WITH
MESRO COLES-EL by Julianna Yonis Mea Anderson, Linguistic Consultant The Prison Renaissance Zine project pairs incarcerated artists with Stanford students for the purpose of collaborative creation. For the past year, I have been working with Mesro, a graffiti artist, emcee, and poet currently incarcerated at San Quentin State Prison. I feel lucky to be able to call him a friend and artistic partner. The following is a transcript of our most recent conversation about art, incarceration, and what it means to build bridges over walls. Please note: This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity and brevity. Mesro and I are periodically interrupted by a recorded voice reminding us we are being monitored, and halfway through we are forced to hang up and resume our call ten minutes later because phone calls at San Quentin are restricted to fifteen minutes. This is the reality of communicating while incarcerated. It is one of many the forms of isolation, both large and small, that we are fighting to overcome. Julianna: We should start by letting you introduce yourself in your own words—who you are, the art you make, and anything you want people to know. Mesro: Okay. So, my name is George ColesEl. That’s what I was born as. I’m actually George Edward Coles IV; alright, it’s the name on the birth certificate. I go by Mesro the Human Sun and my art is everything to me. From, you know, writing rhymes to graffiti art to poems—mixing the two together—and whatever else can come from that. Art and creativity and expression—that’s for me. When I was younger, I was a breakdancer. But I’m like forty now, so breakdancing for me makes it literal. I mean if I try to break dance, I might break something. So, we’re not going to do that anymore. Art for me is so freeing. It’s so therapeutic, right? When you sit down at a blanksheet of paper, the possibilities are endless. You
know, Michelangelo was famous for saying that sculptures were already inside any slab of marble that he was going to mess with. I guess that might be true for any medium. The possibilities are so endless—just to draw whatever is in that piece of paper. Sometimes it takes you to, you know, a different world—a different place. Sometimes it starts a story, you know? And creativity is just, like, the greatest expression of human ambition. Because that’s what humans are known for: their ambition, their drive to get things done. So, if we can do that in a creative and fun way, then you know, all the merrier, right? You know, paint the town with your slogans. Right? That was what I used to do as a graffiti artist. I used to go and hit up murals on things like blank walls. I used to really like getting up on boxcars because I knew they were going to be pulling out of there and driving somewhere else, and so someone in a
whole different state— Recorded Voice: This call and/or telephone number will be monitored and recorded. Mesro: —might be able to see my art. It would be like “Mesro” and a solar system in the fill-in on the side of a boxcar. Or, if it was more stationary, I might just do a “Mesro” crawling up one of the walls, with some kind of weird Cheshire Cat-looking character pushing it up or something. Who knows! Julianna: That’s awesome. Mesro: But graffiti art is also like the street’s newspaper. What I mean by that is, sometimes there are stories that don’t get put on the news. Stories that don’t get published in newspapers. So, it’s on the graffiti artist to make sure those stories get broadcast. That’s why when Alton got killed in Louisiana, they hit up a mural with his face on the wall where he died, right there, right? Even though it was very publicized, that’s like a graffiti artist’s tribute to their life. Usually it’s like a big ol’ mural depicting their face, surrounded by their loved ones or whatever. My friend Industrious, he passed away when I was on my first prison term. He got hit by an SUV. And I found—there was a restaurant where he had got hit, and so I asked the restaurant owner if I could do a tribute piece to him. Because he got killed and it never made the newspaper or anything. It never got shown on the news... Like no one knew it happened. Because he was
running across the street and he got hit by this car and the car kept going and his life was gone. So. Someone discovered him laid out. So, I was able to hit up an obituary piece for him there, remembering all the cool stuff about him, including one of my favorite verses he rapped. His name was Industrious, it was a name I gave him. He was very industrious about his rhymes. He wanted to be—you know, really wanted to be the best rapper ever. He worked very hard at it. I remember my brother dusted him off in a battle, but that’s another story for another day. Julianna: I’d like to hear that story sometime. You’ve told me about that tribute and it’s a beautiful thing that you were able to do. Mesro: Industrious came back and got him, but my brother destroyed him the first time. And he came back and got his props, you know what I’m saying? Okay, so what’s next? Julianna: When I think about incarceration, it’s really a system of exclusion, of othering. So how do you see that operating and how do you think that art, and writing, and activism have possibilities to connect us past these systems of exclusion? Mesro: When we have social issues, it makes us want to express something that maybe we wouldn’t be able to say because we don’t have a public platform or stage. Alright? So, writing about the things that affect you most, it’s a good, therapeutic way to work through your feelings about
it and see if you can make any negative things that come up turn positive. You know what I mean? So, you can turn your outrage into a well-written letter to a state representative. Or you can turn that anger into a mural piece about the people that are most affected. Art has so many different possibilities. I used to know a sculptor that, every time some kind of major social issue happened, she would make these ill statues about, like, what happened. Like, there was a little girl that got hit by a bus, and she did this sculpture of this little girl in babydoll-size and it was so awesome. Julianna: That sounds really powerful. Mesro: Art gives people a way to express things in a way that sometimes words can’t be said. Right? When we say things to people, sometimes it gets awkward because, you know, we are concerned about their feelings and their reaction to what we’re saying. But if you can present something in an art medi-
um—like, say, writing a poem about it, or saying a rhyme about it, or drawing a mural about it, or making a sculpture about it, or doing a wood carving about it, or maybe a series of photographs about it—and then just giving it to those who are concerned with it, then you don’t have to worry about the filter of their reaction, as long as you can put as much of the truth as you know in your art and expression itself. Does that make sense? Julianna: Yeah, absolutely. Mesro: You can put maximum amount of truth about any given issue using art and writing and creativity, in ways that will impact people the best. Julianna: I love that. That’s what we’re trying to do here, right? Recorded Voice: You have sixty seconds remaining. Mesro: Oh my goodness, I got a minute left. In fact, there’s a couple of guys in line. But, if you’re still going to be there,
I can call you right back. Julianna: Okay. I can be here for another ten minutes waiting. Mesro: Alright. I’ll try to get right back to you. Julianna: Thank you, Mesro. Ten minutes later. Recorded Voice: You have a pre-paid call from Mesro, an inmate at San Quentin State Prison, San Quentin, California. This call and/or telephone number may be monitored. To accept this call, please say or dial five now. [Laughter as Mesro and Julianna pick up the phone.] Julianna: Alright, where were we? You’ve expressed to me before that Prison Renaissance is amazing to you because you feel like you’re in a group of “cool kids” for the first time. And I’m very glad that you think we’re cool. Mesro: Yeah, it’s awesome. Julianna: Can you talk to me about that sense of belonging or why you’ve enjoyed being a part of Prison Renaissance? Mesro: So, I used to spend a little bit of time at an actual Renaissance fair. [Laughter] Mesro: What the Renaissance was really all about was elevating and changing thinking. A lot of good art came out of the Renaissance. It was only a matter of time before a person who really yearns to get his mark on history seen by as much people as possible, is going to reach out with some sort of art. During the Renaissance, some of the best art came from the so-called lower class. In this era of
time, those who are incarcerated are considered on the very bottom of the social ladder. To be able to produce art rather than whatever it is they might expect from us, which is mostly the stereotype that we are in here killing and raping each other—we’re just numbers in a ledger for a lot of people. It’s good to be able to put a human face on what some would call the “lowest-of-the-low.” I think some of the best art comes out of prisons because more people have time to sit and work with their art and really work with the messages they’re trying to send to the world. And Prison Renaissance allows that to happen. Julianna: Well, we’re here to facilitate your art. Mesro: And that right there, being able to have that outlet, instills hope in people when they present their art and they know their message is getting seen and felt by people who care about their condition. It’s easy to find yourself in despair when you’re locked up—thinking that you’re all alone, thinking that no one cares about your life or cares about about who you are or where you came from. Most of the time, cops will deal with you like, “Hey inmate.” They won’t even bother to learn your name nowadays. I think that’s indicative of what a lot of people in society believe. So, when they see brilliant art, wonderful paintings, deep and inspirational poems, poignant essays, come out of places like prisons, it induces a little bit of shock. Because it’s like, “Damn, these people feel the same
way I do and have found a way to express it to the world.” That’s a blessing beyond measure. So many ideas get thought of and they don’t get heard. You don’t hear from them anymore because that idea was only fleeting, so the next idea came. Especially if they’re good ideas, it’s important to get your ideas out into the world. Even if for only that fleeting moment before it leads to another one. If more was shared in art like that, that would unite us more. That would bring us closer together as people, to be able to share our art, to share how we feel about it, to explore our similarities more than what sets us apart. I think that’s one of the major things that happens: We talk about prisons, we talk about racism, we talk about anything dealing with hatred. I think it’s just a lack of empathy because there’s never been a safe space for people to share something they have in common— art, music, dance, whatever. Things like Prison Renaissance enable that to happen where it may not usually. I think that’s fantastic. As a perpetual student, I take great pride in knowing I’m bringing great work like this to the world, with the prestigious Stanford University. That is top-notch awesome we are talking right there. Everyone knows about the tree here. They’re like, “Stanford University, for real?” Sometimes they can’t react big enough, and I understand why. Julianna: Well, we’re really grateful that we get to work with you. You’re one of the most inspiring people I know. Mesro: Just the bee’s knees, you know what I’m saying? Laughter. Mesro: The bee’s knees.
HEALING without HIDING T
his piece was inspired by Kintsugi, the ancient Japanese art of mending broken objects with gold. Instead of viewing the cracks as flaws, they’re highlighted with gold, showing that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. While many of us feel ashamed of our scars, they represent the struggles we’ve gone through and the miraculous fact that we survived them. We become more and more beautiful every time we recover, and with every new scar, we gleam with a little more gold.
photos by Gen Basich-Pease & Sarah Ondak modeled by N’Nasseri Carew-Johnson, Victoria Chiek, & Regan Lavin styled by Kali Hough clothing courtesy of Bloomingdale’s
diversity
in the Latinx community
photographed by Alessandra Diaz & Ricardo Lopez modeled by Kimiko Hirota, Arlene Aleman, Salei Salanoa, Eric Galindo, & Michael Solorio
the LatinX community extends far beyond the stereotypical visual representation. We represent an incredibly diverse group of people, both by our skin and the cultures that have molded us. But we are all united under the same greater community, one filled with deep passion and love for our past, and one that continues to empower us. Through this piece, we hope to bring light to the beauty of our diversity. These individuals represent just a few of the countless diverse elements of our community, with the intention of demonstrating that although we may not all fit the idea of what a LatinX person “looks like,� we are all proudly brought together to share this culture.
Homophily photos by Sarah Panzer & Chloe Peterson-Nafziger written by Anthony Duarte modeled by Dion Brand-Sims, Janelle Miller, Darian Rice & Angel Smith
I share my secrets with you, not with my words but with myI gaze. share my secrets with you,
not with my words but with my gaze.
I’ve never met you, but for right now you know me, and I, you. I don’t need to ask you, because you know. It’s never said in words,
and quite honestly I couldn’t bear to make you live through my experiences not once, but twice when you think about how the same thing happened to you. We reopen our wounds for every person we meet, to have to come out every single time we’re met with a new face,
but not with each other, not with people like us, we already know.
CUFFED
C
uffing season is upon us. It’s a time to choose your winter boo, your temporary other half. The rules of cuffing season are simple. It’s a mad, frenzied scramble to pick a partner. There is no time for girls like me. Beautiful hasn’t meant beautiful for some time now. Beautiful means desirable means having “worth” means family approved means not Black means not me. I am seen as exotic. I am seen as a kind – a breed – of woman that is defined by her darkness. I am not “Black” and a “woman” I am a “Black woman”; my body is defined as what a man must not be (weak, incapable, submissive) and my skin is defined as what white must not be (dirty, unpure, lowly). I live with an asterisk. I am beautiful *for a Black girl. I am strong *for a woman. I am intelligent *for an other. I am questioned, narrowed, broken down,
until I start suffocating. Breathing is hard when you’re being strangled. America does not view Black women as beautiful. The most common beauty standards are infamous for being homogenous, not only racially but with size, height, age, hair--the list goes on. But Blackness has never been viewed as beautiful. Before Europeans set foot in Africa, there was a preconceived notion of the color Black especially in contrast to whiteness. Before the 16th century, Black meant dirty and foul. Color was used to justify subjugating an entire race to slavery. Color was used to justify segregation, hatred, and violence. Color is still used to justify beauty and acceptance. The use of color in assigning worth is ingrained in white and Black interaction. Racism obviously still exists today, but rarely on the basis of melanin offense. One of the few instances of this is beauty standards.
There is a relatively new wave of Black love but it has to compete with the continued racist portrayal of Black bodies. Women of color are described in media as animalistic with an almost forced sexuality. Their breasts, butts, are dramaticized then torn apart: tools of sex. These bodies are told they are not enough, for love, respect; they are told I’ve never fucked someone like you before. Bet girls like you are freaky. You’re pretty for a Black girl. You’re smart for a Black girl. And the asterisks are back and the suffocation is back. The history of finding minorities inherently non-beautiful premises the racist realities and structures of our country. There is nothing not racist about finding one race less than another. When a person is “just not into Blacks,” they are saying that an entire race does not fit their standards of beauty. Is it up to minorities to just accept that and move
EXOTIC
FETISH
‘‘You’re pretty for a Black girl.”
on? Or maybe take this time to reflect on why beautiful always has to mean white. On the Stanford campus I feel undesirable in this season of “mating” and comfort and love. The spaces and communities that are paraded for their connections are often white and lonely. Being here, being othered in so many ways, has made dating a terrifying experience. I’m scared to be belittled, treated as someone’s glorified experiment. I’m scared of being laughed at. I’m scared of
being viewed as mud, viewed as below, viewed as a sexual experiment. Cuffing season intimidates and scares me. In spaces where I am the minority, I feel less than. And hearing whispers about my modified worth, feeling those asterisks, only affirms this. I am uncomfortable in spaces where my asterisk appears beside me – but those spaces don’t define me. At Stanford, more often than not, I feel that way and I wish I didn’t have to. But there are
spaces, people, actions, that have shaped who I am and how I see myself. I was taught to be strong and I don’t see my beauty in the eyes of whiteness. I don’t judge myself in that reflection. I am the product of self validation, friends, representation in the media, welcoming communities. Simply put, I don’t feel alone, I don’t feel less than anything. I am beautiful.
written by Natachi Onwuamaegbu photographed by Ryan Wimsatt modeled by Natachi Onwuamaegbu
The
Privilege
of Warmth written, styled & photographed by Ryan Wimsatt modeled by Johnathan Bridges, Colby Williams, Nico Tellez, & Gilare Zada clothing courtesy of Bloomingdale’s
Winter is the season of protection, warmth, togetherness, caution. We fashion ourselves to preserve ourselves during the bitter climate to retain our comfort and composure.
Historically, winter was the reason ancient civilizations feared most, because without the resources to keep warm, there was a risk of death.
The privilege of warmth relates very similarly to now, the immaculate coats denote the wealth needed to remain warm and, for the world of fashion, relevant and trendy.
I pose the question: Did you have the privilege of warmth this past winter cycle?
M s tanfordmint.com
cover photo by Chloe Peterson-Nafziger modeled by Ashlan Best
