Disrupt

FALL 2020

VOLUME 12

the avenue

DISRUPT

Disruption Through the Anti-Disruptive – The Power of Dressing Up for Yourself – The Evolution of Masks – Makeup: The Art of Self-Expression – Your Size Is in Stock – Reclaiming the Nude – An International Perspective of the U.S. Handling of COVID-19 – “You May Know Me By...” – Rei Kawakubo’s Comme des Garçons – Breaking Up With Makeup – Queens Rising – Bleach It, Dye It, Cut It Off – Accessible Subtitles Open the Door to Conversation – From Colonialism to Fast Fashion – Activism Beyond Instagram Stories

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EDITORS IN CHIEF Kelly Fleming, Allie Kuo

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Simran Gvalani

MANAGING EDITOR Madelaine Millar

ASSOCIATE CREATIVE DIRECTOR Kaela Anderson

FASHION EDITOR Marisa Rose Goolgasian BEAUTY EDITOR Lily Elwood LIFESTYLE EDITOR Maddie Casey

PHOTO DIRECTOR Calem Robertson ASSOCIATE PHOTO DIRECTOR Aung Thant Kyaw DESIGN DIRECTOR Phoebe Lasater DESIGN ASSOCIATE Olivianne Iriarte

COMMUNICATIONS DIRECTOR Muylin Loh COMMUNICATIONS ASSOCIATE Cece Ng WEB EDITOR Dipshika Chawla

PRESIDENT Sara Chen TREASURER Camryn McAllister SECRETARY Maxine An

VIDEOGRAPHER Amanda Haroutunian WOMENSWEAR HEAD STYLIST Hillary Nana-Adjei MENSWEAR HEAD STYLIST Aidan Baglivo

the avenue WRITERS Jessica Brite, Oliver Buckley, Michael Caruso, Martina Colzi Risaliti, Annabelle Critz, Anjali Dhawan, Lily Elwood, Kelly Fleming, Natalie Hill, Meghna Iyer, Kyle Janko, Allie Kuo, Lauren Looney, Anna Nasi, Sowon Park, Elena Plumb, Medha Shah, Alayna Thomas, Emma Van Guen, Lauren Walsh PHOTOGRAPHERS Aishazhan Abuova, Kaela Anderson, Aidan Baglivo, Rebecca Brichacek, Julia Brimeyer, Sofia Cianca, Kate Coiro, Isabel Gonzalez, Marisa Goolgasian, Simran Gvalani, Emily Gringorten, Natalie Hill, Sydney Lerner, Angela Lin, Isabella LoNigro, Dana Murtada, Hillary Nana Adjej, Sowon Park, Donald Pepple, Olivia Robbins, Calem Robertson, Dalia Sadaka, Azra Schorr, Aung Thant Kyaw, Catherine Titcomb, Lauren Walsh, Corey Watanabe, Ashley Wong

DESIGNERS Hanna Cormier, Kimmy Curry, Lila Hathaway, Oliver Hu, Olivianne Iriarte, Phoebe Lasater, Renee Pearce, Tanya Kler, Thandiwe Tembo MODELS Aishazhan Abuova, Samir A-Rahim, Safa Bilal, Jessica Brite, Michael Caruso, Tobe Chima, Anjali Dhawan, Vee Divens, Ronnie Efremov, Quirin Emanga, Shana Gibbs, Meghna Iyer, Morgan Kay, Allie Kuo, Sydney Lerner, Rose-Laura Meus, Elena Plumb, Ava Rognlien, Erin Rosenfeld, Caroline Seely, Medha Shah, Alyssa Spaeth, Nick Yoon STYLISTS Quirin Emanga, Cara O’Hanlon, Nell Sweeney, Maggie Van Nortwick

SIMRAN GVALANI PHOTOGRAPHY

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

The beauty of this magazine is how it shape-shifts, taking on the ideas and dreams of the team behind it.

This issue’s theme needs no introduction.

Disruption has become the main force in our absurd, upside-down 2020 lives. It’s uncomfortable, it’s ugly, it’s insistent. But it has also been a long time coming.

Change cannot happen without disruption. And change is what we have been needing, in how immigrants are treated and how women are treated and how Black people are treated. Add your own demands to this list — it’s a long one and it may take a while before it gets shorter. But have a little optimism and follow it up with a lot of action.

Earlier this year, the media landscape began to crumble around us, exposing unfriendly workplaces, tokenized employees, and inadequate wages. I watched in disappointment, tinged with sadness, as publication after publication fell from grace. As a young woman of color who once aspired to work at these places, I was rattled. That could have been me — would I have spoken up bravely like the others did?

But simultaneously, I was inspired. At my fingertips was The Avenue, a publication I could help shape

to become the antithesis of these media. Alongside Kelly, my amazing co-Editor in Chief, that’s exactly what we have worked towards.

The beauty of this magazine is how it shape-shifts, taking on the ideas and dreams of the team behind it. It also gives space for the struggles and fears, the realities that cannot be ignored. We must remember that fashion, beauty, and culture do not exist within a vacuum. They are shaped by the grander forces of the world around us, as well as the individual voices and perspectives we’ve encountered on our editorial journey.

My hope is that this issue, and the ones to come, shift your understanding. What is the point of consuming beautiful words and images if not to learn and expand your worldview? This magazine and its incredible team have done that for me, and it’s our turn to share that with you. Enjoy.

ALLIE KUO Co-Editor in Chief

We at The Avenue have chosen to embrace disruption in all of its aspects – the good, the bad, and the ugly. While disruption can be a huge hindrance, we found that it can serve as inspiration for our best and most creative work. Our writers have created windows into their lives where we can observe the unique ways they handle adversity.

Some have focused on outlets of creative thinking during the pandemic, such as an increased interest in at-home fashion or new ways to communicate with family. Others have taken a hard look at what we can improve in the wake of disruption, from reclaiming the nude form to taking responsibility for our own social activism.

A time of disruption can provide an opportunity for reflection, a chance to figure out what is working and what needs to be thrown away. One thing our team thought was absolutely essential is the physical magazine. When the digital world is more pervasive than ever, physicality begins to hold a new value. Holding, touching, and feeling the weight of real, glossy paper is an experience worth preserving. We want our readers to be able to pick up DISRUPT and escape in turning its pages, our designers to feel the ink that makes up their spreads, and for our writers to hand parents a physical manifestation of their hard work. Take a break from your busy life, your screens, and your blue light glasses, and enjoy a moment with our magazine.

KELLY FLEMING Co-Editor in Chief

PHOTOGRAPHY HILLARY NANA-ADJEI

When the COVID-19 pandemic hit, each of us watched the lives we took for granted disappear, from casual coffee dates with friends to our entire classroom experience. As a generation accustomed to living with one foot in the real world and the other in the digital sphere, we suddenly had to transition to an almost fully digital life. This change was jarring and unsettling – but it also opened a door to innovative thinking. Considering the many changes and challenges this year has thrown at us, DISRUPT felt like a natural choice for our theme.

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PHOTOGRAPHY HILLARY NANA-ADJEI, SOWON PARK, CATHERINE TITCOMB

Change is inevitable and dynamic. While there has been an abundance of uncertainty this year, it's important to remember the benefits of being thrown outside our comfort zones. Through disruption, we are reminded of the things that needed to be changed.

Visually, The Avenue’s creative team was inspired by our surroundings and our experiences from this year. Playing critical roles in our vision for this issue were the distortion of time, reflection and nostalgia, the power of our actions and voices, and the acceptance of a new normal. While we lost the ability to consistently collaborate in person, we were able to create an effective online space which not only challenged us but proved to us our ability to adapt and push boundaries.

As hard as it was working on this issue from home in Dubai, which is nine hours ahead of Eastern Standard Time, I was blown away by how incredibly talented and supportive the entire Avenue team is. Thank you to everyone who contributed and faithfully followed our COVID-19 guidelines — while these constraints may have been a bit inconvenient, they gave us a chance to rethink our creative process. DISRUPT is one of the most innovative and unique issues I have had the pleasure to work on, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed creating it.

DESIGN HANNA CORMIER

SIMRAN GVALANI Creative Director

table of contents

010 Disruption Through the Anti-Disruptive 014 TIME 022 The Power of Dressing Up for Yourself 028 The Evolution of Masks 032 Makeup: The Art of Self-Expression 038 Your Size Is in Stock 042 Reclaiming the Nude 048 LIMINAL SPACES 060 An International Perspective of the U.S. Handling of COVID-19 064 “You May Know Me By...”

070 Rei Kawakubo’s Comme des Garçons 074 Breaking Up With Makeup 078 ROOTED 090 Queens Rising 096 Bleach It, Dye It, Cut It Off 100 Accessible Subtitles Open the Door to Conversation 104 From Colonialism to Fast Fashion 110 Activism Beyond Instagram Stories 116 STILL WE PLEAD

FASHION

BEAUTY

LIFESTYLE

disruption through the anti-disruptive

WRITING Kyle Janko MODELING Nick Yoon, Morgan Kay PHOTOGRAPHY Sofia Cianca DESIGN Kimmy Curry

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Fashion is one of the most apt examples of the metaphoric snake eating its own tail. A serious trend will hit its critical point, sparking parodies and copies, just to fall out of style and be replaced by another. It is a volatile, aggressive cycle that costs millions of dollars with every turn of the wheel.

People left in its wake fall into cults of permanent styles, amassing hyper-specific wardrobes and joining the VIP list at Dover Street Market. One such tribe of exiles is seeing a resurgence in popularity, and it might just replace some of the old guard with it: gorpcore.

an exploration of gorpcore

Apart from its name, coined by The Cut writer Jason Chen in 2017, this style sect is far from new. The hiking and outdoorsy aesthetic has been around for years; designers such as Junya Watanabe and his North Face collaboration have been putting out high fashion takes on performance outerwear since the early 2000s. Even earlier, real-life cyberpunk ninja Errolson Hugh had been designing futuristic gorp since 1994. But gorp has been in the midst of a popular revival in recent years, which Chen describes in his article.

“I’d notice twenty-somethings in Patagonia fleece vests thumbing through Lost Downtown at Dashwood; an El Rey waiter ringing up my kale Caesar in a Columbia windbreaker; diners at Win Son in North Face puffers and Acne Adrians; a couple in matching Arc’teryx parkas drinking flat whites at La Colombe,” Chen wrote.

Key players like Arc’teryx, The North Face, Patagonia, and Salomon have all contributed to the clout with collaborative efforts and the revival of archival favorites. Arc’teryx collaborated with Japanese fashion stalwart Beams, transforming their crowd-favorite Alpha SV shells into dresses worn by the Hadid sisters in Virgil Abloh’s Fall 2020 OffWhite show. The North Face recently teamed up with Margiela’s diffusion line MM6 for a capsule of jackets, with a Gucci collaboration being teased for launch next year. And notoriously independent Patagonia, whose only collaborative effort was a Danner-made wading boot, has been churning out new Retro-X and Synchilla fleeces season after season.

Beyond these long-standing favorites, many new players are entering the gorp scene by way of Japan, sensing the Western markets’ growing interest in their style. Of these, the two most notable are cult outdoor brand Snow Peak, marked by its newer apparel line and collaborations with New Balance and Chaco, and prolific outfitter And Wander. The latter, formed in 2011, has been finding great success with its PolarTec fleeces and eVent shells, as well as their collaboration with Salomon and Barbour.

So, what is so disruptive about this new wave of techwear? To put it plainly, it’s the fact that it is so normal looking. Unlike earlier iterations of gorp, the current era is decidedly more tame, largely due to its commitment to practicality for its wearers.

There has been a greater focus across the industry on playing with proportions and more recently, a growing trend towards minimalism.

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High-fashion footwear is an excellent example of this. Balenciaga caused a major disruption in fashion footwear when it released the Triple S, whose maximalist, retro aesthetic was loved by many — and hated by more. It was comically large, and just as heavy, weighing in at almost a pound per shoe. This shoe represented a trend’s tipping point, the peak in popularity of chunky footwear, and the average silhouette of shoes has been shrinking since. As outdoorsy styling grows more popular, a new fashion footwear king has been crowned: the Salomon XT-6 running shoe. Stunningly simple and ultra-technical, relying on a single piece of mesh with fused overlays, it stands in stark contrast to the maximalist monstrosities from years prior.

Outerwear and general apparel are following this same pattern — sleekness and function taking precedence over the exaggerated parkas that have frequented runways over the last few years.

First and foremost purveyors of performance apparel, gorp brands often ignore trendy tailoring to keep their focus. This largely contributes to the overwhelmingly normal yet versatile aesthetic of the entire trend; popular gorp pieces can be found on Instagram influencers, hardcore outdoor enthusiasts, and cool-guy hipsters from Cambridge alike. Ranging from futuristic techwear like Acronym to vintage-inspired coats like the Kapital Kamakura, gorp provides seemingly endless styles that could fit into any wardrobe.

Of course, we can’t discuss gorpcore without mentioning environmentalism. This defining aspect of the trend sets it apart from mainstream fashion as much as its simplicity does. Patagonia, who creates the ever popular Retro-X Jacket, Nano-Puff Jacket, and Baggie short, built its brand around sustainability and environmental protection, regularly donating to environmental causes and promoting transparency in the clothing industry. They, as well as Arc’teryx, host in-house recycling programs that offer merchandise credit and even offer an in-house line made entirely of those repurposed materials. While Patagonia’s environmentalism may be the most well-known, these values translate into almost all techwear brands because they are massively important to their consumers.

This focus stands in stark contrast to the slow — or perhaps, too fast — movement of the fashion industry to rectify its unsustainability. Fashion’s inherent consumerist nature ignores environmental impacts in favor of better profit margins; trendy pieces fall out of style quickly, only to get shoved into the back of a closet or thrown out. In contrast, the inoffensive aesthetic put forward by gorp is timeless, especially when matched with its functionality and quality.

Like all trends, gorpcore is destined to hit a peak and be quickly replaced by something else. We can only hope that by the time this happens, the priorities espoused by gorp companies will have become the industry standard — or that whatever trend replaces it is somehow even more protective of, and less disruptive to, our environment.

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PHOTOGRAPHY Kaela Anderson, Aidan Baglivo, Isabel Gonzalez, Marisa Goolgasian, Simran Gvalani, Natalie Hill, Sydney Lerner, Isabella LoNigro, Dana Murtada, Donald Pepple, Calem Robertson, Azra Schorr, Aung Thant Kyaw, Lauren Walsh, Ashley Wong DESIGN Simran Gvalani, Calem Robertson

the power of

WRITING Michael Caruso, Anjali Dhawan, Elena Plumb, Medha Shah MODELING Michael Caruso, Anjali Dhawan, Elena Plumb, Medha Shah PHOTOGRAPHY Dalia Sadaka, Emily Gringorten DESIGN/ ILLUSTRATION Lila Hathaway

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dressing up for yourself

The challenges we have experienced over the past year were unexpected and unwelcome, to say the least. Try as we might to fill the new quarantine-induced gaps in our lives with Zoom or an abundance of Disney+ content, there’s no reconciling the reality that even the simple pleasure of leaving home has become an exciting luxury. There is one aspect of life, near and dear to the hearts of everyone at The Avenue, that has changed significantly throughout the pandemic: getting dressed in the morning. Spending time curating impeccable outfits when we are spending most of our days inside and alone is a strange sensation indeed, but many have found it necessary to regain a sense of normalcy and self. From influencers sharing their WFH outfits on Instagram to big brands like Zara using organic, at-home content on their e-commerce sites, the process of getting dressed is occupying an unprecedented space in society.

To further explore this phenomenon, writers at The Avenue shared how The Power of Dressing Up has changed their lives throughout the course of quarantine.

MEDHA SHAH I've always treated the sidewalk as my own personal runway, using it to show off my new favorite outfit, but when quarantine hit those opportunities all but disappeared. I can barely remember the frantic frenzy of packing to go home from school at a moment’s notice — whatever I threw into my suitcase was a surprise for later.

Of course, I spent the first few weeks at home in sweats like everyone else; there was no point in getting dressed if I couldn’t leave my house. Still, my insatiable shopping habit persisted, and soon I had a whole array of new clothes ... but nowhere to wear them.

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With the worry that my pieces would soon go out of style, I slowly crawled my way out of a hole of t-shirts and sweatpants. It was time to start styling my new items and see what on earth I had packed for the unforeseeable future at home. As it turns out, I had brought a couple of my favorite jeans, a black skirt, some turtlenecks, a couple sweaters, and some going out tops that I definitely wouldn’t be touching. Not bad. I began casually wearing leather pants and cute summer dresses around the house. It didn’t matter that they were impractical for lounging around; the confidence I gained from wearing my favorite clothes was well worth the questioning looks from my family.

This process may seem trivial, but throughout this experience I realized the worth in dressing up for myself at a time when so many other simple pleasures had been stripped. I was inherently more happy and productive, and my outlook on the future grew more and more positive. After sharing these findings with my best friend from home, Ana, she also began dressing up, and we started sending each other daily mirror or self-timer pics as outfit inspo and motivation.

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As another California summer set in, it got even easier to dress up. I’d put on a cute top and shorts, make myself a matcha latte, and work in my backyard pretending to be in a little cafe somewhere else. Soaking up the sun made me happy, as did lounging around in a bikini. All the extra time in quarantine also gave me the chance to be super deliberate about my outfit choices; there was no audience, so I was truly dressing for myself. I gave in to biker shorts and tie dye sets that, previously too casual for everyday outings, were perfect for the in-between days where I wanted to be comfortable but still feel stylish. Now back on campus for fall, I still get dressed up, even when I’m just sitting around my apartment.

ANJALI DHAWAN Being home alone is draining. It’s lonely. Empty.

Repetitive. When there’s nobody around and you spend every minute between the same four walls, it’s hard to find inspiration. For people like myself, taking away creativity is like taking away water.

I found myself in this position in March; anxiety and fear of the unknown took over my life, and I found myself eating the same food every day, clinging to the dreary routine of Zoom classes with only the occasional escape into the outdoors for a neighborhood walk. Needless to say, I was miserable. But every cloud has its silver lining, and mine came in a very surprising package: my suitcase.

Finally realizing that I wasn’t going back to school anytime soon, I unpacked the rest of my clothes I had brought home. In the span of weeks fashion had been reduced to sweatpants and leggings, so seeing my favorite clothes made me nostalgic for the days where I could dress up in a fun outfit and go out on the town with my best friends. But then it hit me; here I was, sitting in my ugliest sweatpants,

there was no audience, so i was truly

dressing for myself.

feeling so disconnected from myself, when the collection of clothing that makes me so happy was right in my hands. I didn’t have to wear sweats just because I was lounging around at home; I had soft pants and flowy skirts that served the same comfortable purpose without making me feel like I just rolled out of bed. I started to wonder if maybe, in wearing my favorite clothes, I might get a piece of my pre-quarantine life that felt so distant — and with it, my sense of self.

So, I put on my favorite summer dress, added a sweater to protect me from the cold, and suddenly, I was wearing an outfit. For the first time in weeks, I felt like myself; although the light sundress didn’t yet reflect how I felt at the moment, it made me feel a bit more like the girl who once wore it to brunches, shopping trips, and evenings by the river. Nobody could see me, but I was “me” again.

There was something about reconnecting with my personal style that reignited my creative energy, lifting my spirits enough to get myself back into a happy daily rhythm.

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ELENA PLUMB I had planned to spend the summer of 2020 in Paris studying fashion, immersing myself in French culture, and eating at every street cafe in sight.

However, when the COVID-19 pandemic reared its ugly head, I soon found my world to be only as wide as the four walls of my childhood bedroom. In an effort to protect a high-risk family member from the virus, I spent the months of March, April, May, and June holed up in my room, staring out my window at the sunshine.

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During the first few weeks of isolation, I was able to stay positive. I might have felt bored and lonely at times, but I knew I was so lucky to be safe. I clung to the naive conviction that this virus would subside in a few short weeks, but each time I checked the news for any signal of hope, I was bombarded with images of overcrowded hospital rooms and dying patients holding their loved ones’ hands through plastic gloves. I suddenly felt as if I was watching the world crumble around me.

People were suffering, businesses were shutting down, borders were closing; society had come to a grinding halt. And so had I.

I stopped getting dressed in the mornings. I wore the same pair of dirty pajama pants until my parents begged me to wash them. I stopped contacting my friends, no matter how much I missed them. I stopped taking care of myself. I didn’t exercise, showered only once or twice a week, ate delivery pizza far too often, and binged all 244 episodes of Love Island UK. With this monotonous day-to-day lifestyle and a seemingly bleak future, I lost my sense of purpose. I was no longer actively living my life, I was merely existing.

I knew I had fallen into a depressive episode, but I didn’t have the strength (or desire) to pull myself out of it ... until finally, I did.

One night in late May, after sleeping in until 3:00 p.m. and eating stale Doritos for dinner, I had a strange urge to play dress up. I blasted Taylor Swift songs as I glued false eyelashes to my eyelids and painted my lips a deep red. I took my favorite LBD off of the hanger and paired it with the burgundy suede jacket I bought on my first international trip. As I glanced at my final look in the mirror, I recognized myself for the first time in months.

I stood there, staring at my reflection until mascara-stained tears started to stream down my face. In my reflection, I saw the person who I used to be, the person who, deep down, I still was. She loves fashion and uses it to express herself as a bold, confident woman. She has a zest for life that no one (and no pandemic) can stamp out. She respects herself enough to take care of herself. I had lost that girl in those dark few months, but the glimpse of her in my mirror made me want to find her again.

I think that many people assume women dress up to be the object of female envy or the male gaze, but this is a narrow judgment. For me, dressing up that night was never about looking better — it was about feeling better. There’s a power in dressing up, and it’s a strong one. When I ditched those dirty pajama pants in favor of a carefully coordinated outfit, I felt empowered after months of feeling helpless and lost. That little game of dress up was by no means an instant cure, but it did give me the strength and confidence I needed to take back my life.

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the evolution of masks Musings on masks as a new form of mass communication WRITING Anna Nasi

“She’s a ‘mask fisher,’” “he’s kinda a ‘mask-hole,’” “ugh I have ‘mask-ne.’”

MODELING Safa Bilal

If someone were to mention these colloquialisms to me a year ago, I’d have thought they were crazy. The global COVID-19 pandemic has disrupted our lives in more ways than one, perhaps most noticeably by necessitating the constant use of protective facial coverings. Surprisingly, this requirement has given way to a cultural phenomenon. Whether it be the growing presence of mask-related slang or the way that we now form our impressions of people based on the mask they wear (or choose not to wear), these small squares of fabric have evolved from a functional necessity to a tool of self-expression.

So what’s the best way to make the most of your outfit in the era of masks? How can we use them to contribute to our style or make a statement about ourselves? As I pondered these questions, I thought about how my own view of masks has changed since the beginning of quarantine.

PHOTOGRAPHY Kate Coiro DESIGN Oliver Hu, Phoebe Lasater

In March I had just one mask, and my only concern was its functionality as a protector of myself and others. It appeared that everyone around me was on the same page; I REMEMBER GOING OUT IN PUBLIC BEING LOST IN A SEA OF IDENTICAL N95S AND THE REGULAR BLUE DISPOSABLES. This was the early quarantine uniform. Of course, it didn’t take long for people to get bored of the lack of options, and businesses and creatives alike soon started offering options for individuals to reclaim this required accessory and make it their own. Come April, I decided to use all of my extra free time to start sewing my own masks. As I made more and more, experimenting with new fabrics, colors and designs, I started approaching the mask-making process with the same energy and thought that I would channel into sewing

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a garment. Throughout this process, I became conscious of the mask as an accessory through which individuals were expressing themselves the same way they do through clothing.

As quarantine continued, I began following the mask-making processes of designers I admired, curious as to how they were incorporating their design principles into masks. I was particularly intrigued by local designer Erin Robertson,

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who many know as the quirky winner of Project Runway’s 15th season. Robertson is known for her unconventional creativity and resourcefulness, so I knew that any mask she conceptualized would be something special. Like most other creators, Robertson’s initial foray into mask making was all about sewing many masks as fast as she could in an effort to help out local Boston hospitals and organizations that were facing shortages at the time. When the mask shortage became less

example, it’s important to me that the masks I make and wear are made of recycled fabrics, which represents the commitment I have to promoting sustainable fashion. This phenomenon of using masks to broadcast what’s important to us is a powerful one. When the United States erupted with political tension and protests surrounding the murder of George Floyd and the resurgence of the Black Lives Matter movement this past summer, it became more important than ever to speak out against injustice and be politically active.

We all observed this surge of activism on social media when platforms like Instagram became filled with images and videos created to educate people about racial issues and injustices. Like these Instagram posts and stories, our masks can function as blank canvases, sharing important, meaningful messages and phrases such as “defund the police” or “I can’t breathe.” In the case of Midterms Matter, a non-profit organization that uses art and media to encourage young people to participate in politics, they encourage followers to get out and vote.

“We chose to make masks because the spread of the virus and the apathy of young people feel like two equally urgent issues which are also deeply related,” said Midterms Matter social media manager Alabel Chapin. “So, we decided to combine the need for safety with the need to activate by making masks that encourage people to vote.”

dire a few months into quarantine, she migrated from mass production to specialized design. She released two fabulous and unique mask designs, one featuring a massive hair bow and the other a neon-orange puffer-esque creation. To me, these masks represented just how far we’ve come through the pandemic.

Whether it be creative expression or the sharing of political messages, masks are certainly a mass medium for communication. By just wearing a mask in the first place an individual shares the message that they take the pandemic seriously, just as Erin Robertson uses masks to represent her colorful ingenuity and Midterms Matter to encourage a new generation of political participation.

Beyond expressing our personal style, masks can also represent our values and opinions. For

OUR MASKS MIGHT COVER OUR MOUTHS, BUT THEY CERTAINLY AREN’T SILENCING US.

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make-up The Art of Self-Expression

WRITING Jessica Brite MODELING Jessica Brite, Ava Rognlien PHOTOGRAPHY Olivia Robbins DESIGN Tanya Kler 32

Nearly every Saturday morning, I open all of my apartment’s shades and windows, brew some coffee in the Keurig, connect to my pastel pink speaker and queue up my “Early Autumn” playlist.

With a cool breeze wafting through the apartment and sunlight streaming through, I settle into my desk and pull out my colorful palettes and liners to see what eye look I want to go with for the day. My favorite eye combo consists of a wash of color in the crease, an iridescent shimmer shade on the lid, and a thin brown liner to tie it all together. Although my routine seems pretty set, it was not so long ago that I would only stick to a neutral look when going out and about.

From a young age, I had always been fascinated by makeup, and so I started playing with makeup quite early on. However, it was not until my freshman year of high school that I started wearing it regularly and using it as a way to express myself and my style. Red was for days I was feeling bold, mauve was my go-to, dark purple was a quick way to spice up my outfits, and nudes were the default.

I was known as “the freshman with the lipstick,” and while some meant it as a way to compliment me, others were confused as to why I was being “extra.” At the same time that I was wearing bold lipstick to school, I was also experimenting with creative, colorful makeup looks every night in my room. While I would show my family and close friends my looks, I never wore them out because those comments about me being “extra” were constantly stuck in the back of my mind.

Yet by my junior year of high school, the rise in popularity of makeup influencers and the acceptance of bold and adventurous makeup gave me enough confidence to create a public Instagram account where I began to post colorful eye looks for anyone to see. I kept it a secret from everyone I knew, nervous about the critiques I was going to get. Much to my surprise, by the end of the first two weeks I had gotten a couple of followers and nice comments from people I did not even know — giving me the confidence to tell people about it.

In the last couple of years not only have my skills and techniques improved, but I have slowly gotten more comfortable with wearing the creative looks in public rather than just posting them online.

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In practice makeup is simply another tool at all of our disposal to show our individuality and creativity.

According to Merriam-Webster, makeup is a “cosmetic used to color and beautify the face.” In practice makeup is simply another tool at all of our disposal to show our individuality and creativity.

to the placement of gems to the sheer amount of glitter used, Euphoria is probably the first show to have such a big and notable impact in the beauty community.

“Makeup is just such a fun and personal experience that anyone can use to encapsulate who they are and their style,” said second-year Aisling Deane.

“[Euphoria] influenced the way I play with different looks,” said second-year Hannah Sammut. “I certainly wouldn’t have thought of some of that amazing stuff if I didn’t see it.”

Over the course of the decade, creative freedom and expression has grown through new makeup products and emerging techniques. For much of the mid to late 2010s, neutral makeup tones were all the rage from the bronzy eye looks and super contoured cheekbones of 2014-2017 to the dewy and toned down looks of 2018. However, 2019 did a complete one-eighty from the previous year’s hype surrounding fresh-faced looks and natural beauty. Glitters, colorful shadows, fun lip colors, and graphic eye looks have essentially taken over the makeup scene.

Similarly to Sammut, Euphoria has inspired quite a few of my own makeup looks, especially when it comes to using little rhinestones and other jewels around the eyes. The show was even an inspiration for one of the latest TikTok transition trends which features the song “Still Don’t Know My Name” off the Euphoria soundtrack. With the show blowing up on the TV screen and populating social media feeds across multiple platforms, the influence is undeniable. On campus this fall, there are significantly more people than usual wearing colorful eyeshadow looks complete with Euphoria’s signature glitter and gems. The popularity of the show has helped normalized creative looks, giving people the freedom to use it as a form of expression.

Along with makeup-focused influencers, the HBO TV show Euphoria has played a large part in bringing this artistic makeup style to mainstream media. Though Euphoria has a riveting plot with emotive acting, the show is best known for its visual aesthetic. From the bold eyeshadow colors

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The way that we choose to paint our face and our eyes is the way that we want people to perceive us.

Today more than ever, finding new ways to outwardly express ourselves is important since masks cover about 50% of our faces. The way that our masks cover our nose, lips, and some of our facial expressions makes our eyes our most important and defining feature. Since coming on to campus, I have been more motivated to wear some sort of eye makeup to help me feel a little less invisible — even if it is a quick little pink winged liner or a blue shimmer shadow, I feel more myself.

“Now that I’m always wearing a mask, my eye makeup helps me show my personality since no one can see my smile anymore,” said third-year Hannah Chaouli. “COVID has [also] opened me more up to my creative side which is why I’ve been experimenting so much with eyeliner.”

“My favorite part of doing colorful eye makeup looks is the conversation that comes out of it,” said Chaouli. “Especially during this pandemic, connecting with others is so important, so if I can do that through makeup, that’s even better.”

Makeup in and of itself is not only a creative outlet but also such an important part of self-expression.

The way that we choose to paint our face and our eyes is the way that we want people to perceive us. On a personal level, I grew up with makeup and my self-esteem did as well. The better I got at perfecting a colorful liner and a properly blended eyeshadow look, the more I felt myself. This is what makeup is all about, it is about testing out your creativity and in the long run, using it to develop your innermost self.

Even if someone feels more comfortable with a little mascara, brow gel and concealer in comparison to a brightly colored look, it still is a way to reflect your inner aesthetic. It also acts as a way for us to connect with people who similarly appreciate makeup as a universal tool of expression.

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WRITING Lily Elwood

MODELING Vee Divens, Ronnie Efremov, Caroline Seely

PHOTOGRAPHY Azra Schorr

DESIGN Renee Pearce

your size is in stock Clothing brands are only just beginning to dip into the plus-size market, and even then, there are few that are truly size-inclusive. Lots of brands claim to be “one size fits all,” feigning size inclusivity when really they are only geared towards smaller sizes.

Some even max out at XL or 2XL, claiming that it somehow covers all sizes, leaving many plus-size women with few fashionable options.

As a plus-size woman myself, I have personally experienced the struggle of finding clothes that I feel good in and that represent my style. Many brands have expanded their sizing over the past few years, but when I was younger, it felt like there were virtually no options. I would go shopping with friends and feel constantly left out as we browsed stores like Victoria’s Secret, Brandy Melville, and Urban Outfitters. It is a horrible feeling to look around and feel like your size is not normal.

Some stores would advertise having larger sizes, only to inform me they didn’t carry them in-store, only online, as if it would be too “off-brand” to have larger sizes in their store. The sad truth is that most brands market to a carefully curated image of what their customer base will look like. If you do not look that way, you don’t get to shop with them.

Fortunately, many brands have either expanded their sizing or been created as specifically plussize clothing brands as the world opens up to the fact that most women are between a size 16 and 18, not a size 2. It has been so wonderful to see more and more brands crop up that accept women of all sizes, promote their clothing using plus-size models, and offer these sizes in-store. I don’t ever want anyone to feel as optionless as I did, so I’ve comprised a list of some of my favorite truly sizeinclusive brands.

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TORRID Torrid is a brand that I personally shop from pretty often. My favorite black jumpsuit is from there, as well as several pairs of jeans and my beautiful black swing jacket. It was originally owned by Hot Topic (which means many of the clothes still have that classic Hot Topic alternative twist to them), but then broke off to be its own company. Torrid is by far one of the most size-inclusive brands I have ever seen specifically for plus-size women, and sells sizes from 10 to 30. They also have an intimates section in which they sell bras from 36C to 50H which really sets them apart.

LEVI'S The plus-size collection at Levi’s ranges from 16 to 24, and their jeans are impeccably made for curvy women. They are a little expensive, but this is in part due to the fact that the Levi’s brand has made a commitment to sustainability. On the Levi Strauss & Co. website, there is a section called “Sustainability in Action” that details their approach to advancing sustainability by using fewer natural resources, striving to create a “circular economy,” and educating consumers on how to best extend the life of the clothing they buy. Not only are they doing their part in expanding clothing size ranges, they are also creating clothing that is not a part of the fast fashion industry.

BIG BUD PRESS Big Bud Press is an LA based size-inclusive, unisex brand that also focuses on ethical creation of clothing. They are a small business that uses local and conscientious methods of manufacturing, and their clothing sizes range from XXS to 5X. Their clothing is bright and beautiful, and my favorite item from their shop is the jumpsuit they sell. They have many colors, patterns, and sleeve lengths on this work jumpsuit, and it has an awesome collar and several pockets.

FASHION TO FIGURE Fashion to Figure’s motto is “fashion is a state of mind, not a size range.” They are a plus-size specific clothing brand, carrying sizes 1X to 4X. The clothes are everything from casual wear to evening wear, and everything they sell is always on trend. They also just collaborated with Tess Holliday, famous plus-size model, to create a collection for her brand, Eff Your Beauty Standards.

Their endless support for plus-size women is refreshing to see, and they have everything from closet basics to statement pieces.

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ELOQUII Eloquii holds sizes 14 to 28, and is perfect for business casual clothes. The clothes are perfect for everything professional, from job interviews to dressier work events to everyday hours on the clock. They have fabulous blazers, jumpsuits, and some beautiful accessories. It’s the perfect place to get work clothes that are still fun, fashionable, and far from basic. Everything I’ve ever bought from there is very high quality and durable, and still on trend even years later.

ANTHROPOLOGIE Anthropologie just added a plus-size option to their store, which means now they have everything from petites to plus-size up to 26W. This couldn’t have come sooner, with the popularity of “cottagecore” and boho style clothing, perfectly represented by Anthropologie’s selection. If you are looking for high quality cottage dream clothing, this is the place for you. Their flowery maxi dresses are my favorite item, they are the perfect length and have just the right amount of looseness to them.

SWIMSUITS FOR ALL This brand is my go-to for swimsuits — they have everything from size 4 to 34 and the swimsuits are cute, long lasting, and functional. They have everything from one-pieces to bikinis to cover ups, making it the best size-inclusive one stop shop for all your beach attire needs. They also collaborated in the past with Gabi Fresh, a plus-size fashion designer and influencer, to create and market her stunning swimsuit line that is still successful today.

Swimsuits For All truly lives up to its name.

SAVAGE X FENTY Last but not least, Rihanna’s iconic lingerie line has been lauded from the beginning as a very successful size-inclusive lingerie company, which is a rare thing to find. The company motto is that they celebrate “fearlessness, confidence, and inclusivity.”

Their sizes range from XS to 3X, and for bras you can pick band sizes from 32 to 44 and cup sizes from A to DDD. The lingerie is so beautiful and flattering to every body type, clearly size inclusivity was a part of the design of this brand from the beginning. Savage X Fenty has everything from everyday comfort underwear to bright, sexy lingerie.

Everything about the website and the messages the company sends through social media prove Rihanna to be the new queen of lingerie for every body.

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reclaiming the nude WRITING Anjali Dhawan MODELING Allie Kuo PHOTOGRAPHY Julia Brimeyer DESIGN/ ILLUSTRATION Lila Hathaway

Human sexuality has been explored artistically for as long as we’ve existed. From paintings to sculptures and poetry to prose, artists have tried to capture the beauty of sexuality in their works and the complication, freedom, and uniqueness that comes with it. These works of art have been respected — and even revered — throughout time, between nudity in Renaissance paintings and sculptures to the increasingly popular boudoir style in modern photography. So why is it that when we try to embrace nudity on a personal level, it can become controversial?

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to ourselves; we shouldn’t talk about it, share it, or express it openly. However, as part of a larger social trend toward embracing our unique identities (especially with feminist movements dating back decades), we have begun to embrace sexuality as something to express openly. This disruption of social norms comes in a variety of forms, most notably in “nudes.”

Nudes are an increasingly popular form of engaging in a sexual relationship with others via the internet.

Experiencing the culture around these photos can be shocking at first, from being asked “Send pics?” to receiving an explicit photo unsolicited.

Some of the people that end up sending pictures feel coerced into sharing nudes through emotional manipulation or the desire to fit in. Some reject this process, uncomfortable with the idea of sharing such a private part of themselves — especially at the risk of it being spread around the internet as revenge porn, the non-consensual sharing of explicit images of a person.

As something we value deeply, sexuality means something very different to each person. In the same way humans crave food, water, safety, and any other biological need, our bodies have instinctual sexual desires. This importance presents differently for everyone: some believe in sharing and expressing sexuality freely, some believe it should be guarded and only shared with one other, and most fall somewhere in between.

Because of a push in Western culture toward conservatism around our sexual identities, nudity and other visual depictions of sexuality tend to disrupt our comfort zones. As a culture, it’s expected that these are parts of our lives we keep

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We have begun to embrace sexuality as something to express openly.

Despite these risks, many people embrace personal empowerment from sending nudes, taking the opportunity to explore their sexual identity through the comfort of a screen. They reclaim their own nudity and sexuality from social forces that threaten repercussions or judgement. Nudes are an opportunity to explore the body, to appreciate and understand it. It can also be the act of sharing them that’s so enticing, eliciting a reaction and engaging in a kind of virtual simulation of sex. If this sounds familiar, that’s because it is — sex is all about the same themes of exploration and connection.

So why are people still so uncomfortable with the concept of nudes? Especially when established art forms like boudoir photography are more or less accepted, why is it so wrong for a person to take their own explicit photograph?

Perhaps we can understand where such a difference lies by examining boudoir as an art form. Boudoir photography explores sexuality through partially or fully nude images, teasing the socially acceptable boundary of “tasteful” versus “pornographic” using sensual fabrics, sultry contexts, and creative editing. The subjects themselves use this opportunity to explore their own sexual identities and find comfort in their bodies. It’s about appreciation, it’s about exploration, it’s about art. Aren’t those essentially the same goals that those who take nude photos are trying to achieve?

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It’s the discovery of desires, appreciation of sex, art of self-discovery.

So where exactly is the boundary? What stops a boudoir photo from being a distasteful nude, or a nude from being art? Is it the intention, the use, the qualifications of the photographer?

AND DOES IT EVEN MATTER? DOES A NUDE HAVE TO BE CONSIDERED ART FOR IT TO BE SOCIALLY ACCEPTABLE? Maybe art isn’t the point here. The act of accepting, exploring, and appreciating the human form is beautiful, so why should we cast judgement on the methods a person chooses?

It all comes back to the exploration of human sexuality. It’s the discovery of desires, appreciation of sex, and art of self-discovery.

And with the availability and convenience of internet interactions, nudes are an accessible and increasingly popular way to begin this exploration.

When a person takes nudes, they’re aspiring to appreciate their own body; in choosing to share these photos, they connect over their intimate desires. The issue of reclaiming this art is at the root of reclaiming sexuality — a person has the autonomy to explore and share their sexuality.

Nudes are a new way of doing just that. *photos censored per Northeastern University guidelines

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Every summer, the same scene plays out. Sand in our hair, my siblings and I finish our last, very intense volleyball game. As we wrap up the final point, the ball flies into the water, far past shore.

Still debating who should be the one to retrieve it, our group shivers as we're called upon to get ready to leave. The last few moments before a nine-hour flight back to Chicago, the last laughs, jokes, and conversation are held onto. For my siblings and me, surviving a daunting flight back to a country 7,749 kilometers away from home can only be achieved by referencing those very memories.

As we gather our things, we shed tears, even though we come back every year. Going back is a ritual of some sort, repeating each summer’s activities over and over again. It feels like a scene out of Groundhog Day — except we’re in a sunny beach town, surrounded by Italians with thick Tuscan accents. As my sister looks back one last time, tears in her eyes, I repeat my usual line. “Don’t worry, Cate; we’ll be back.”

No one could’ve anticipated 14 months going by without going home.

Italy was the first European country to experience the full force of the coronavirus. Hospitals were quickly overwhelmed, overflowing with patients and suffering a shortage of ventilators that especially threatened Italy's elderly population. Italians aren't known as people who are always willing to follow the rules, but people were dying exponentially and that fear made people desperate for guidance from the government.

Italy’s response? From March to June, the whole country was shut down. Every city, from the top to the heel of the boot, was on lockdown. Everything, from stores to cafés, shut down for four consecutive months. Italy's government is deep in debt, so shutting everything down was daring. However, it was deemed necessary in such circumstances, and it paid off.

Those four months being far from home while my family and friends were in complete lockdown were nerve-wracking. How was this going to work? Italians can be stubborn; were they going to

abandon their personal freedom for those at risk?

They did, though not by choice. If my 85-year-old grandmother wanted to leave the house for a walk, she needed to fill out a special permit stating her reason for going outside since a police officer was likely going to stop her. If she didn't have the permit on her at any point, she would've been fined. Later into lockdown, forms pertaining to visiting family members had to be filled out. Any possible reason for someone to leave their homes was inspected and required documentation. But after four trying months, Italy came out on the other side of lockdown.

How did Italy’s initial success impact their opinion on how the U.S. described Italy efforts towards battling the coronavirus? Many Italians admire the U.S. because of the dream that it represents to many, perhaps coming from the myth of the fabulous, star-spangled life that this country promises.

Curiosity molds the way that many Italians think of the U.S. But bitterness replaced that admiration earlier this year. On March 17, President Trump told reporters, "You look at what's going on with Italy... we don't want to be in a position like that."

Presidential candidate Joe Biden was brought into the conversation when he used Italy to exemplify the impracticality of free healthcare, saying, "it's not working in Italy right now."

As I heard what was being said about Italy’s efforts, my friends and family back home were coming to me with words of disapproval and criticism. During a conversation with my childhood friend Sara, she asked me, “Perché non tornate a casa? Non c’è motivo di restare in un paese che non rispetta il sacrificio dell'Italia e che continua ad andare a testa sua senza provare a vedere il bene in tutto quello che abbiamo fatto.”

Translation: “Why don’t you come home? There’s no reason for you to stay in a country whose leaders don’t respect Italy’s sacrifice and who keep leading through stubbornness without trying to see the good in what we did as a people and a country.”

The way the current administration portrayed Italy not only renounced Italy's efforts in combating the virus, but it reduced my country to a stereotype as one that doesn't function well.

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Italy’s cases peaked on April 19 with 108,077 active cases in its first wave; however, with strict lockdown restrictions, it managed to achieve a significant decline — active cases dropped to 12,115 as of July 21.1 This improvement allowed Italians to have a semi-normal summer.

Meanwhile, the U.S. never had that sharp dip. As of April 19, the U.S. had 664,083 active cases, which steadily rose to 2,020,450 cases as of July 21.

Right now, 25% of worldwide coronavirus cases are coming from the United States.2

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Unfortunately, despite Italy’s initial success during its first wave, cases are rising again with 222,241 active cases as of October 25.3 The government has implemented new lockdown procedures in an attempt to replicate their previous success; however, with the coming winter months, they’re preparing for the worst of the second wave.

With the privilege of living in both Italy and the U.S., I’ve come to understand each country’s political system. Talking with my dad has also helped me understand a few major differences between the two countries during this pandemic — the overpoliticization and undermining of COVID-19’s threat to the U.S. by the current administration versus the collective nature of Italy’s government and their swift call to action.

From the moment the pandemic hit the U.S., the decisions being made by the federal government did not benefit the collective public interest and instead supported a political agenda. For example, wearing masks is one of the most publicly politicized aspects of COVID-19 policy in the U.S. Since the beginning, masks have been proven effective in slowing the spread of the virus.

Additionally, the threat that COVID-19 posed to the U.S. was concealed from the beginning. A phone call between President Trump and journalist Bob Woodward revealed that the Trump administration knew about the danger of the virus long before it hit the U.S. In the released audio, Trump was heard saying, “This thing is a killer if it gets you. If you’re the wrong person, you don’t have a chance.”

Yet, not even four days after this conversation, Trump tweeted in support of protestors in Minnesota, Michigan, and Virginia opposing extensions of stay-at-home orders. Not only did the undermining of the virus by the Trump administration sacrifice response times to the virus and collective response to the pandemic, but it also flung everyone into the politics of the situation. The public was misled at a time where truth was imperative, and people were now forced to reevaluate the U.S.’s response to the virus. If the public, both Democrats and Republicans, thought they could ignore how the pandemic was being handled, it was no longer an option.

On the other hand, Italy saw transparency towards its people and enactment of appropriate government legislation as the keys to their initial success. When Italy discovered their first COVID-19 case, the government took immediate legislative action that prohibited any movement throughout all of Italy, essentially locking everyone in their homes. This was then accompanied by the closure of restaurants, bars, libraries, and other public areas to further strengthen their mandated stay-at-home order.

Even Matteo Salvini, the populist leader of Italy's "Lega Nord" party — a controversial right-wing party similar to far-right parties in the U.S. — put his views aside and respected government legislation. He began as a skeptic, wearing his mask as a chin guard, but soon realized how important mask-wearing was for Italy’s progress. Salvini was even seen wearing masks with the Italian flag on it, encouraging his uber-nationalist party and its leaders to wear them in public, directly portraying the importance of masks during the pandemic.

Currently, hope is what's keeping me together.

After not seeing my friends and family for over a year now, it's the only thing I can hold onto. The pandemic has made being an ocean away from home almost impossible to ignore. More often than I'd like, I dream about being on that same beach, playing volleyball, taking in the warmth of the sand and the sting of the Italian sun. Yet, that memory was before our current reality, and I've come to accept that normalcy won't be coming back to the U.S. anytime soon. Recovery will take time.

For the U.S. to move forward, our mentality must change. The effort to combat this pandemic must be a collective one, since the only way to overcome it is to come together as one.

THE VIRUS DOESN'T DISCRIMINATE, AND IT WON'T STOP TO PICK WHO TO HIT AND WHEN TO DISAPPEAR.

¹ “ Italy.” Worldometer, www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/country/italy/. ² “ United States.” Worldometer, www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/country/us/. ³ “ Italy.” Worldometer, www.worldometers.info/coronavirus/country/italy/.

Despite concrete evidence, the Trump administration promoted the belief that masks were unnecessary — Scott Atlas, the Trump administration’s science advisor, even tweeted “Mask work? NO.” This sort of rhetoric not only impacted his followers, who are often seen protesting mask requirements in stores, restaurants, and other public places, but it also made mask wearing, or lack thereof, a political act. Opposing beliefs furthered the U.S. political divide and generalized people into two groups: mask wearers and mask protestors, with the former associated with the left and the latter associated with Trump and the right. Twitter ended up deleting Scott Atlas’ tweet because it violated a policy that prohibits sharing false or misleading misinformation about COVID-19.

WRITING Emma Van Guen

MODELING Sydney Lerner, Rose-Laura Meus

PHOTOGRAPHY Angela Lin

DESIGN Renee Pearce

YOU MAY

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KNOW ME BY...

Growing up, “beauty” for women felt like marking boxes on a checklist — tall but shorter than men, wavy but not curly hair, thin but an hourglass figure.

The high barriers to conventional beauty left most girls with unique features to feel unattractive and undesirable, especially in our early teens.

Nowadays, there is an insurgent desire to see “real people” in the media, allowing different bodies, cultures, and genders to command the beauty space rather than being oppressed by it. While restrictive beauty standards are far from gone, the concept of a “trademark” look is now desirable, not exclusionary.

A physical characteristic can become your “trademark,” whether you want it or not. It dictates how others view you, and even how you view yourself.

ROSE-LAURA MEUS For second-year Rose-Laura Meus, fitting in was never an option. Although she was born into a closeknit Haitian community in Florida, Meus moved to Georgia at age five. The girls at her new schools were white, straight-haired, and petite. Meus was 5’10” and Black with unruly curls — the antithesis of the norm.

Meus’ classmates called her “giant” and “NBA player,” while making fun of her “nappy hair.” At church, women commented on how her clothes didn’t fit her tall frame. She suffered criticism from family members.

“My mother would say, ‘I wish your hair was straight because then you would look more feminine,’” Meus said. “Or ‘I wish you weren’t so dark, don't go out into the sun because you're going to get darker.’”

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Meus didn’t get to pick her “trademark.” It was imposed on her, and it affected how she viewed herself. She struggled heavily with depression and body dysmorphia, and art was one of her only outlets. Even then, her drawings were affected by her self-image struggles.

“I realize as I grew up all the sketches that I did were of how I wanted to look,” Meus said. “As long as other people called me ugly, I also thought I was ugly.”

It wasn’t until her senior year of high school that Meus noticed a change.

“Social media shifted in how darker-skinned women [were treated],” Meus said. “Not to say that they treat us with roses, but I no longer had to fear I was going to be called ugly every time I walked out the house.”

Starting college allowed Meus to take control of her narrative instead of having it decided for her.

“Everyone back home knew me as this tall, dark individual,” Meus said. “[In college] I changed my hairstyle, changed my appearance, started showing off a little more, started going out a little more, tried new things. Being here I wanted to figure out who I was.”

Meus now paints portraits on commission and is experimenting with a Surrealist style. She’s noticed a difference in her work.

“You started to see darker people who looked like me with shorter hair or a little afro or dreadlocks [in my art],” Meus said. “I changed how I viewed myself and the things around me.”

Meus sometimes wonders about life in her diverse Florida community.

“I was your average black kid, but it always looked weird to other people,” Meus said. “If I had been in a school of people that looked like me, I wouldn't have gone through so much turmoil growing up.” “[But] you can't time travel, so you take what happened and you move on … If 12-year-old me was looking at me now, I think [she] would be proud [to see] someone that actually loves herself.”

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It was imposed on her, and it affected how she viewed herself.

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AMANDA PIASECKI Second-year Amanda Piasecki has naturally dirty blonde hair and blue eyes. While she never disliked how she looked, she also never felt like she stood out. So at 17, after saving up money from work, she dyed her hair bright red. Immediately, she noticed a difference in herself.

“I always thought my default version of myself was very plain looking,” Piasecki said. “[The red hair] changed my whole vibe, and I didn’t think it would.”

The change got Piasecki a lot of attention and compliments at school, and her friends started sending her redhead memes and horoscope posts.

Her hair became her trademark, something she adopted and wasn’t born with.

“I feel more like myself having made a conscious change,” Piasecki said. “I decided to do this to myself and now it's part of who I am. I think it compliments my natural features better, and I feel more put together.”

Piasecki has kept her red hair, in changing shades, ever since. At Northeastern, where people have only ever known her as a redhead, she says it's still the feature she gets the most comments on.

“I do think it makes me look more confident, and I [feel] more confident,” Piasecki said. “I still can’t settle down on what specific vibe. Maybe I’ll do platinum blonde next...”

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SYDNEY LERNER Sydney Lerner, a third-year, grew up in a very Jewish community. Everyone went to summer camp and Hebrew school and had elaborate Bat Mitzvahs, and most shared the same thick, curly hair. Yet, growing up, Lerner was the only one who wore her hair naturally. “[My neighborhood] was like a New Jersey Real Housewives energy Jewish neighborhood,” Lerner said. “Everyone hated their curls and would get aggressive keratin treatments on them ... no one would share their experiences with me on how to deal with them because everyone wanted to get rid of it.”

Lerner’s curly hair seemed untamable. Her mother tried brushing it out, but ended up calling it a “rat’s nest.” At salons, hairdressers couldn’t properly cut or color her hair. Lerner’s wild curls made her stand out, and as she got older, she succumbed to hating them too.

“When I was in middle school, I straightened my hair almost every single day,” Lerner said. “I tried to do what I could to have a specific look, but no matter what I felt like, I was controlled by whatever my curls did. [To] look good I felt like I had to straighten it, tie it back, or braid it.”

But in high school, curly hair care started trending online, providing the advice Lerner always needed.

She started wearing her curls out, and Lerner said she felt like herself again.

“Taking control of [my hair], it was an acceptance of my heritage,” Lerner said. “It's something that I genetically have, and I shouldn’t have to change anything to feel validated in that. People said it looked more fitting on me and more natural.”

Lerner does her own hair now, experimenting with bright colors and different lengths. Her friends and boyfriend come to her for advice on how to manage their own curly hair. She’ll still straighten her hair on occasion, but only when she wants to.

“I don't measure it on a scale anymore, where I said the curly hair is bad and the straight hair is good,” Lerner said. “It's like an accessory now, it's equivalent to whether or not I wear a necklace.”

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rei kawakubo’s comme des garçons and the disruption of convention

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WRITING Oliver Buckley DESIGN/ ILLUSTRATION Kimmy Curry

Rei Kawakubo has spent her entire career flouting convention. Renowned for the creation of her bold and idiosyncratic fashion empire Comme des Garçons in 1967, Kawakubo has been using CDG as a medium for experimentation with form ever since. Alongside Yohji Yamamoto, Kawakubo was considered a pioneer of the “anti-fashion” movement that, throughout the ‘80s and ‘90s, challenged society’s existing perspective on the purpose of clothing and fashion. In a 1997 interview with Vogue, Kawakubo said, “It’s our job to question convention, if we don’t take risks, then who will?”

When Kawakubo finally made her debut in Paris in 1981, her work was considered a bold departure from what was usually seen in the capital of haute couture. Of course, she had no intention of fitting in; her 1982 Destroy collection, featuring a monochromatic palette and heavy distressing, a metaphoric middle finger in the face of any who might expect her to conform. One frequently cited piece from this collection is a black sweater ravaged with holes, ironically titled “lace.” To Kawakubo, fashion was a loose set of guidelines open for her to contort or repurpose however she wanted. In this sense, she has made it abundantly clear that wearability has never been her primary goal. In Sanae Shimizu’s 2005 compilation book, Comme Des Garcons: Unlimited, Kawakubo says that “It is more important, I think, to translate thought into action rather than to worry about if one’s clothes are worn in the end.” No collection better illustrates this sentiment than her legendary Comme des Garçons S/S 1997 Body Meets Dress, Dress Meets Body.

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The same year that Kate Moss glided down the Chanel runway in a vibrant floral gown, Comme des Garçons was debuting a collection encapsulating Kawakubo’s perpetual anger at the state of the fashion industry. The collection, which premiered at the Musée national des Arts d’Afrique et d’Océanie, was a remarkable departure from the current fashion vocabulary. Deviating from her typical monochromatic palette, Kawakubo opted for gingham patterns over seemingly understated dresses, distinguished with a series of kidney shaped pads throughout that completely transformed the pieces’ silhouettes. Professor Francesca Granata, an associate Professor of Fashion Studies at Parsons School of Design, said of the motif, “with this very simple design, so to speak, she created this silhouette that was transforming the [perception of] a woman's body in womenswear.”

At the time, there was a sharp dichotomy in the perception of the show. While many praised the collection’s radical departure from typical fashion convention, many were hesitant to embrace these changes. Up until this point, such a departure from typical Parisian form was unprecedented. Many publications and stores refused to show the pieces with inserts, sometimes omitting the pads in attempts to make the items more commercially viable.

While the collection may not have been embraced at the time, in retrospect it represented a paradigmatic

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shift of fashion. Kawakubo challenged the typical perception of beauty and form, as well as the role of commercialism in the fashion industry. While she may have been operating in a disruptive and unprecedented artistic space, Kawakubo’s contributions to the industry are still present — and applauded — to this day. Kawakubo spearheaded a remarkable shift in fashion, showing that disruption can be a palette cleanser of tradition.

In the time of COVID-19, we are undergoing a similar paradigmatic shift; the pandemic has made it apparent that we must continue to question the ethics and conventions of the fashion industry.

Although it’s difficult to see the light at the end of the tunnel, there is a silver lining in the form of fashion disruptors like Kawakubo who will undoubtedly continue her noble mission of challenging convention and providing relief from the darkness.

Kawakubo challenged the typical perception of beauty and form, as well as the role of commercialism in the fashion industry.

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Breaking Up With

Makeup WRITING Natalie Hill MODELING Aishazhan Abuova PHOTOGRAPHY Aishazhan Abuova DESIGN Tanya Kler

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appointed Head of Makeup for school plays and musicals, finally putting the hours of YouTube tutorials to use for extravagant shows like Alice in Wonderland. My classmates, theater teachers, and friends’ parents were amazed by the cosmetic tips and tricks I had up my sleeve. My interest and expertise in makeup became part of my identity, the same way soccer or playing the clarinet did for other students.

When I started wearing mascara in fifth grade, I would hide it from my mom so she wouldn’t have the chance to stop me. Sometimes I'd smuggle it to school in my backpack, applying it in the bathroom before walking into my first class. I was terrified of events like field day or the PACER test in gym because my mascara might bleed off, leaving me with a bare face. I didn’t want anyone to see me without makeup, and it stayed that way until my third year of college.

The early onset of my self-consciousness led me to sneak around my mom’s makeup drawer and steal the sample mascaras she got from the cosmetics counter at the mall. This magical black tube seemed to transform my pale, white-blonde complexion into something a bit more defined and grown-up. When my eyelashes went from practically invisible to long and black, I felt prettier and more mature. I felt like my cheeks looked less red during gym class. I couldn’t imagine going back to the childish appearance of my bare face again.

With that, I wore makeup to school every single day until I graduated high school. By the time I reached middle school, my obsession with YouTube “beauty gurus” — the mid-2000s term for influencers — opened my eyes to the creative power of cosmetics.

Every weekend, I would watch women like Michelle Phan, Kandee Johnson, and Jessica Harlow dress up their faces, then I would practice on my own. I started filling in my eyebrows and wearing eyeliner to school. My seventh-grade peers started to take up morning makeup rituals too. For the first time, my painted face was in good company.

This relationship with makeup also helped me through a difficult transition from eighth grade to ninth grade, when I started attending a private high school.

I left the friends and community I knew behind and entered a drastically different environment. My class size went from 700 to 80, making it impossible to be anonymous. I leaned into my emerging sense of style, which included my signature makeup look — purple mascara and eyeliner.

During a school year marked by insecurity and difficulty adapting, I felt most confident when a new classmate would compliment the purple on my lashes, pointing out how unique and cool the idea was. The purple mascara helped form my social identity that I could cling to when I needed to feel secure and empowered. I also used makeup to build a community in my high school’s performing arts department; when Shrek: The Musical was the spring show, my knowledge of dramatic full-face looks earned me clout among upperclassmen. I taught my fellow team members the fundamental steps of keeping bold looks from dripping off under the hot stage lights — primer, cream color, then translucent powder to set. Most importantly, the 30 minutes of painting actors’ faces before every rehearsal helped me form bonds with students from every grade.

But my relationship with wearing makeup only grew more toxic through the years. Ever since my first tube of mascara in fifth grade, I had convinced myself that my made-up face was my actual face.

Most times when I looked in the mirror, I saw filledeyebrows-and-dark-lashes Natalie, not bare-faced Natalie. I identified more with the made-up face than I did with my real face.

My early interest in makeup also gave me a competitive advantage. In middle school, I was 75

Throughout high school, skipping my makeup routine was never an option. Sometimes I would bring the tools on my drive to school, swiping mascara in the sun visor mirror while stopped in dense morning traffic. Just like in sixth grade, I couldn’t fathom entering a room of my classmates without the makeup that made me feel like myself.

I couldn’t even go to my local gym on a Saturday morning or run to the drugstore late at night without swiping on mascara and brow gel, even though I was sure I wouldn’t see a single person I knew. My dependency had evolved from self-consciousness to an identity crisis.

When the coronavirus sent us home, I continued my morning makeup routine before my virtual classes. I wouldn’t show up to in-person class without my “real” face on, so why would a webcam appearance be any different? I stuck to my makeup routine, even for short video meetings with my friends, until the end of the semester.

One morning, I decided that an extra five minutes of sleep was more valuable than dark lashes before a short group project meeting. The stakes were low; my group had worked on a tough project all semester and bonded along the way. I had also learned how to temporarily dye my eyebrows so they appeared darker than my natural blonde ones without makeup. So I gave my thin, invisible eyelashes a shot, staring back at my digital reflection in the screen corner the whole time.

I didn’t like the way I looked, but the effort of putting mascara on in the morning and taking it off at night grew less and less worthwhile as the weeks slogged on. I pushed myself to skip the makeup when going on a neighborhood job where I might cross paths with old friends and neighbors, breathing through the panic the few times I did run into someone.

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Being home all day, I saw more mirrors throughout the day and spent more time staring at my reflection in my phone screen. For the first time in 10 years, my bare face looked back at me more often than my made-up face did. When I happened to put my normal makeup on for a special Zoom event or an exciting trip to the grocery store, my perked-up features genuinely excited me. I felt extra pretty where I used to feel “normal”; I had transformed the way I saw my real self. I was able to look in the mirror and appreciate my face for what it actually was.

In February, I wouldn’t have left my apartment without makeup on because it didn’t feel like I was putting my real self into the world. Quarantine urged me to see myself without it for weeks at a time, something I never thought I’d have a chance to do.

I knew my relationship with makeup had become limiting and unhealthy, but I felt trapped by the anxieties I’d have to face in order to heal it. While at home, the wasted time and energy that went into restoring my face each morning began to slowly outweigh the benefits. I became familiar with, and even appreciative of, my natural features enough to break my crippling dependency on cosmetics.

I’m still hesitant to appear on social media or show up to work without makeup on, and I dye my eyebrows every few weeks to make them darker and more defined. But I ran into an acquaintance at the grocery store bare-faced last week and didn’t think twice about it — and I’m proud of that growth. In an age where appearance and identity have become so important, I think everyone stands to benefit from reevaluating their “normal” and considering how to truly put themselves first.

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PHOTOGRAPHY Simran Gvalani, Hillary Nana Adjei, Calem Robertson, Aung Thant Kyaw MODELING Zenith Hakemy, Rose-Laura Meus, Aidan Baglivo, Samir A-Rahim SENIOR CREATIVE DIRECTION Simran Gvalani ASSOCIATE CREATIVE DIRECTION Kaela Anderson CONTRIBUTING PHOTO DIRECTION Aung Thant Kyaw, Calem Robertson, Hillary Nana-Adjei DESIGN Renee Pearce

STYLING DIRECTION Aidan Baglivo, Hillary Nana Adjei STYLING Quirin Emanga, Maggie Van Nortwick, Nell Sweeney, Cara O’Hanlon

Rooted

I REDIRECTED WHAT I PUT MY TIME INTO AND WHAT I ACTUALLY WANTED TO BE AS A PERSON.

I'M STUCK IN THIS BOX AND I FELT LIKE I HAD NO MOTIVATION TO DO ANYTHING, WHEN I DID START HAVING MOTIVATION I STARTED PAINTING. ALL MY ENERGY WAS REDIRECTED FROM ACADEMIC INTO ART AGAIN. AS A KID I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE AN ARTIST, I KIND OF LOST THAT DREAM BUT I GOT BACK INTO IT AGAIN.

HOW HAVE YOU GONE BACK TO YOUR ROOTS / WHAT HAVE YOU REFLECTED ON / WHO WERE YOU THEN / WHO ARE YOU NOW

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Queens Rising

How COVID-19 Changed the Landscape of Drag Changed

WRITING Lauren Walsh PHOTOGRAPHY Lauren Walsh DESIGN/ ILLUSTRATION Kimmy Curry All photos of Plane Jane used with permission from @planejanedrag

Just like any other creative or small business, drag performers and venues took a huge blow when the COVID-19 pandemic hit. With federal social distancing regulations in place, drag artists could no longer perform for live audiences. Instead, they were forced to find an alternative — the internet.

Virtual drag shows took off with Digital Drag, a weekly show hosted on Twitch by Biqtch Puddin, the season two winner of reality competition show Dragula. It features a continuously changing list of performers from around the world, each with their own live or pre-recorded lip sync number featured on the show. Digital Drag began in midMarch when quarantine restrictions buckled down, and since then, countless new virtual drag shows have emerged, hosted on platforms like Twitch, Instagram Live, YouTube, and Zoom. This rapid change in the landscape of drag came with many challenges — namely the time-consuming efforts of video production and the sole reliance on payments coming from virtual audience tips.

To learn more about the nuances and challenges of digital drag, I spoke to Plane Jane, a local Boston drag queen, about her firsthand experience with the pandemic’s effect on drag. Andrew Dunayevskiy has been doing drag as Plane Jane for two years and recently transferred to Northeastern as a secondyear communications major. Prior to the pandemic, she hosted shows like Sloppy Joes at Midway Cafe and Fuck Me Fridays at Jacques’ Cabaret.

Dunayevskiy also performed regularly at Jacques’ during the week and competed in Cycle 2 of the Boston Drag Gauntlet competition.

This interview has been edited for clarity.

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Walsh: How did the pandemic disrupt the drag scene in Boston?

Dunayevskiy: All live drag in Boston got cut off real fast. I feel like it’s definitely an adjustment that a lot of queens have had to make, but not all of them have gone online. Everyone’s gone from live performing to none of it, and the queens who are queens full-time took the online thing a little bit more seriously, as opposed to queens who do their “drag queen thing” but then also have lives outside of that and have work. But ultimately, I think drag has taken a backseat in general to larger issues that are plaguing our country.

W: Have you performed in any digital drag shows during the pandemic and if so, which ones?

D: I performed in Digital Drag and submitted the video I made for that to two other drag shows.

I also was booked by Boston University to do a live Zoom call, and I gave a little makeup tutorial and talked about how I got into doing drag. I also made a video of myself in drag making a cocktail for Emory College. That was fun. I also acted in a scene for a film produced by a local queer filmmaker. Actually last week, there’s a large stage in Central Square in Cambridge with seating, and there was a socially distant drag show and I did that. That was the first live show I’ve done in six months and it was really fun. But I definitely have not been spreading myself too thin with digital drag at all. For the most part, I’ve been taking a break, and I’m glad that I have been because I was finally able to focus, and apply to schools, and get into Northeastern. So that was cute.

This rapid change in the landscape of drag came with many challenges.

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W: What has the transition to virtual drag been like?

D: It’s totally different than performing live. I guess the preparation process is always gonna be the same — you want to do something creative, you want to make a costume, you want to prepare a look, but then you just have to film it and edit it which requires a little bit more effort. Or a different sort of skill set. I’m one of those queens who’s not getting too involved [in digital drag] because when I produce something, I want it to be of quality. I don’t want to just be twerking my padded ass in front of my webcam and putting it out there. And also, I like getting paid. I like getting paid for what I do and I like producing good content, and I also have been focusing on other aspects of my life. I feel like a lot of my fellow queens have been having this problem where it’s a pandemic, it’s a depressing time, it’s a transitional time for a lot of people and we’re all just creatively like ... *shrugs.* We don’t know what to do. But I’ve still definitely been trying to do drag and prepare some things for when drag returns.

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W: What has been your biggest challenge when it comes to doing drag in a virtual setting?

D: Most drag queens never really have the budget to film professional videos. We always have to do everything ourselves, or with the help of friends, and fund everything ourselves. So I’m sure that’s been a challenge for queens who still want to participate in digital drag, to just be self-reliant and produce digital content on their own.

W: Have you noticed any positive aspects about digital drag?

D: It’s nice to know that people care enough about drag to keep it going and keep supporting it virtually, that drag will not die. But overall, the positive that I’m taking out of this is the push it’s given me to take a step back. It’s been nice to take a step back from local drag and focus more on moving forward with my life in other ways, and I’ve talked to several people that feel the same way.

Other than me still wanting to put in the work to make my dreams a reality, I can also now focus on getting a degree and being more conscious of my health and things like that. But you know, it’s nice that people are still finding ways to be creative, and aren’t letting drag go completely down the drain.

W: What do you see for the future of drag performances following the pandemic?

D: I think that digital drag shows will probably continue well into the future, although venues will start to slowly open back up again. I’ve seen that some digital drag shows are struggling to get sponsors and views already, so I don’t know how sustainable digital drag is. But I think as long as queens are willing to do it, it’ll still exist. I’m not sure it’s ever going to return to how it used to be.

Especially because not only are performers not able to go out and perform live, but because a lot of venues have taken a blow financially. So I don’t know if it’ll make a full recovery but I feel like as long as people have that passion and that drive to keep it going it’ll survive, whether online or live.

You can find Plane Jane on Instagram at @planejanedrag.

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bleach it, dye it, cut it off

I have known women who have never touched their hair — a mere haircut makes them nervous — and I have known women that are severely unhappy unless their hair is a bright fuchsia.

WRITING Annabelle Critz MODELING Alyssa Spaeth PHOTOGRAPHY Rebecca Brichacek DESIGN Thandiwe Tembo

I tend to fall somewhere between these two extremes. I get bored with my hair every six weeks and have to do something new to it. I will grab kitchen shears and cut until I’m satisfied, then two weeks later, I want it long. I will bleach, tone, and darken my hair as quickly as the wind changes directions. But why do I feel an almost compulsive need to change such a defining feature?

Humans have always defined others by their physical features. For women, hair is a big one.

We associate certain hair lengths and colors with certain attributes. We see this depicted in the art world, with long hair on young women as a sign

of fertility and youth. In recent media, short hair is typically shown on older female characters.

And think of all the obnoxious sayings we have for blondes. So much of a woman’s identity seems wrapped up in what's sitting on top of her head.

I grew up with very long, very blonde hair. I did not get a haircut until sixth grade, and by then it was such a thick sheet of hair that even I acknowledged the need for a cut. About a foot was cut off, and I was so horrified by this that I waited until freshman year to change it again. Completely self-aggrandizing my own maturity, I bought a box of bright red hair dye and colored the underlayer of my (still) long blonde hair. To be honest, it did not look great, but I loved it. I loved how stunned people were that a 15-year-old girl from a well-todo private school in the South did something to her hair other than bleach it white.

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I hated that color more than life itself. I purposely only have three pictures of my hair from that summer. I had asked for a true brown, and it looked like I had rubbed mud into my blonde hair and left it out to dry. I finally got fed up with it and went to the store, bought a box of dye, and went to town. I loved the final product — a rich mahogany that left my hair shiny for what felt like the first time in years.

By the time I was 16, I too wanted that elusive bleach-white hair. I had always struggled with my weight as a child, and at this point I had just begun running which caused me to lose weight.

I started to look like my peers and I wanted hair to match. I no longer wanted to stand out but to assimilate. I wanted to be like the other “hot girls” in my school, and I thought if I changed my hair I would become one.

So I went to a hairdresser who bleached the hell out of my hair, and she ruined it. But I kept this unflattering brassy blonde shade that gave me so much confidence. I believed that it made me something. The belief was reinforced by how vastly differently men started to treat me — they noticed me. I now understand that it wasn’t my hair but the fact that I was done with puberty by 16, and I looked like a woman. In fact, my constantly grown-out roots and two-toned zebra hair did not highlight my face at all. At a hair appointment at the beginning of junior year, where I was supposed to go even lighter, I went brown.

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It was the brown I loved, the brown I enjoyed so much. It was the brown that I became truly confident in. Brown isn’t showy; I garnered attention because of myself and not my hair. I grew into myself with that color, because I allowed myself to be less concerned about what was on my head. It was the hair that I finished out my senior year with, the hair that I took to my first semester of college. It was my dark and sexy bedroom hair that traveled with me everywhere.

But the man I was fucking preferred blondes, so I bleached my hair again. I did it aggressively one afternoon, and I killed it. Murdered it. I quickly dyed the ruined mass of orange back and had to cut

off seven inches, leaving my hair right above my shoulders. I played right back into my 16-year-old self — I wanted to be validated and I searched for it in a bottle of bleach.

I had never hated my hair more. It was short and so dark, it was almost black. To make myself feel better, I gradually lightened it, throwing highlights in at random. Over quarantine, still with the same man and the same desire for control in a time when I had none, I kept bleaching my hair. So for a while, I had orange hair that just brushed my shoulders.

After literal months of working at it, I remembered that toner exists, and overnight my brassy blonde became a slinky, cool-toned color.

Yet, I still miss the natural curl I once had, the curl that months of bleaching and trimming my hair have removed. I miss bedroom curls. Now when I wake up in the morning, I have a frizzy, messy helmet that is only tamed with an embarrassing amount of leave-in conditioner. But with the help of styling tools and my roommate’s expertise, I have learned to reclaim my natural hair texture.

I have changed, and will continue to change, my hair as I become bored with it. My journey with my hair is the closest thing I have to a wardrobe staple.

I could not be more grateful for my parents' latitude when it came to changing my hair — it allowed me my freedom of expression, and it is my favorite sign of freedom.

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ACCESSIBLE SUBTITLES OPEN THE DOOR TO CONVERSATION

WRITING Sowon Park PHOTOGRAPHY Corey Watanabe MODELLING Shana Gibbs, Erin Rosenfeld DESIGN Hanna Cormier

I watched the series When They See Us four times over quarantine: once by myself, twice with my dad, and once with both my parents. This was a rare occurrence. Due to the language barrier, there are few shows that everyone in my family can watch together – but the Korean subtitles available on Netflix made it happen. Technology is constantly changing, and over time, there has been a trend towards accessibility on streaming platforms.

Diversity of subtitles connects different shows and movies to a wider audience than ever before.

Although accessibility within technology may not be fully developed yet, I have witnessed its positive impact within my own family.

I’ve always envied my friends who are able to talk to their moms about everything that’s going on in their lives. As a child of immigrant parents who speak mostly Korean, communication with my family did not come that easily. Many second-generation kids like me utilize a mix of English and our native language to communicate with our parents. For my brother and I, it was Konglish: a blend between Korean and English. Growing up, however, I often found myself feeling frustrated with constantly replying in one word every time my mom asked about my day. I desperately wanted to say so much more, but I just couldn’t translate the words from one language to another. In these moments, it felt challenging to talk to my parents because they couldn’t understand and I couldn’t explain — my thoughts would often remain, literally, lost in translation.

As college students, we are in a chapter of our lives where we truly grow our passions, our independence and, most importantly, ourselves.

Recently, I’ve become immersed in one of these passions — advocacy for social justice. I’ve always felt very strongly about social justice issues and embracing activism, but language barriers often lead to incomplete conversations. During quarantine, my parents often saw me walk out the door with my hand clasped onto a piece of

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cardboard that said “Black Lives Matter” as I prepared to attend a local protest. My parents would understand the general idea of what I was fighting for, but I just couldn’t fully express all my thoughts and feelings in Korean the way that I could in English.

In developing my activism, I often read books and documentaries on Black history and the systemic racism that is embedded in our corrupt justice system. The first time I watched Ava Duvernay’s When They See Us was while watching Netflix with my dad; I recognized the title name from a “towatch” list I keep in my Notes app. As he scrolled through Korean Netflix, I was shocked to see it pop up on the homepage, as I don’t often see Korean as an option for subtitles. Generally there are only English, Spanish, and French subtitle options on Netflix, with even fewer choices available on other platforms. We decided to watch it together, not knowing that we would end up binge-watching the entire series until 4:00 a.m. The series sparked meaningful conversation between me and my dad about current societal issues that we felt passionate about.

My dad and I were in such awe after learning about the injustices with the Central Park case that we actually ended up watching it again the following night. In addition to the actual series, Netflix provided Korean subtitles for the Oprah interview with the Exonerated Five, When They See Us actors, and Ava Duvernay, as well as the documentary 13th, which we readily watched as well. It was a really empowering moment to see my immigrant dad so engaged and expressing the

DURING QUARANTINE, MY PARENTS OFTEN SAW ME WALK OUT THE DOOR WITH MY HAND CLASPED ONTO A PIECE OF CARDBOARD THAT SAID "BLACK LIVES MATTER" AS I PREPARED TO ATTEND A LOCAL PROTEST.

MY PARENTS WOULD UNDERSTAND THE GENERAL IDEA OF WHAT I WAS FIGHTING FOR, BUT I JUST COULDN'T FULLY EXPRESS ALL MY THOUGHTS AND FEELINGS IN KOREAN THE WAY THAT I COULD IN ENGLISH.

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desire to educate himself on the issues I cared so deeply about, and I loved every moment of it.

I loved how the next night he spoke to my mom about it in Korean at the dinner table to convince her that she just had to watch it. I loved that my mom and I bawled our eyes out together after watching it as a family that same night. I loved that this communication was made possible by Netflix’s decision to provide Korean subtitles instead of the limited three languages that streaming platforms generally think is sufficient.

Undocumented and Immigration Nation, which cultivated a conversation about ICE and flaws in the U.S. immigration system. With improved technology and recognition of the needs of multiple demographics, the addition of more foreign languages in subtitles can spread intercultural understanding. Netflix translators are shaping the way we educate ourselves through a more engaging method: entertainment. New and meaningful forms of conversation can start with a click of the play button.

Recently, Netflix has been making a point to produce and promote content with increasing racial and national diversity, culture, LGBTQIA+ inclusivity, Deaf inclusivity, and appreciatively more.

It can certainly be challenging to educate family members on current social issues, especially with a language barrier and generation gap. Without Netflix’s implementation of foreign subtitles, my family would have probably never watched When They See Us and 13th together, which sparked a much-needed conversation about the Black Lives Matter movement and a desire to learn even more. Soon enough, we began watching Living

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From Colonialism to Fast Fashion An exploration of Khadi, the fabric of India’s resistance

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WRITING Meghna Iyer MODELING Tobe Chima, Meghna Iyer, Samir A-Rahim PHOTOGRAPHY Hillary Nana Adjej DESIGN Thandiwe Tembo

Like a massive hangover that won’t go away, the fashion industry has yet to recover from the remnant effects of colonialism. Although society is becoming more and more aware of the industry’s reliance on overconsumption and fast fashion practices, many people, consumers and creators alike, are unaware that these issues are actually rooted in an older and bigger problem, colonialism.

Thankfully, criticism of the industry and demand for its reform reached an unprecedented peak this past year, giving fashion the rude awakening it sorely needed. Through movements like the #PayUp social media campaign, society is sobering the fashion industry up, forcing in a new era of accountability and responsibility. That being said, many people still don’t fully understand the dark past that has led the industry to this critical turning point.

It’s easy to think of “colonialism” as a complicated phenomenon, separated from us by hundreds of years and thousands of miles. Sadly, this isn’t the case; the effects of colonialism are very much alive today, rooted so deeply in the fashion industry that its presence is all but undetectable. My mother,

who immigrated to the United States from India, is living proof of this. Ever since I was old enough to pick out my own clothes, she made it very clear to me that I should avoid synthetic fabrics in favor of garments that were 100% cotton, wool, silk, or her personal favorite, linen. This is no easy feat; I’ve learned to scour stores and investigate labels before falling in love with that perfectly fitting pair of jeans or that super pretty sundress. My mom also taught me to alter my clothes, to reinvent a dress into a blouse rather than always buying new. The thing about my mom is that she’s the most stylish person I know. Some of my favorite pieces in my closet actually got there by way of the hallway between our bedrooms. Most recently I’ve been hijacking her clothes from the ‘90s, which look as good now as they did when she first bought them. I’ve been committing closet theft and following my mom’s consumption habits for as long as I can remember, but I’d never really asked when or why she picked them up. I always assumed it had to do with sustainability and quality, but recently I’ve started piecing together the real reason these rules and traditions are so important for her. As I was surprised to find out, conscious consumerism was only a small part of the story.

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One of the first examples of fast fashion — and sentiment against it — actually occurred in India during the 1920s. Famous for its colorful handloom fabrics, prints, and designs, India’s garments and textiles had become popular all over the world, only to take a huge hit when the Western power loom was created in 1904. Unlike their artisan counterparts, power loom fabrics were inexpensive and quick to make, needing hardly any craftsmanship. In villages across India, people who had spent their life weaving for manufacturers lost their jobs and were forced to leave their homes in search of factory work in cities. Fast forwarding a decade or so, the British, who had since colonized India, saw an opportunity for great wealth in the country’s textile trade now that the process had sped up. They saw India’s capacity to create rich fabrics and in order to control the means of production and keep profits in British hands, seized all of the raw materials from the country and exported them back to England. From there, textiles were mass produced in mills across the UK, just to be imported back to India to be designed into clothes, bags, or other entities by

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people who had to work for all but nothing. This process of exporting, importing, and milling drove prices through the roof in India and simultaneously put both local handlooms and power looms out of business. To make matters worse, the British bought cotton and other raw materials for far cheaper than Indian textilers paid for them. It didn’t take long for this process to cost hundreds of thousands of Indians their livelihoods, which soon inspired them to rise up against the British. Thus, the Swadeshi, or “Khadi,” Movement, was born.

The Khadi movement was a decision made across India to boycott foreign cloth in an effort to show the British they would not, could not, stand for the continued theft of their culture and means to live.

“Khadi” refers to a handwoven cloth that is typically made of cotton and is produced on a charkha, or a small spinning wheel, making the cloth a little thicker than other textiles. Mahatma Gandhi himself encouraged people to spin their own fabrics and refrain from purchasing the expensive British fabrics, which most were unable to do anyway.

While a type of textile might seem like a trivial

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matter in comparison to the other atrocities being committed at the time, India’s ongoing struggle for independence is reflected so heavily in the Khadi movement that it carried, and continues to carry, enormous cultural significance. Khadi brought employment and self-sustainability back to India with the jobs it provided to the people that grew and harvested the raw materials, wove them into textiles, washed and dyed them, and even delivered them. But even beyond that, the fabric became a symbol of resistance, resilience, and revolution. It was one of the first times that rural weavers were self-employed and financially independent, the first reason anyone had in a long time to hope for a life without British influence. A sense of pride in Indian tradition and craft came back to the country with this movement, reviving the villages. Khadi was akin to the great equalizer in India, and its legacy has not left.

Today, Khadi is still woven carefully by hand, work that is testament to the importance it continues to hold in Indian culture. Khadi is easily available to villages in rural India for use and many big designers, like Rohit Bahl, frequently feature it in their collections, making certain its popularity does not decline. India is no longer under Britain’s colonial rule, but the model for fast fashion persists throughout the world, especially in places

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where textile industries were westernized. World trade routes for clothing manufacturing are the same today as they were in the colonial era — eerie evidence that, beneath the surface, not much has changed. The fashion industry rests precariously atop a mountain of exploitation for financial gain, but as transparency and ethics are becoming more valued in society, the industry is facing a whole new Khadi movement.

Knowing more about the history of fast fashion, it’s easy for me to understand the importance my mom places on ethical and sustainable, slowfashion garments. Although she didn’t live through colonized India herself, the values that arose in Indian society during that most difficult time have lived on through generations and generations of Indian nationals as well as diaspora. As a society, we must unlearn the fast fashion and over-consumptive practices that have become normalized over the past century. Decolonizing the fashion industry would mean the death of fast fashion, and that thought alone is powerful enough to cure any hangover you’re nursing today.

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activism beyond instagram stories

This year has been exceptionally tough. COVID-19 has completely changed our lives. We went through restrictions, lockdowns, and for the past few months, we have seen waves of protests calling for police reform and abolition. In the midst of the protests for George Floyd and Black Lives Matter, I’ve seen my Instagram and Twitter feeds active in a way that I have never seen before.

WRITING Alayna Thomas

Take #BlackOutTuesday for instance. In an attempt to show solidarity with BLM, many people posted blank, black squares on Instagram, usually tagged with #BlackOutTuesday and #BlackLivesMatter.

Instead of empowering the movement, there was a cleansing of the BLM tag on Instagram. Users were met with rows and rows of black squares with absolutely no information on them, instead of finding resources for the movement, hotlines for Black mental health, and information about nationwide and worldwide protests. Days’ worth of information was effectively scrubbed away. #BlackOutTuesday was a complete shitshow of virtue signaling.

DESIGN/ ILLUSTRATION Lila Hathaway

Almost any time I log onto social media, there is a constant stream of posts explaining the meaning behind BLM, diving into the complexities of systemic racism, and offering arguments for the abolishment of police. During all of this, I found myself in a dilemma. While I appreciated seeing people sharing information and discussing these difficult topics, I wondered to myself: HOW MUCH OF THIS IS GENUINE?

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The Cambridge English Dictionary defines virtue signaling as “an attempt to show other people that you are a good person, for example by expressing opinions that will be acceptable to them, especially on social media.” Grasping this idea of virtue signaling is integral to activism, and it’s a tricky thing approach it. However, the first step you should take is to look inward and ask yourself – why?

Why are you posting about this specific issue? Are you posting because you’ve done your research on the topic and feel deeply about it? Do you want to inform others? Or are you posting because you want to seem “woke” and informed? In order to answer these questions, we need to look at activism as a whole.

Here’s the thing about activism — it’s a lifestyle. You must incorporate it into your daily life. Once all of the over-simplified infographics have been shared, what’s next? With the recent Breonna Taylor ruling, there has been a resurgence of posts about BLM, but after that, how will you help the Black community?

What are some tangible steps you can take?

Let me preface this with: I do not dislike social media. In fact, I’ve seen great mobilization through social media. For example, @justiceforgeorgenyc is a localized information account based in New York City. The owners of the account post updates about fundraisers, protests, and other events related to BLM in and around the city. That account, and other accounts like it, shows the role of social media in promoting the movement. Without this account, my friends and I wouldn’t have been able to find many of the resources that we had access to. That being said, it is also beneficial to see how steps taken online can be translated offline.

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look inside and ask yourself — why?

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being an activist is a After questioning “why,” thinking about the words “how” and “what” are great ways to proceed. Think about the most effective ways for you to learn about a topic. Think about what you can do to help support those around you, especially those who are a part of the community that you are trying to support. For example, you can speak up in a situation where someone else can’t. Or, if you have a friend that is affected by police brutality, listen to them and be a shoulder to lean on.

One obvious route is to go to demonstrations and to donate. Across the nation, there have been protests happening daily and GoFundMe links being shared. If you have the resources to, then donate. If you have the time and are not in a high-risk group for contracting COVID-19, go out and protest.

These are two of the most immediate ways to help enact change.

All these problems of systemic racism did not pop up overnight. There are books, such as The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B. DuBois, that can provide insight into the historical treatment of Black people and other POC in the United States. Fiction books also delve deep into topics of racial injustice and provide amazing allegories for today — a favorite of mine is Beloved by Toni Morrison.

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continuous process.

One thing you need to be considerate of is to initiate learning on your own as much as possible — it’s important to check yourself and make sure you aren’t burdening those around you. It is a tough time for all, and sometimes people do not want to rehash the trauma that they are going through.

There is a difference between someone volunteering their time and information to you on their own terms and demanding that someone takes time out to teach you about the trauma that their community goes through. The latter can turn people off and make you seem uncompromising, even if it’s not intentional.

Also, be sure to check in on yourself. It is not possible to know everything about all the issues in the world at once. Don’t bite off more than you can chew. Just try to continuously better yourself, gain more knowledge, and acknowledge the biases that you encounter on a daily basis.

Social media is a great way to get started on your journey to activism. However, it is important to incorporate it into your daily life in any way possible — being an activist is a continuous process. You might slip up, you might not know what to do, but that’s okay. As long as you sincerely care about equality, improving the world, and are willing to put in the work, you are on the right track.

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STILL

WE PLEAD

WRITING Kaela Anderson

Born three-fifths a man from a constitution that dared to call us free; WE EMERGED.

Through shackles and scars, we FOUGHT and we FLED.

We made homes for ourselves, our children, and our children's children.

We tucked them into bed, kissing their foreheads, telling them stories of how their beautiful brown skin made them blemished in the eyes of our nation.

That their skin made them unfit for life in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

With tears in our eyes, we let them go.

We let them go into the world where they would have to grow alongside the descendants of those that sold us and shackled us — the ancestors that tried to break us.

We hoped for their return.

We begged for their breath, for their heartbeat.

For some of us, the door that let them go would never reopen.

For some of us, it would be heartache after heartache.

After heartache.

AND SO WE CRIED.

And then we cried some more.

We plead for JUSTICE We plead for RESPECT. We plead for the VALUE of their lives — OF OUR LIVES.

With tear gas in our eyes.

With guns on our backs.

With knees on our necks.

Still, we plead.

For eight minutes and forty-six seconds, we pleaded.

S I

L

E

N

C

E

.

With accusations of violence and disruption from the children of our masters.

Still, we must plead.

And so we WAIT for the others to say it together with us.

We WAIT for them to say their names.

We WAIT for them to say her name, his name, all of their names.

Until then, we carry the caskets of our lost ones.

PLEADING.

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