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In This Issue

Charlie Chaplin and the Fairy

kaitlan bui 4

Accessing Algorithms

Victoria yin 2 Chloe Chen 5

The Art of Halloween Laura David 5

Without Losing a Piece of Me annie cimack 6

Horrifyingly Horrible Television

postCover by Anna Semizhonova

OCT 30

VOL 26

— ISSUE 7

FEATURE

Accessing Algorithms an attempt at being digitally mindful

By Victoria Yin Illustrated by Gaby Treviño

“Y

ou should write about algorithms!” my roommate and best friend Lauren exclaimed the other day. As a person who often realizes things about myself after other people do, I responded “Yeah, I should!”

I should start at the beginning, when I was twelve. My mother first bought me a new iPhone 4, a gleaming white pearl of a cell phone, and I was immediately entranced. The smooth grey arrow slid satisfyingly across the screen each time I unlocked it, and the gloriously blue messages I sent rose from the bottom right corner with such fulfilling

boldness. My Instagram audience consisted of a few dozen friends who saw the silly, filtered Instagram selfies that I didn’t think much of at the time.

But, in high school, as my awareness of my identity developed, so too did my relationship with social media. I increasingly relied on Instagram and Facebook for confidence and socialization. As a selfconscious, androgynous teenager in the throes of self-discovery, the digital social networks I became a part of were difficult to navigate and, at the same time, affirming. The “post-able” sides of life— my classmates’ parties and selfies—felt unrealistic

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I’ve had the pleasure (misfortune?) of learning how to deal with the lack of open public restrooms during these pandemic times this past weekend. I won’t get into much detail, but it involves an empty cup that once held a large iced coffee, the trunk of a rental car, and a playlist with calm vibes blasting out the speakers to drown out sounds and lessen the pressure of whatever deed one must do when things need to be done.

Afterwards, my dear podmate could not stop boasting at our innovation. “GUYS! We did that! Our brains are, like, SO BIG!” It really didn’t feel like such a big solution to me. But that got me thinking about why I felt that way. Was it because I was so accustomed to the privilege of using a fully functional toilet wherever I went? Was it because I’m so easily embarrassed and the thought of me doing that is still too much to bear? Or was it because I’m not used to solutions being uncomfortable and disapproved of by some of the general public? Ah, jeez, Amanda. Ever so vague! Why couldn’t this be about Halloween?

Bear with me.

At least our issue is pretty on theme this week!

In Narrative, our writers use Halloween as a lesson in suspending one’s belief and as a day to bond over costumes with artistic parents. In Arts & Culture, one writer gives her take on Svengoolie, a Chicago TV personality who spoofs horror B-movies, and another takes the frightening leap into accepting her sexuality. And in Feature, our writer discusses technological algorithms in everyday life (which is pretty creepy, if you ask me).

I didn’t want to get right into the spooky stuff, hence my mortifying pee story. But, let’s face it: We’re in some darn dreadful times. My answer is always to find joy where you can, sweet reader—but, if possible, I also encourage you to do more to educate others, fight for what you believe in, and use your voice and privilege to support those who have always been fighting to be respected. Find new solutions beyond just casting a ballot if you’re capable. Happy Halloween, folks—but let’s work to make the world a less scary place to be in.

Take Care,

Amanda Ngo Editor-in-Chief

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and utopian. On the other hand, I was thrilled to find my niche (aesthetic fashion or sunset photos, pastel art pieces, queer memes, and dramatic Coelho quotes) and feel represented on Tumblr—where it was okay, normal even, to post Sappho exerpts or share queer movies, movements and history.

During my junior year, feeling overwhelmed and self-conscious, I deleted my Instagram and Facebook profiles and chose to focus instead on the things near and dear to me: books, plants, family, and friends.

Posting felt performative, even if I tried not to be.

Trying to think of a funny caption or find a photo

Ways to Scare Your Roommate 1. Leave all your dishes in the sink for more than two days 2. Buy Halloween candy from CVS before it goes on *deep discount* 3. Carve a pumpkin into a shockingly realistic portrait of their face 4. Perennial favorite: Jump out from behind a corner and say boo!

5. Get overly invested in one too many “joke” conspiracy theories 6. Put a thermometer in your morning coffee 7. Place a fake ballot in the recycling bin 8. Tell them you’ve run out of toilet paper 9. Sit in darkness and do nothing 10. Make a racket at 5 a.m. cuz you forgot to take out the trash

NARRATIVE where I looked “good” threw off my ability to feel perceived in the truest sense of the word.

Yet without Facebook and Instagram there was a nagging feeling of being left out, as though a constant side conversation was happening without me. I redownloaded the apps to soothe that feeling and stay connected to my friends from different parts of the world, though I tried to be more conscious of my consumption and less invested in counting likes or comments.

Research is often inconclusive about the impacts of social media on mental health; some studies point to positive effects, while others suggest that effects are negative or negligible. Mesfin Awoke Bekalu,a researcher at Harvard T.H. Chan School of Public Health, found that regular social media use among adults could lead to improved social well-being (a measurement of social acceptance and inclusion) and mental health. Even so, a heightened emotional connection to social media (i.e. checking apps constantly for fear of missing out) was negatively associated with these outcomes.

“In more general terms, these findings suggest that as long as we are mindful users, routine use may not in itself be a problem. Indeed, it could be beneficial,” Bekalu said.

At the same time, experience tells me these platforms are designed to make mindful use difficult.

When I first scrolled through Instagram after I updated it a few years ago to find there was no longer an end to my feed, I felt the way I imagine Winston did in George Orwell’s 1984: shocked, a little duped, but perhaps not surprised.

According to psychologist Dr. Jean Twenge, “several large studies show that use of digital media beyond two hours a day of free time, and especially beyond four hours a day, is correlated with more depression and unhappiness in teens.”

Currently, aforementioned roommate Lauren and I share similar qualms about social media— its increasing addictiveness and idolization of influencers, its negative impacts on self-confidence and the validation that it fosters nonetheless. We go through phases of alternately hyping up each other’s posts and trying to avoid social media platforms altogether.

It’s ironic that Lauren and I actually met through Instagram. Last year, we ended up following each other despite never having met in person. Our first interaction took place when I nervously commented, “Awww this is so cute” on a funny series of photos she took in the library stacks. After I posted a photo of Providence on my Instagram story last summer, Lauren messaged me that she was also here, asking if I’d like to hang out. We got brunch, and the rest is history.

If you’ve ever taken an introductory economics course, you should be familiar with Milton Friedman’s famous saying, “There is no such thing as a free lunch.” The principle applies even when it comes to digital media. From search engines to social

media, it’s no secret that we are the “products” these platforms use to profit from advertising revenue.

Last year, Facebook generated 29.9 billion dollars in ad revenue alone. Instagram made nearly 10 billion dollars in the same year.

Shoshana Zuboff’s book The Age of Surveillance Capitalism explores the nascent idea of human behavior and attention as commodities to be analyzed and predicted for profit. She defines surveillance capitalism as “a new economic order that claims human experience as free raw material for hidden commercial practices of extraction, prediction, and sales.”

The manner of this extraction and prediction relies on massive amounts of data collected on a scale that is difficult to comprehend—and, of course, computer algorithms that can parse and use those datasets.

“Computer algorithms and network analyses can now infer, with a sufficiently high degree of accuracy, a wide range of things about you that you may have never disclosed, including your moods, your political beliefs, your sexual orientation and your health,” Dr. Zeynep Tufekci, a technosociologist, wrote in a New York Times op-ed.

Tufekci first appeared in my life when my high school Theory of Knowledge teacher screened her TED Talk, “We’re building a dystopia just to make people click on ads.” I showed Lauren the video one day in my dorm room last year, during one of many rants about technology: “They know, like, everything about us,” I said. “And they don’t even ask us for consent!”

Tufekci’s speech and article both discuss the advent of powerful artificial intelligence employed to gather and sort data about us, sometimes compromising personal privacy for the sake of targeted advertising. But it doesn’t end there.

Both Tufekci and Zuboff add that these powerful algorithms have the potential to not only predict our behavior, but also the power to influence it.

Tufekci explains social media algorithms can be used to “deploy persuasion architectures” that sway our behavior, from purchases to political leanings, based on the information about us gathered through our internet usage. She doesn’t ignore digital media’s advantages: circumventing censorship, empowering social movements and connecting people around the world. Yet, Tufekci concludes, “We have to mobilize our technology, our creativity, and, yes, our politics so that we can build artificial intelligence that supports us in our human goals but that is also constrained by our human values.”

I’ve maintained a slight but constant discomfort with the L.L. Bean cable-knit sweater ads that routinely pop up on my Instagram feed in the fall, or the furniture ads that magically appeared when I began furnishing my apartment. As a person with a fondness for thick sweaters and men’s clothes in general, I know the algorithms and advertisers are targeting me—but I also know that there’s little I can do besides throwing my phone and computer in a

lake to defend my digital privacy.

This semester, Lauren is taking an independent study in Engineering called Techno-futures while I’m taking an introductory computer science course.

I think we’re both drawn to this digital universe that we know so little about but still access daily and mindlessly; these classes are our way of diving into the inner workings of tech and its algorithms to glimpse the other side of the interface.

A few weeks ago we watched The Social Dilemma, a documentary featuring tech innovators like Zuboff and Tristan Harris, co-founder and president of the Center for Humane Technology.

The film explores social media’s scope, design, and impact through expert interviews cut with acted vignettes. In one, a teenage boy is puppeteered by AI as embodied by men tinkering in a control room, one asking the other, “Want me to nudge him?” In another, a girl looks away from her screen deflated after scrolling through a social networking app, animated reaction emojis bubbling up through the screen of her phone. Lauren and I decided it was simultaneously informative and a bit dramatic.

Knowing that unseen algorithms are constantly tracking and collecting data about me is a strange concept to grapple with, let alone avoid. This summer I downloaded Brave, a free browser advertised as more private than Chrome—only to find that Google remained the most all-encompassing search engine available. Frustrated that social media was the only way I could be perceived in quarantine, I had to take another break.

The pandemic has changed my relationship with technology—and people—in drastic ways. Connecting with others is theoretically easier than ever, but staring at a screen to do so can be difficult. Despite that, my screen time has skyrocketed recently, and between online coursework, virtual meetings and checking email, I find myself mechanically scrolling through Twitter, Instagram, or messaging platforms, assailed by advertisements along the way. Hours easily pass like this.

Today, I access social media apps and electronic devices daily, even hourly, but I try to take as many breaks as I can. I recently finished Celeste Ng’s heart-wrenching book Everything I Never Told You. Last week, I began journaling for the first time in months. I bike to and from the COVID-19 testing centers and watch the leaves turn. And, over the past few years, I’ve had the joy of watching the small queer online niche I found on Tumblr grow exponentially across the internet (yes, I am part of a Sapphic Asians Facebook Group).

Often, side by side on our matcha-green cushioned couch, Lauren and I will find ourselves arriving again at the same conclusion—that it’s impossible to determine whether technology and its social networks offer net positive or negative effects. That the most we can do is be conscious of the algorithmic structures around us, navigating them as we each see fit. Who knows, maybe you’ll meet a friend.

“Can I cite Lemonade Mouth as a source for my paper?”

“No bueno and no Blueno. Coincidence? I think not.”

October 30, 2020 3

NARRATIVE

Charlie Chaplin and the Fairy a halloween story

by Kaitlan Bui Illustrated by sable Bellew I don’t remember the last time I went trick-ortreating. I only remember the feeling.

I remember the nipping wind and the hint of oxygenated sugar it carried. Perfumes of candy wafted into my nostrils, and soft voices drifted into my ear canals. They beckoned me to come, come, come—and I would have, if not for the sacrificial example of Hansel and Gretel. I didn’t want to get baked into a witch’s pie, so the only option was to wait for The Adult to hurry out of the restroom.

And when The Adult finally shimmied into his oversized costume pants and adjusted his fake mustache, I remember thinking that my outfit was much better than his. I remember breathing in the cool sidewalk scent of freedom—because there is freedom in pretending to be another thing, in being wrapped up in 99 Cent Store fairy wings and carrying a pumpkin-shaped basket on your chubby wrist. There is freedom in hushed anticipation and the promise that if you eat all your dinner, you can go with Uncle So-and-So. There is freedom in a child’s realization that Silent Suburbia does indeed awaken.

I don’t remember how many candies I ended up snatching that day, or whether or not I successfully persuaded my brother to switch his M&M’s with my Skittles. I only remember wondering if deviled eggs were indeed demon-possessed, or if the rum-infused cake was actually dangerous enough to kill someone (the Adults told me that I was forbidden from touching it). I remember the older-than-you board games and the book that taught me how to twist my hands into shadow puppets. I read that lovely edition on the toilet, by the way, and practiced the finger configurations until perfection—or maybe until someone knocked on the door and told me to get out of there I’m going to poop my pants. I even remember the white-as-snow poodle who I believed to be the reincarnation of a princess tiara (because of her name, Jewel).

Mostly, though, I remember the funny little man in the funny little suit who refused to speak.

“He’s Charlie Chaplin,” my aunt explained, “but he’s actually my brother”—and in the silence of fantasy, I was intrigued. I tried to tickle a sound out of

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him as any kid would, but deep down, I hoped he’d stand his ground. I wanted to believe that there was at least one Adult whose dedication to imagination could be as fierce as mine. And he was a worthy opponent—so worthy that to this day, I only remember him as “Charlie Chaplin.”

I disliked “Charlie Chaplin” at first. He was strange, he didn’t speak, and like I said, his outfit was very, very lame (excuse my elementary-school-level insult). I disliked him on the premise that he was a stranger—and strangers were not to be trusted, as fans of Baba Yaga would know. My disapproval was aggravated when he claimed my family to be his own, and I wanted to shout, “She’s my aunt, not your sister!” even though she was both. But Charlie stayed quiet, breaking the silence only with pantomimed gestures, tugging me into his circle of humble imagination and inviting me to unravel my bananapeel walls. The more silent he stayed, the more I realized our unfamiliarity didn’t matter.

And so we greeted each other in an altogether different universe, introducing ourselves not as “Adult” and “Child” but as “Charlie Chaplin and the Fairy.” Our identities might have been the products of the Halloween heebie-jeebies or the mere results of amalgamated fabric. But our imaginations were legitimate, and thus we were justified. We gave ourselves the right to pretend unchallenged, to transcend the “trick” and indulge in the “treat.”

I believe the definition of a lovely childhood is just that: the near-immortal understanding of life as a treat.

Charlie Chaplin—whatever his real name was— allowed me to be a child. He did not shake his head disapprovingly when I abducted my 11th eggroll. He did not command me to get in line for yet another lame photo. He did not comment for the millionth time about how tall I had gotten, nor did he push me up against my cousin back-to-back to scrutinize our height difference down to the hair. His silence gave me the right to own my fairy wings. And when I grew weary of their weight, Charlie Chaplin accompanied me by tearing off his mustache.

Charlie Chaplin was an Adult who met a child where she was and didn’t insist that she follow him.

He was not like the other Adults, who distinguished themselves by slingshotting underhanded jokes and staying inside on Halloween night to play poker. Instead, he volunteered to “take the kids out trick-or-treating,” and he didn’t just volunteer. He genuinely wanted to be a part of our world. Charlie

Chaplin, as Charlie Chaplin, engaged in the tacit childhood pact of fantasy—and even when he did end up leaving the Lego Circle to recharge with a wine cooler, he never let his Adultness make me feel small. He tread the waters of youth with grace and humility. He showed me that the philosophy of “life as a treat” was not limited to the child’s psyche.

I didn’t know it at the time, but this would be my last “real” Halloween experience. The following Halloweens would be spent at home doing homework, turning off all the lights, and hiding from the rest of the heavily-costumed world. Maybe it was because of local news about drug-spiked candies, or because my parents were too busy to take me and my brother house-hopping—or maybe the magic just wore off at some point.

The gaps in my memory are, I think, reflective of my increasing distance from the legitimacy of imagination. Now, it takes much more effort to recall that fairy tales are quite true and that fantasy can remedy the biggest woes. As we evolve into our teens, twenties, thirties, forties, we begin to approach life more cynically, as if everyone around us is a horrible trickster. We hide behind our masks and show ourselves only in the comfort of our homes. It becomes harder to reach that near-immortal understanding as we question the strange Charlie Chaplins of the world. We wish for conformity and safety in numbers, and we sit, selfabsorbed, until the night passes and the last deviled egg is eaten. We amuse ourselves with Adultness and we see imagination as a mere faculty of childhood—a dream from long ago, a trick in itself.

For most of us, “growing up” means replacing imagination with distortion: worry, doubt, and fear. We forget that imagination, in its fullest sense, cannot help but be good. We forget that to be human is to depend on the medicine of creation—to live earnestly and joyfully despite it all.

There comes a moment in life when it’s no longer socially acceptable to ask for copious amounts of free candy, and I don’t think COVID-19 is very conducive to that this year anyway. But when I do want to remember sweeter, freer Octobers, I think back to Charlie Chaplin and that night doused in true Halloween glimmer. I think of unadulterated imagination and the feeling of feeling. I think of that immortal moment of telling, and believing, and treating, and being treated.

And then I rummage in the pantry for a Twix or two.

ARTS & CULTURE

The Art of Halloween

finding creativity in costuming

By Chloe Chen Illustrated by Thalia Bonas In my childhood home, things never seemed to be where they belonged. Boxes of clay were stored on my bookshelf. Washed yogurt lids were left to dry on the back porch, waiting to be repurposed into paint palettes. Our car didn’t fit into the garage, which instead housed woodwork machinery and halffinished furniture. This was the home of artists.

Both my parents are digital artists in the film industry, and their 10-hour workdays spent behind a computer sometimes left them feeling unfulfilled. So, at home, I watched them reconnect with the tangible— returning to forms of physical art that nourish the tactile senses and allow for material exploration and creation beyond a two-dimensional screen. My dad took up woodworking. He aimed to furnish our house with whatever dressers, dollhouses, cribs or chairs were needed and spent weekends piecing together wood scraps and painting designs. When he came in for dinner, the comforting scent of sawdust and veneer lingered in the air around him.

My mom, on the other hand, fell in love with sewing.

She told me that she bought her first sewing machine in 1998 to make curtains for the new house, and she’s been sewing ever since. I like to imagine the first time she found herself captivated with the art of textiles—the plush feel of fabric between her fingers, the soothing, rhythmic whirring of the machine, the excitement of a new world of creative freedom. I imagine her eyes lit up with inspiration and the joy of discovery, an eager anticipation to create reborn inside her.

My mom soon realised Halloween would be the perfect opportunity to practice and showcase her sewing skills. My first costume—made for me when I was barely a month old—was a bee outfit assembled from secondhand clothing by my exhausted, postpartum mother. For my second Halloween, my mom decided to create a family costume. I was Montecarlo the tiger, while my parents were Siegfried and Roy, the Las Vegas magicians who had recently suffered a tiger attack during one of their shows. In kindergarten, I had a spider costume with moving legs; my parents dressed as my fly prey. By the time I was in fifth grade, my mom challenged herself to make me a near-replica of the Queen of Hearts dress from Alice in Wonderland and card soldier costumes for herself and Dad. Over the years, mom applied an intense attention to detail to making these costumes and journeyed toward more adventurous ideas and more elaborate designs.

Halloween became her annual exhibition, and she spent months in meticulous preparation.

Early on in her process, I would be recruited to brainstorm ideas. What were our latest obsessions?

Our favourite books and movies? Our craziest, wildest fantasies? Together, we’d doodle our designs— anything was fair game, from sushi fairies to Monsters, Inc. characters. Once we had settled on an idea, we’d take to the local fabric store, armed with concept sketches and reference images. The next hours were spent rifling through stacks of textiles, navigating a sea of vibrant colours, and running our hands across rolled fabrics, piles of beads, hanging tassels.

Look! The glamorous shine of crepe silks.

Feel! The inviting, soft warmth of velvet.

Listen! The muted crinkles of tulle fabric in my fist.

These mother-daughter excursions were an escape into hues, textures, and sounds. Some years, we’d search for the fabric that most closely mimicked seaweed. Other years, I’d scour the store for the most bedazzled, sparkling materials. Sometimes, we’d dive deep into our closets instead, rediscovering and repurposing old shirts and unworn jewellery.

We bonded over this shared love of exploration and a burgeoning curiosity for the infinite possibilities that each piece of fabric held.

While my mom made our family costumes a collaborative effort, in the end I came to understand that she was the artist and we were simply her models. Her passion and creativity were unbridled.

She attacked these projects with a fervent determination, and I watched her breathe life into fabric, transforming textile samples into intricate, textured sculptures. I often sat by her at the sewing machine, watching the needle pave a white, dotted path of thread from end to end. She’d give me a turn working the pedal, her hands guiding me, watching for creases and folds. Some days, I’d hear her open the door to her office after I’d gone to bed. I knew she was sitting down at the machine to work late into the night, with only the glow of a lamp and gentle hum of the sewing machine to accompany her. It couldn’t have been easy to dedicate so much energy to this, between the cooking and cleaning, the job and the whiny child. I remember her frustration at botched seams or pricked fingers or the ever-increasing demands of her own expectations. As Halloween approached, she would sit at the machine with a sense of urgency. The creative fire within her burned brightly, and her intense, raw feeling of inspiration was palpable. I witnessed my mom instill in her art the irreplaceable qualities of love and care.

Halloween costumes are unfortunately following in the footsteps of fast fashion, as many people opt for non-biodegradable, one-use polyester costumes.

Amazon and other e-commerce websites mass-produce millions of costumes, with profit as the driving concern.

Halloween has been subsumed by our consumer

society. Recently, I visited the newest addition to the local mall, a Spirit Halloween store. The countless rows of identical, plastic masks and pre-packaged costumes from the latest blockbuster horror movies were arranged in ostentatious displays. I assume that they’ll be quickly discarded for next Halloween’s better, flashier, more relevant outfits. Fast fashion isn’t only marred by its wastefulness and (often) poor quality, but also its inextricable disconnect from personal creativity.

The capitalist culture of our society has eliminated the artist. The allure of purchasing and owning is much greater than the satisfaction of creating. The myth that art is inaccessible is pervasive. If art is the manifestation of our souls in the material world, our souls often suffocate before reaching the surface.

Halloween is the perfect chance to rethink expressions of art and creativity. It’s an opportunity to fulfill creative fantasies, find a love for materials that aren’t single-use plastics, or devise an outfit that embodies your unique sense of humor. Halloween gives everyone their own artistic platform to put a little piece of their soul out into the material world. Who inspires you? What makes you laugh? What shows have you been binging? What absolutely terrifies you?

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve succumbed to the demands of high school midterm exams and projects, and Halloween sometimes falls by the wayside. My mom has finally allowed other priorities to take the place of her annual Halloween project. Even though her 1998 sewing machine now collects dust in the hallway closet, I still hold on to the values of artistry that my mom emphasized so heavily in my childhood. We’ve ventured into face painting to bring Picasso’s Weeping Woman to life and visited thrift shops to assemble quirky, unique takes on zombie flappers and TV icons. In my senior year, I revelled in my ability to pull together a No Face costume with an old sheet, some cardboard, and acrylic paints as an homage to one of the creepiest characters from Spirited Away, a favorite childhood movie. The satisfaction of instilling your own imagination into a homemade costume with your own imagination is priceless, no matter how simple, intricate, horrifying, or heartwarming it is. Maybe it’s time to reframe our narrative ofn Halloween as a holiday of creation, not of consumption. Yes, it’s an excuse to party, eat obscene amounts of candy, and prankplay pranks on friends. But it’s also a time to connect with your inner artist. Each year, Halloween reminds me to seek insight into a world of my own making and to remember that the possibilities are endless.

Without Losing a Piece of Me

an exploration of my sexuality through queer music

By Laura David Illustrated by Ella Harris When I really like a song, I imprint on it. What I mean is that, every time the track floats through my earbuds, I’m taken right back to the place I was when the song first found me. And I don’t just mean abstract memories. I mean when I close my eyes, I can see everything about where I was when the imprint happened: the dark car of a train whisking me from Montreal to Toronto on a late November night, a snowy street on my early-morning walk to school, my dining table the week before exams with a freshlymade panini sitting half-eaten next to me. More importantly, I can feel exactly the way I felt when I realized the song meant something to me. Listening to “Slow Dances” by Winnetka Bowling League brings October 30, 2020 5

ARTS&CULTURE

me back to the borderline euphoric serenity of that train car and its beautiful silence; hearing “BAGDAD”

by Rosalía evokes the longing I felt on that snowy morning—reaching for someone I couldn’t have—so vividly that I have to stop whatever I’m doing any time it comes on. For both these songs and all the others that I’ve loved over the years, part of the reason they’ve had such a profound effect on me is because they found me at the moment I needed them most.

The first time I imprinted on a song was during my eighth-grade winter break. Troye Sivan’s album Blue Neighbourhood had just come out, and I was obsessed. I’d been listening to Troye’s music since the release of his first EP, TRXYE. At the time, all of my friends had been talking about the album. I hadn’t yet heard of Troye, nor was I aware of his queerness, but I gave the EP a try anyway just to say that I’d listened to it. While, yes, this was partially due to the fact that I lived under a bit of a rock in middle school, it was also because I was so far removed from queerness in general that none of those themes stuck out to me in his music. I wasn’t fazed by the male pronouns he was using to describe his love interests and instead reverse-engineered some heterosexual explanation for why they were appearing (“he’s singing from the girl’s perspective” was my go-to line). It wasn’t until I heard “BITE” that I got it. And when I got it, I really got it. If boys can kiss other boys, I thought, that must mean… No. It was too scary, too real, too raw. As the album played on loop, the images in my head switched from the imagined world created by Troye’s music to the very real, very concrete world that I called my own.

Instead of seeing Troye and his fictional boyfriend, I saw myself and…well…my then best friend. My head was spinning, my breaths grew heavier, and I felt like I might physically be sick. I was scared shitless.

More importantly, though, Blue Neighbourhood was the first album I’d ever heard that openly celebrated queerness. Up until that point, I’d only seen queerness represented as some overly dramatized, cliche gay character in the background of a TV show. Blue Neighborhood was the only piece of queer media I’d consumed that felt honest. It felt whole. It felt deeply personal. For that twoweek vacation, I sat alone in my room and just tried to process everything I was feeling. Blue Neighbourhood wasn’t only my entry into the world of queer music but also the soundtrack to the discovery of my queerness.

Going back to school, I was changed. To everyone around me, I might have looked like the same person, but I walked the halls feeling utterly exposed. I scrutinized each and every one of my mannerisms, wondering if they might somehow reveal what I was hiding. Granted, I wasn’t even sure what exactly it was I was hiding. It had no name or form, only the abstract sensations of 6 post–

shame and longing and lust and guilt. And it stayed that way for three years. Three years of living in the middle of two realities—my queerness versus the heteronormativity of my surroundings—that, in my mind, were and would always be mutually exclusive. It was queer music that, at least in part, unitedbrought these realities together.

For the rest of eighth grade, Troye chronicled my every move; “Without losing a piece of me / how do I get to heaven?” he crooned. I had as much a clue as he did. My pieces hadn’t even been found in the first place. But what I couldn’t find in the real world I made up for in songs and albums and artists and music videos. I sifted through my YouTube recommended videos and combed through interviews just to try to find more, more of this content I didn’t know I needed but found myself craving. I’d lie awake in bed every night, swimming in sound. The words that floated through the room felt dangerous: “he’ll never love you like me” (Hayley Kiyoko); “we’re not lovers, we’re just strangers” (Halsey); “there’s something wrong in the village” (Wrabel). There was something so intimate about the late nights I spent with those songs—we grew intertwined, and I felt as connected to them as I did my own friends.

Like me, many other LGBTQ+ folks turn to the intangible to find our own pockets of acceptance and validation in the absence of physical spaces to safely find community. As the years went by, I sunk into a precarious peace with myself. Hayley Kiyoko’s Expectations got me through my first relationship— one that nobody knew about. Without a support system, I relied on her music to heal and think and cope with the waves of emotion that come with any first love, let alone a queer one (“At least I got you in my head / sleepovers in my bed”). King Princess’s first EP, Make My Bed, helped me cement myself in my identity: “I hate it when dudes try to chase me / but I love it when you try to save me.” I was queer, and I was okay with that.

In the winter of my junior year, I came out.

But when I did, a funny thing happened. Instead of diving into my identity, I shied away from it. I felt that I should be discreet—I didn’t want to “overdo” the gay. I worried my friends’ openness was fleeting (disclaimer: it wasn’t, I have the best friends in the world), so I contorted myself to fit the brand of queerness that I thought my cishet peers would find acceptable. In essence, I was queer in name only. In doing so, I also left my world of queer music behind.

Fast forward to March of 2020. With nothing else to do, I took the time to listen once again to all my favourite albums. Listening to Blue Neighbourhood for the first time in over a year felt like a homecoming. A part of myself that I’d been missing came back to life. I dragged out my queer favorites, and added new ones to the list. It seemed

like everyone else was doing the same. Conan Gray was topping the charts, “Sweater Weather” became a bisexual anthem, and it seemed like the whole LGBTQ+ community had congregated on TikTok to crown girl in red queen of the gays.

My new dive into the queer music community was different from the one before. Instead of timidly listening in the moonlight, I screamed “they’re so pretty it hurts / not talking bout boys, I’m talking bout girls” at the top of my lungs. I cut my hair, threw out my old clothes, found new ones, became comfortable with a label that actually fit me (I’d previously identified as bisexual, but this summer I re-came out as gay), and took time to figure out who exactly I was away from the extremely heteronormative environment of the school I’d grown up at. This transformation allowed me to see myself in a different way: I was queer, and I was proud of that. I understood that nothing about the journey I’d been (and still am) on would have been possible without the LGBTQ+ artists who provided the soundtrack of my self-acceptance. When I couldn’t even put a name to the feelings I was having or visualize the future I wanted for myself, they showed me what was possible. And, if there’s anything I’ve learned from that process, it’s this: Queer music is liberation, it is strength, and it is one of the most powerful forms of artistry our community has got.

Horrifyingly Horrible Television an ode to svengoolie

By Annie Cimack ILLUSTRATED BY Solveig Asplund I’ve watched enough sitcoms to know that families usually have some kind of weekly tradition: For some, it’s Sunday dinner, and for others, a board game night.

For as long as I can remember, my family’s Saturday evenings were defined by sitting on the floor of my wood-paneled basement, eating pizza, and watching TV. What made our little ritual less Rockwell-esque was what we were watching: Svengoolie, a horror movie program broadcast locally from Chicago and hosted by a man wearing face paint and a top hat.

When people say they don’t watch television, shows like Svengoolie are usually the reason why.

It feels cheaply made and overly campy, and it’s the opposite of educational: I may have actually lost brain cells watching it. For those of you who aren’t familiar (and really, why would you be?), try to imagine a combination of Mystery Science Theater 3000 and Elvira. Every week, the show’s host “Svengoolie” (or “Sven,” as his friends call him), played by Chicago broadcasting icon, Rich Koz, presents a B-quality horror film from the 1930s to 1970s which he punctuates with fake ads and comedy bits. For over 40 years, Svengoolie has graced television screens across Chicagoland, showing the best of the worst horror films for our viewing pleasure.

To the average outsider, an episode of Svengoolie will, and should, come off as strange. At the start of the show, Sven emerges from a coffin on his dungeon set, dressed in a red and black tux, a long black wig and goatee, skull makeup, and of course, the top hat.

Sven introduces the film in his opening monologue with a brief synopsis and a few jokes, most of which are so bad that crewmembers offscreen throw rubber chickens at him until he retreats back into his coffin.

The rubber chicken, a symbol for the comedic and self-deprecating nature of the show, is a common motif. If you were a Svengoolie mega-fan, that’s the tattoo you would get.

ARTS&CULTURE As the episode goes on, a few regular characters make appearances in the skits that bookend commercial breaks: Tombstone the floating skull, Berwyn the rubber chicken puppet, and Doug Graves, a real pianist who provides music for Svengoolie’s song that parodies the week’s film. It’s a show that could only work in Chicago, whose bluecollar history and laid-back sense of humor mean folks don’t take anything too seriously. (We may be the “Second City,” but there’s a reason so many of your favorite comedians got their start in Chicago.)

Though it may sound like a vaguely horror-themed fever dream with a movie in the middle, at its core, Svengoolie is a program dedicated to the preservation of underdog (and underfunded) horror films.

Svengoolie has the broadcast rights to early horror classics like the original Dracula, Frankenstein, and The Wolfman. These movies are the godparents of more recent creature features, such as Tremors and Mothman, and they helped spark our current fascination with vampires and zombies. When we pretend to speak like a vampire, we’re imitating the original version of Count Dracula played by Bela Lugosi (whose real accent wasn’t all that far off from the one he used). And who, when they imagine Frankenstein’s monster, doesn’t imagine the hulking villain from the 1931 movie, with his neck bolts and micro-bangs? Though, if you’re loyal to Frankenstein the book and disagree with the portrayal of the movie monster, I respect your opinion. I just ask that you keep it, and your fancy, emo monster, to yourself.

From a very young age, I was familiar with Golden Age horror stars like Boris Karloff and Vincent Price because I had watched an unhealthy amount of Svengoolie. For every movie he shows, Sven provides a brief history, which can include stories from the film’s production as well as actors’ biographies. I’ll concede that calling the show “the opposite of educational” earlier was a bit of a misnomer. If anything, I think that I’ve probably recouped most of the brain cells lost to bad puns thanks to the historical information Sven sprinkles throughout the show, one of my favorite parts of the Svengoolie experience. After all, where else can you get the history of the making of The Blob (ironically, Steve McQueen’s first starring role) as explained by a man wearing a rubber chicken necklace? I’m a fan of the strange juxtaposition between the screwball nature of Svengoolie and the quasi-dignity it gives to the films it presents. It’s a bit like the Island of Misfit Toys, except Sven is the caretaker, and instead of toys, it’s old horror and sci-fi movies. They too deserve a spot on our cultural radar, despite their flaws.

Svengoolie isn’t all Dracula and Frankenstein.

Sven is an equal opportunity host. Sure, he shows the classics, but he’ll also show you movies that, for whatever reason (hint: they’re objectively bad), didn’t have as much success. The Tingler, Devil Doll, and Them! are all movies that Sven treats with the same respect as his most well-known features.

These B-movies feature alien creatures articulated by clearly-visible fishing line, as well as some of the stiffest acting you can imagine. When my family came together to watch these gems, we’d constantly imitate the actors’ melodramatic delivery and shout out our own responses to the ridiculous dialogue. During the Cold War, movie makers became inspired by the atomic age and rolled out a bunch of sci-fi flicks featuring all kinds of giant bugs: Them! is about giant ants, Tarantula is about, get this, a giant tarantula. There’s even one about giant grasshoppers created in a lab experiment gone wrong called Beginning of the End. If you’re thinking, “there’s no way that grasshopper movie can be any good,” you’d be right.

Watching Svengoolie requires the viewer to have a sense of humor. It helps if you have a family like mine, where we all think we’re hilarious and are happy to watch something bad just for an excuse to yell at the TV. I watch Svengoolie for the same reason I’ve watched all the Sharknado movies ( judge not, lest ye be judged): it’s so bad, it’s almost good.

Mystery Science Theater 3000 follows the same ethos; its creators actually took inspiration from Svengoolie. Whereas Mystery Science Theater 3000 centers around protagonists trapped in space, forced to watch terrible movies that they mock and riff on throughout the film, with Svengoolie, you get to do the riffing yourself.

Every episode, Sven does a segment thanking

“When I was younger, Halloween was Cinderella’s Ball: an opportunity to become someone magical, heroic, special”

—Sydney Lo, “More Treats than Tricks” 10.25.19

“Now that we are older, perhaps Halloween’s magic lies no longer in the pillowcases of free candy, but in having a day to confront the things that make us shiver.”

—Andrew Liu, “Little State of Hauntings” 10.26.18

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Amanda Ngo a FEATURE Managing Editor Liza Edwards-Levin Section Editors Alice Bai Ethan Pan ARTS & CULTURE Managing Editor Olivia Howe Section Editors Maddy McGrath Emma Schneider

his viewers for sending in letters and fanart, showing off drawings sent in by young children and professional artists alike. It’s your first clue to just how beloved Svengoolie actually is, especially among people who’ve lived in Chicago since the 70s, when Svengoolie got its start. Rich Koz makes appearances in commercials for TV lawyers as well as at ribbon cuttings and local towns’ Halloween festivals. At comic and horror conventions, betterknown fans like Bill Hader and Mark Hamill seem just as excited to see Svengoolie as Svengoolie is to see them. It’s safe to say that the more you watch, the more Svengoolie grows on you, just like an alien parasite in one of its movies.

When my family watches Svengoolie together, we’re constantly talking and laughing about how ridiculous the film is. Everyone gets in some good lines (at least, it seems that way to us because we’re our own biggest fans), and it’s a chance to forget about how seriously ridiculous the real world is and to immerse ourselves in the removed ridiculousness of the show. There’s also the nostalgia of it: when I picture my family together, I think of us in our basement, watching Sven. To me, Sven feels like a funny uncle, who just happens to be wearing a costume that makes him look like a disco undertaker. Svengoolie holds a special place in the hearts of its followers; it’s a testament to Chicago’s unpretentiousness and unflappable sense of humor, and for me, to time spent as a family.

This year, Halloween falls on a Saturday, and Svengoolie is showing Frankenstein Meets the Wolfman. I’m back at home due to the pandemic, and I can guarantee that you’ll be able to find me in my basement, sitting on the floor, eating pizza with my family and yelling at the TV.

NARRATIVE Managing Editor Jasmine Ngai Section Editors Siena Capone Minako Ogita Christina Vasquez LIFESTYLE Managing Editor Caitlin McCartney Section Editors Kimberly Liu Emily Wang

COPY CHIEF Mohima Sattar Copy Editors Laura David Kyoko Leaman Aditi Marshan Eleanor Peters SOCIAL MEDIA EDITORS Tessa Devoe

CO-LAYOUT CHIEFS Joanne Han Iris Xie Layout Designers Briaanna Chiu Jiahua Chen WEB MASTER Amy Pu

STAFF WRITERS Kaitlan Bui Siena Capone Editors Eashan Das Julia Gubner Danielle Emerson Kyra Haddad Jordan Hartzell Jolie Rolnick Nicole Kim Chloe Zhao Gus Kmetz HEAD ILLUSTRATOR Elliana Reynolds Gaby Treviño Victoria Yin

Want to be involved?

Email: amanda_ngo@brown.edu!

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