Americana: W/S 2024

SEASON MAGAZINE

EDITOR IN CHIEF

Alisha Ahmed

MERCH & STYLING

Director : Ava Mikola

Ava Basile

Anna Bovaird

Lilly Buchta

Violeta Cunningham

Natalia Diaz

Natalia Kwak

Katie Kinsella

Joey Mora

Jillian Pullen

Mikey Roselle

Ava Schnurer

Emily Siefker

Taylor Stine

Calvin Sung

Caroline Vegter

PHOTOGRAPHY

Directors : Klaire Rasche, Aanya Jain

Mira Carlson

Alison Irace

Lydia Norton

Emma Potter

Liona Russell

Ellie Woytek

MARKETING & COMMUNICATIONS

Director : Luke Hamilton

PR

Caitlyn Kulczycki

Graydon Moore

Isabelle Wu

PODCAST

Vivienne Armstrong

Maxine Cain

Trystan Mullins

Kira Sullins

CONTENT CREATION

Colton Fauquher

Chloe Foster-Storch

Sanjana Iyer

Claire Petkov

Maya Trivunovic

Aliya Utz

VIDEOGRAPHY

Sophia Iskowich

Zane Sanders

Blake Schwandt

Emma Wilder

EVENT PLANNING

Ellie Kessinger

Aubryn Middleton

Allie Stafford

EDITORIAL

Director : Mansi Mamidi

Tory Basile

Nicole Blevins

Mia Galante

Kate Kainz

Lainee Kirk

Eliza McCord

Katherine Pietrangelo

Jake Spiegel

CREATIVE DESIGN

Director : Olivia Childress

LAYOUT DESIGN

Tristan Caudill

Caterina DeSantis

Riley Laferriere

Melanie Roberts

Nitya Shah

SOCIAL MEDIA DESIGN

Mollie Habig

Kinsey Temple

Website Manager : Thaja Thangjam

special thanks to AHK Rings by

Mollie Habig, Cherry Canary, IU Type Shop, White Rabbit Print & Design

cover photo by Ellie Woytek

AMERICANA

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

What does it mean to be American? Is there a certain way we are supposed to look? Speak? Act? When we look in the mirror, a different version of an American looks back at each of us. Strictly speaking, our eyes may fixate on the mole that disrupts our facial symmetry or on the “workplace acceptable” hairstyle we’re wearing. However, the person looking back at us is a reflection of our story, an amalgamation of our heritage, a canvas for expression, yet we are often encouraged to forget that.

In our semester-long exploration of Americana, we are voicing the concerns of the next generation, striving to make known the changes we want to implement, and validating our perspectives. As a generation raised in front of screens, we are constantly perceiving and being perceived by numerous accounts online. TV and social media personalities dictate trends and present curated versions of reality. Raised not under the sun but by blue light and parasocial

relationships, our perceptions of reality are blinded by unrealistic expectations and celebrity obsessions.

Just as the seasons change, so do generational perceptions of America. Recently we have seen a resurgence and redefinition of traditional American iconography like country music, with albums from genre-bending artists like Beyonce and Lana Del Rey. Since the pandemic, we have also seen pushback from the traditional 9 to 5, rejecting an exhaustive work culture and oppressive dress codes. In this edition of SEASON magazine, we are challenging the rigid definitions of American values, from beauty standards and workplace culture to the bounds of self expression and masculinity.

It is their commitment to authenticity and excellence that continues to drive our magazine forward, pushing boundaries and challenging norms. Additionally, I wanted to thank my amazing team of directors this semester. Aanya, Ava, Klaire, Luke, Mansi, Mayson, and Olivia: thank you for spending your Friday mornings with me and for all of your hard work and dedication.

With love,

I also want to extend my deepest gratitude to all of my peers within this organization. Working alongside each and every member has been my greatest privilege and has forever impacted my college experience.

ALISHA AHMED

CONTENTS

MADE IN THE USA

RECIPES TO SUCCESS

THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRLS IN THE WORLD

photographed by Aanya Jain story by Eliza McCord

photographed by Klaire Rasche story by Katherine Pietrangelo

photographed by Liona Russell story by Jake Spiegel

BOYS WILL BE INCELS

WATCHING YOU, WATCHING ME

ICONOGRAPHY

photographed by Emma Potter story by Tory Basile

photographed by Ellie Woytek story by Kate Kainz

photographed by Mira Carlson story by Lainee Kirk

voiding ugliness is the ultimate American desire. No longer in a way that results in lip fillers, plastic surgery, and pressed suits, but instead manifests in showcasing individuality and purported inherent value within

that individuality. Embracing authenticity and diversity reflects a deeper longing for genuine connections and acceptance beyond superficial standards of success.In the digital age, people have become even more niche in their online performances and in person as a way to stand out. However, swarming comments of disapproval isolates a person from the rest of the population; such isolation transforms them into a character instead

of a person. Being a character instead of a human creates a shift in humanity where you can rip apart people and criticize them easily. Humanity functions on the assumption people can make mistakes and learn from them, but characters know their actions and it’s part of their entire personality, mistakes and all. America was meant to be a place where people seize opportunities, but instead America is an unscripted reality TV show.

Any reality TV show turns the average person into something they aren’t: a celebrity. Anyone can cook like on “The Great British Bake Off,” but the access to a multimillion dollar kitchen isn’t attainable to the average person. Although reality shows claim to be relatable,

by Eliza McCord

relatability becomes inaccessible in the presence of material privilege. If it’s a styling team, access to expensive things, or a perfect set, it’s not conventional. However, nowadays reality TV is so close to ‘standard’ human interaction that the line differentiating TV from reality is blurry. People have been trained to analyze others on the street the same way they would a person on “Survivor” with people, or characters, sharing traumas and unexpected life changes as a way to connect with another person. Whether online or in person, people can judge based on assumption to justify lack of understanding. When a person cannot empathize with others a space is created between them often filled with hate.

photographed by Aanya Jain head stylist Mikey Roselle stylists Ava Schnurer, Calvin Sung layout by Caterina DeSantis, Melanie Roberts

modeled by Katelyn Fry, Julianna Kakish, Shreya Narayan

Support and understanding gives people a sense of value. The drive for social success comes from support and understanding from others; without support and a sense of personal worth, the value of one’s personal brand diminishes. Without a pool of wealth and social opportunities close within companies, careers, and companionships, people are left feeling alienated, subjected to being observed rather than engaged with.

Social media has become a commonality for people to stay connected with others, and people are thus expected to perform at all times. However, anyone can showcase their lives to make them appear better than they are. Seeing photo dumps on Instagram with pictures of the sun shining through windows in a perfectly clean kitchen appears to be reality, when most times the kitchen sink is filled with dirty dishes and the counters are homes to bread crumbs. People now feel pressured to look perfect going to Walmart just in case a video goes viral and they’re in the background. Streets have become constant opportunities for photos to be taken, nobody can be caught

unprepared for the camera. As a result, the line between reality and curated perfection becomes murky, fostering a culture of constant performance and heightened pressure to maintain an image and personal brand, thus creatingan environment in which people are always on display, if not for those around them, then those online watching — and waiting — to talk about the next time someone is disgusting and ugly.

Genuine social interaction is overshadowed by a transactional mindset, reflecting trends where relationships are viewed merely as a means to achieve personal gain rather than creating authentic connections. Celebrities aren’t the only people who do good for selfish intent, students are told to get volunteer experiences so their resume looks better. There’s no way to know if the volunteering was a genuine act of goodwill or if they’re trying to accomplish something for selfish desire. It’s not against the individuals volunteering to make themselves look better, but instead speaks about a system where people expect a reward from doing something kind; regardless of the amount,

rewards are meant to be sought after. It’s a universal competition of who can do the least while still maintaining a high reward, whether that be materialistic or in the form of social advances. The pursuit of authenticity is constantly challenged by societal pressure, creating a reality in which people only act for an alternative motive. This not only blurs the lines but creates a self centered world. Where authenticity struggles to show alongside performance and competition, and pressures people into necessary fakeness. People aren’t their entire beings on the internet, or in real life, but between the anticipation of rebuttal and criticism, people are forced to conform in all kinds of ways to survive the social food chain. It’s always a possibility to defy these societal expectations, follow your dream, or dance to the beat of your own drum. There’s a chance for a change, where instead of fearing judgment, people can find real connections and be themselves openly, even with others watching -- you’ll just have to get voted off the island in order to do so.

SYNERGY

by Katherine Pietrangelo

to Success

In today’s fast-paced world, where the glow of our screens often outshines the sun, a revolution is quietly brewing.

ByKatherinePietrangelo

Success

photographed by Klaire Rasche bts by Emma Potter head stylist Ava Schnurer stylists Natalia Diaz, Joey Mora, Emily Siefker layout by Riley Laferriere, Nitya Shah modeled by Brandon Bennett, Kenzie Kee

In today’s fast-paced world, where the glow of our screens often outshines the sun, a revolution is quietly brewing. It’s not just any rebellion, but one that challenges the very foundation of our work-

social media and the allure of quiet luxury, which are redefining young people’s goals and metrics of success in the most unexpected ways.

Imagine, for a moment, the life of Nara Blue Smith, a 22-year-old with a TikTok feed that looks like a modern-day fairy tale. Nara juggles the joys and challenges of raising three kids, cooking daily feasts that would make a Michelin-star chef happy, and sharing her life as an influencer. Her life, effortlessly blending traditional homemaking with the addition of her social media influence, presents a wildly unrealistic vision of simplicity made possible by luxury and inordinate wealth. Nara’s story is not just about raising her kids and her life with her husband; it’s about the statement she is making against the normal life of a 22-year-old that consists of relentless work cycles and the constant struggle of finding some sort of work-life balance.

Another example is Emily Mariko, who has emerged as a quintessential example of the tradwife phenomenon, although she

transforming it into content that catches the attention of millions. Their success is a reflection of a collective yearning for a life that values passion over paychecks, and well-being over wealth. This isn’t about reverting to traditional gender roles, but redefining what success and luxury mean in a world that often values productivity over personal fulfillment.

The phenomena of ‘tradwives’ and quiet luxury are not just results of curious viewers but responses to

a world where the grind of corporate success has left many disillusioned. These trends invite us to reconsider what luxury and success is to each person. In a society that often equates value with view count and self-worth with wealth, the pursuit of quiet luxury and the embrace of a ‘tradwife’ lifestyle are just two examples that represent a bold declaration of personal values. It’s a choice to prioritize time and relationships over resumes, and to find richness in daily life.

World

It’s 5AM on a Saturday, and you’ve been jolted awake by your mother’s blend of excitement and sternness, urging you to rise for the big day. As she fusses over your makeup and hair—insisting on doing it herself for fear you won’t make yourself “pretty enough” — you can’t help but feel like you’d rather be able to sleep in and play with your friends for once. After a week filled with the mundane challenges of times tables and spelling tests, the prospect of participating in a beauty pageant seems both daunting and oddly misplaced for a 2nd grader. Yet, your mother, driven by a tapestry of reasons deeply rooted in her own unresolved and dysfunctional childhood, is blind to your indifference, consumed only by the glitz and glamor of taking home first prize, something she still has not dealt with not achieving herself.

This early morning dynamic, seemingly detached from the high stakes of fashion runways, encapsulates a familiar performance: the spectacle of beauty, the meticulous preparation, and the underlying quest for validation. It mirrors, on a small scale, the grander pageantry of the fashion industry, where designers, models, and brands engage in a similar dance of presentation and perception, but instead on a global stage.

In this world, every collection unveiled, every model’s stride, is a performance meticulously choreographed for applause and recognition. Yet, beneath the surface glamor lies the industry’s own complex narrative of authenticity and identity. Much like pageantry, designers find themselves in a perpetual struggle between creative expression and market demands, crafting collections that speak to their artistic vision while navigating the expectations of an ever-evolving audience.

Models, too, embody this paradox. Many of whom started in pageants at young ages; they are the living canvases of the industry, transforming with each garment, each role. Their careers are built on the ability to personify a designer’s vision, yet this constant metamorphosis often begs the question of personal authenticity. How does one maintain a sense of self when identity is as fluid as the fashion they present?

And then, there’s the audience, the consumers. In the age of social media

photographed by Liona Russell bts by Lydia Norton head stylist Lilly Buchta stylists Violeta Cunningham, Kaite Kinsella, Natalia Kwak layout by Tristan Caudill, Olivia Childress modeled by Gretchen Amburgey, Marley Burchenson, Kalen Kpabar, Allison Masterson, Neel Nuam, Katie Turner,

and digital influence, their role has shifted from passive observers to active participants. Their likes, shares, and comments are highly valuable social currency shaping trends and dictating the success or failure of collections. This interactive spectacle has democratized fashion, broadening its reach, yet it also magnifies the industry’s inherent tensions between authenticity and performance.

The fashion industry, much like our metaphorical pageant, is a reflection of broader societal dynamics—of our collective yearning for beauty, our struggles with identity, and our quest for authenticity in a world that often prioritizes appearance over substance. It invites us to question the standards by which we judge and are judged and to consider the role of authenticity in a realm defined by its performances.

After the final bow at the pageant or the last walk on the runway, when the glitter settles and the adrenaline fades, we’re left with a quiet moment. It’s like the calm after a storm, giving us space to think about what just happened. From the crack of dawn scramble to look “pageant ready” to the whirlwind of fashion shows, there’s a lot more going on than just clothes and makeup.

The thing is, fashion isn’t just about dressing up; it’s like a mirror reflecting what’s happening around us. But it’s got this tricky balance to strike between putting on a show and keeping it real. We’re all trying to figure out how to look good without losing ourselves in the process.

So, how do we keep it authentic when there’s so much pressure to look like the next cover star? The key is diversity and real stories. It’s about wearing something that says something about you, not just because it’s in this season. It’s the stories behind what we wear that make fashion speak louder. Think of it as the difference between wearing a handme-down with history versus something off the rack that everyone else has.

In the grand scheme of things, the coolest outfits are the ones that show off who we really are—the quirky, the unique, the “us” that doesn’t fit neatly into a box. Because at the end of the day, fashion should be about wearing your story, not just a brand name, and in this ongoing pageant of life, perhaps the most authentic performance is the one that refuses to perform at all.

Best in

Show!

Boys will be incels

defining positive masculinity during the manosphere

ByTory Basile

At previous moments in time, it was easy to picture the prototypical American man.

Maybe he was a rugged, unfettered cowboy. Maybe he was a suave, suitwearing businessman. Or he was the stoic and strong head of the household. Whatever his look, American men have historically been given scripts for the parts they should play in society, for how a “real man” carries himself.

Today, the standard image of manhood is blurrier — for a lot of reasons.

In the last decade, strides made by feminist movements like #MeToo have altered the way our popular culture views men and masculinity. Folks across the country began to talk about the harmful ways that old school masculinity could manifest itself: as entitlement, as violence.

Behavior we may have called “boys being boys” or “locker room talk” in 1980 shifted in the mid-2010s into a catchall phrase that seemed to explain everything that was wrong with such concepts, and it caught like wildfire — “toxic masculinity.”

Since third wave feminism and #MeToo, mainstream culture has

(tried to) uplift femininity. There’s been greater public focus on women’s economic and social equity than ever before. Simultaneously, Americans began talking about all the wrong ways to be masculine. We’ve attempted to unpack how damaging old fashioned versions of manhood can be to our communities, and to boys and men themselves.

These conversations emerge at the same time research shows us young American men, particularly working class men, are struggling in several ways.

College attendance and graduation among young men has majorly declined in the last decade, according to a Pew Research study from December 2023. Conversations about mental health continue to be a challenge for a lot of men – and the Center for Disease Control and Prevention reports men are still four times more likely to die by suicide than women. Post-pandemic, loneliness is at an all-time high; a 2023 report from Equimundo, a gender equity research group, found that 2⁄3 of the men they surveyed ages 18-23 agreed that “no one really knows me well.”

All of this leaves a lot of men, young

men in particular, at an uncomfortable and confusing impasse — one that’s inspired dozens of think pieces, YouTube rants, and hot political takes from both sides of the aisle.

Journalists have dubbed it a “Crisis of Masculinity.”

Essentially, people today are having a hard time figuring out not only what it means to be masculine, but what good masculinity looks like, in a world where gender norms are massively and rapidly changing.

Washington Post writer Christine Emba’s essay, “Men are lost. Here’s a map out of the wilderness,” published in July 2023, puts the so-called crisis under a microscope. She notes that while plenty of scholars and young people can agree it’s hard to define positive masculinity today, few folks have posed solutions.

The loudest group offering to define masculinity for young people, Emba says, is the manosphere.

The manosphere is a silly-sounding term that describes a baffling, disturbing online culture. It refers to right-wing forums, blogs and content creators that promote misogynistic, anti-feminist,

and/or incel (involuntary celibate) ideas, according to the Institute for Strategic Dialogue. Think Andrew Tate types, 4chan blogs, and men’s rights activists.

For impressionable young boys searching for answers on how to grow into their masculinity, it can be all too easy to become stuck in this web. YouTube and other media platforms have long been criticized for their algorithms, which have been blamed for promoting everything from misogyny to racist stereotypes and terrorism. Not to mention, streaming platforms like Spotify have been eager to sign manosphere influencers (Joe Rogan, namely) to multi-million dollar contracts to exclusively stream his podcast.

Brandon Sparks of the British Medical Journal explained that, in the face of a discourse that calls a lot of masculine traits “toxic,” many young boys today feel more comfortable searching online (and thus anonymous) platforms for guidance on how to navigate growing up.

Once these young people are led down the slippery, heavily-marketed path into the manosphere, they’re supplied an old school, stereotypical version of masculinity

on steroids: men should be rich, strong, and better than women.

Likely, what’s so appealing about these influencers is the comfort and recognition they offer in the face of the very real crises facing American young men. In a culture that’s attempting to recognize and rectify centuries of structural patriarchy and misogyny, manosphere influencers pat their viewers’ heads and say, “Your life is hard too.”

They promise simple solutions to an audience that’s worried about making enough money in a world where the gap between rich and poor is only growing. They soothe the insecurities of young people who feel awkward, unattractive or unsuccessful. And they blame those insecurities on the women around them.

The twisted beauty of manospheric reasoning? Nothing really has to change. Young men’s problems aren’t the fault of the education system or health care or social media. Instead, it’s all on them — and the women around them, of course.

The real manosphere mission is not to lead the next generation into a happy and healthy future. It’s to exploit misguided young men and get rich off their

insecurities by behaving like a self-help guru, or the next alpha male Messiah.

While the manosphere lives online, the danger it poses is tangible. This kind of rhetoric encourages very real violence, not only against women, but against racial, ethnic and religious minorities, too.

Tom Nichols wrote an unnerving piece for The Atlantic last year which analyzed America’s “Lost Boys,” a phrase he coined to refer to angry, narcissistic young men who feel “denied their dominant role in society and who then channel their blunted male social impulses toward destruction.” He says these men, feeling resentful of and disconnected from those around them, become perpetrators of atrocities like mass shootings and hate crimes.

Nichols says the danger of “Lost Boys” is that they remain caught in the insecure, transitional phase that young people find themselves in long after they journey into adulthood. The troubling thing is that influencers like those in the manosphere don’t give their audience a pathway out of insecure adolescence — instead, they capitalize on it and reinforce it.

photographed by Lydia Norton head stylist Katie Kinsella stylists Anna Bovaird, Mikey Roselle layout by Riley Laferriere, Nitya Shah modeled by Luke Hamilton, Jackson Shinkle, Jade Smith, Calvin Sung clothing provided by Cherry Canary jewelry provided by AHK Rings by Mollie Habig

They echo a sentiment that’s been repeated on the right for years: pull yourself up by your bootstraps. In the words of Andrew Tate, “If you truly wanted money, you wouldn’t be able to sleep until you f—ing had it.” These virile approaches to capitalist “grind culture” come alongside plenty of misogynistic tropes that tell young men that women won’t value them as people (or sleep with them) unless they have Bugattis filled with cash, ignoring structural inequities that fail to make that even a potential reality for the majority.

In the face of the manosphere, and the challenges felt by young men today, it might seem all the more imperative that we solve what “positive masculinity” looks like. This way, maybe we can better support young men as they age into a changing world, or provide them a handy blueprint like earlier generations had. But there are obstacles far bigger than Joe Rogan and Andrew Tate blocking that path.

For one, young men don’t just feel insecure because gender norms are changing (as the manosphere would suggest). It’s critical to recognize that young, predominantly working class men or men of color are struggling because of economic and institutional barriers. There aren’t enough mental health resources for anyone, let alone for men in a culture that has historically equated masculinity with rejecting such resources anyways. There are fewer traditional manufacturing jobs available today for blue collar men to make a living. Our understanding of masculinity can’t exist in a theoretical vacuum, we need to acknowledge the multifaceted systems men live in today.

Beyond that, the conversation surrounding “positive masculinity” is a tricky one. Thanks to modern feminist movements, Western culture experienced a gendered pendulum swing, which encouraged progressives to uplift femininity and minimize, or even demonize, masculinity in the last decade.

But in reality, this pendulum swing isn’t that radically different at all. It seems that, rather than expanding the potential for what masculinity and femininity can be, we’ve instead equated femininity with social, moral goodness, and masculinity with badness.

The movement to “take back” femininity in a world that’s maledominated might feel vindicating for some, but it’s important to be cognizant of what exactly we’re reclaiming. All too often, the modern push to celebrate femininity is a reductive one. We’re

encouraged to celebrate a stereotypical version of femininity that doesn’t do much to challenge patriarchy or capitalism.

The #Girlboss messages we get from corporations or half-enthused politicians don’t urge people to explore the depths of their femininity. Instead, most modern messaging around femininity tells women it’s great that they’re workers and mothers and consumers who keep our capitalist economy spinning.

And by demonizing masculinity, we’re not just leaving young cisgender, heterosexual boys and men confused about their place in the world. We’re relegating butch and masc lesbians, trans people and nonbinary people to the sidelines as well. We’re promoting the idea that masculinity and femininity are diametrically opposed, instead of two entities that can coexist within our communities and even within our very beings. We’re reinforcing limited notions of what gender can be, of who we can be.

In some ways, our efforts to highlight the “toxic” side effects of masculinity have reinforced the gender binary. By essentially flipping power structures, rather than breaking them down, we wind up trapped in the same traditional models of gender we began with. It seems impossible to create an adequate redefinition of “positive masculinity” within the stringent definitions that limited and alienated us in the first place.

USA Today contributor Andrew Sciallo suggests that those seeking to redefine masculinity should look to the LGBTQ+ history book for guidance. In a world that has historically pushed queer people to the margins, many have had to define and redefine gender, sexuality, and identity for themselves — without a societal script on how to do so.

It’s true that there are real perils facing boys and men in this country, but reinforcing a single definition of how to be masculine won’t help. Instead, we should encourage young people to explore what masculinity means to them. And when we do, we have to be louder than Andrew Tate.

Finding clothes that represent us can be difficult, but experimenting with different styles until we do can be like finding the missing puzzle piece after years of searching. Personal style allows one to be confident and comfortable in their own skin. Feeling good about what we wear can enable us to be our best selves and in general, more positive people. Confidence through clothing means confidence in ourselves. It takes courage to present ourselves so openly,

brother hood

but when we do, there is a potential for happiness and fulfillment within that part of ourselves.

In addition, when the brands align with beliefs, it is much easier to feel good in that clothing – if the piece was made unethically or unsustainably, one consciously makes a negative contribution to the world by buying from a questionable brand. However, buying from a brand that has a purpose and mission that we also believe in can provide us with a sense of pride in the clothes that we are wearing.

Unfortunately, not everyone is able to harness the positivity and benefits of cultivating a personal style. There is an incredible amount of privilege required to dress in a way that echoes the runway or is very extravagant and ‘out there’. When someone is perceived as outside the norm, potentially in more than one way, they are more likely to be oppressed for their differences. One example was when Cierra Boyd, a Black female designer from Cleveland, OH, created a corset made out of sneakers and was ridiculed across Twitter and social media, but then big brands went on to copy her designs.

The fashion influencers that are getting recognition for their ‘unique’ style, especially on social media platforms, almost all fit the conventional beauty standards: white, feminine, thin, and wealthy. On the flip side, the aforementioned trendsetters are getting called out for their ‘ridiculous’ or ‘satirical’ style and their way of putting pieces together, but there’s a historical understanding that the way they are dressing now will be trending in a few years or even a few months.

This privilege needed to gain proper recognition involves one’s identity and financial standing, among many other factors. If someone is already in a position where their identity is being targeted like one’s race, gender identity, sexuality, etc., dressing ahead of current trends that have not been normalized quite yet places people in a position where their personal safety could be put at risk. This is especially true depending on location and where someone lives – metropolitan areas are usually much more accepting of differences as cities are highly populated and therefore have an increased amount of diversity. Rural areas lack those differences and usually do not have the accompanying, more accepting viewpoints, so individuals who live in those places are at more of a disadvantage. Additionally, having a strong personal style can get expensive. Being able to afford a collection of clothes that reflects one’s personal style is a huge privilege. Even shopping secondhand can be difficult as there is limited access to vintage due to older clothing mostly being available to thinner sizes. Thrift shopping can also be difficult as it takes time and effort to curate a thrifted wardrobe that represents us in the way we want.

Having a strong and defined personal style is such a gift and can help someone become more themselves, so everyone should have the opportunity to safely express themselves in any way they choose. Embracing and appreciating our differences allows for more creativity and ideas to flow – diversity in our identities, both internal and external, is what defines us.

by Lainee Kirk

Crafted by philosopher Jermey Bentham in 1791, the Panopticon prison is designed as a circular enclosure with cells surrounding

a guard tower in the middle. Bentham’s philosophical approach to prison design institutes the guard as an invisible yet highly influential power. Prisoners cannot see into the tower to know which way the guard is facing, though they are aware they could be watched at any moment. The guards are unseen and deindividualized, establishing an authority that does not need to be present to exercise its power.

Though the Panopticon didn’t spread as an effective prison design, the conversations sparked by the design are still relevant. French philosopher Michel Foucault used the Panopticon to relate the way in which we internalize authority and monitor ourselves. After we are exposed to an external authority long enough, we will embody this authority and enforce it habitually. Foucault noted that the Panopticon was “permanent in its effects, even if it is discontinuous in its actions.” Social norms or beliefs can be internalized into us then regulated through us. Even when we are alone, our mind is not free — most of us still behave in a way that coincides with our internalized sense of social norms and beliefs.

The last roundhouse Panopticon prison in the United States closed in 2016. The Stateville Correctional Center’s F-House in Illinois was highly criticized by criminal reform advocates for damaging the physical and mental health of prisoners. The auditory and visual stressors of prison are overemphasized by the roundhouse setup. Since Bentham’s intent was to “use visibility as a trap,” it is easy to imagine

how this could be mentally challenging for prisoners. The philosophical ideals behind the Panopticon impose danger onto their psyche; the constant wonder of “am I being watched right now?” is psychological torture.

Today, I will open my phone in the morning and know where my classmates went over break without having to ask in person. I will add to the anonymous view count on videos by watching random accounts on the explore page. When it is time for me to create a post, I will choose photos that coincide with the image of myself I have curated online. When I go to check my own post, I will see a figure telling me how many likes I have, or how many people have observed this post. I do not recognize half of the usernames across my screen, but I know I should appreciate their validation. About two centuries since the first Panopticon design, we have successfully created our own virtually.

As Bentham intended, we are constantly watching each other and aware of an invisible power watching us. Social media has no set of rules, yet we instill our same social norms into these apps and behave accordingly. The pressure to appear well-kept, productive, and happy is compulsory and translates into social media.

With the internet being a complex resource for many watchers to pop up on, it is difficult to define one “guard.” In the context of data privacy, social media platforms monitor activity on their site for a variety of reasons. They guard us by collecting, using, and distributing our data. We are sometimes aware of what they are doing with our information, but we allow it to go on. However, they have less

of an effect on our behavior online, since many remain unfettered in their sharing of highly personal and specific stories and moments. As such, we are all the guards simultaneously reinforcing this role of monitoring one another. When watching each other, our behavior is affected because we view the online presences of others just as they do the same to us. We see how others act “normal,” creating a precedent for how our behavior should look. Whether we want to be doing this consciously, the exposure to others online establishes their “authority” within our internal judgment.

We judge people by seeing what they post, but also what they don’t post. There is an obligatory urge to post about each social issue whether you feel strongly or not. Influencers are canceled when they fail to speak out on a certain issue, even though the people doing the canceling often engage solely in social media activism. It is difficult to distinguish between people’s real beliefs and what they feel obliged to post about.

On social media, it’s easier to develop an online persona that presents a simplified version of one’s self. The online persona is expected to conform to all the same social standards as one’s real identity and present a digestible image. We put on a show, and the performance doesn’t end when our screens are off. Over time, online personas can seep into one’s personality, damaging their authenticity. It is easy for authenticity to get filtered out of this system that values the majority opinion. Like the real-life effects of the Panopticon being damaging to the mental/ physical health of the prisoners, the virtual Panopticon prisoners are damaged by punishing individuality.

photographed by Mira Carlson head stylist Jillian Pullen stylists Lilly Buchta, Violeta Cunningham, Calvin Sung layout by Caterina DeSantis, Melanie Roberts

modeled by Addy Cherry, Meadoe Creech, Zane Sanders

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We are constantly watching each other and aware of an invisible power watching us. “ ”

he bright lights dim as beams of indigo and violet wash over the audience, drawing them further into a temporary universe. A palpable buzz of anticipation hangs in the air as thousands of sweaty bodies stand still, craning their necks for the moment they’ve waited hours for. The hush erupts into ear-piercing shrieks as the first guitar notes ring out or the first rumble of bass shakes the floor. Arms holding up homemade signs displaying vulgarities and acclamations alike stretch as far as humanly possible in hopes of getting a mere glance from the one they came to see. Moments later, the crowd becomes electric as their favorite artist runs onto the stage and the barrier between idol and follower slowly begins to break. The next couple hours will be spent in a euphoric trance as listeners leave the real world behind and are immersed in a paradise where they share the same air as someone they usually only see on album covers. For decades, celebrity music culture has been a massive component of society. From mass teen fainting in the crowds of Elvis and Beatles concerts to Taylor Swift

fan accounts being run like a full time job, an array of generations can relate to the cult-like appreciation of certain musical artists. It’s not just the chart-toppers that we worship, however, since each generation seems to bring more subgenres and niche artists that fans are significantly influenced by, such as “hyperpop”, “bedroom pop”, etc. To anyone born before the pop culture wave began, the concept of treating a person with musical talent akin to a god would likely be odd, to say the very least.

Music shapes all of our lives in one way or another, and there’s a wide range of dedication people are willing to give to those they look up to. I, for one, thought I was dedicated for standing nearly three hours under the scorching August sun in a massive Lollapalooza crowd last summer to get a decent view of Lana Del Rey. Yet, I still found myself straining to see behind fans that had traveled across the world and camped outside of the park overnight in hopes of getting a barricade spot. Even still, the influence Del Rey had on all of us was clear to see no matter where one stood in the crowd. From the front of the crowd spanning to the thousands of people in the back, heads were clad in lace bows and heart-shaped sunglasses, together

reflecting the identity

that her fans had curated and made a part of themselves. Whether that is admirable or frightening is debated on both sides of the listener spectrum: those who will defend artists with their lives no matter the circumstance, and those who deem themselves “too cool” to display any passion for artists.

Since the term “groupie” was coined in the 60’s, glorifying musicians has been a common practice despite so much else in society changing. At that time, the term was associated with the young fans that followed bands around on tour in hopes of meeting or getting close to them. Rush, KISS, Fleetwood Mac, The Rolling Stones, and Led Zeppelin

eKainz

are among some of the early bands that achieved groupie status. Many years later, the opportunities for showing one’s undying love for their favorite musicians are endless. No comment thread on any viral media post lacks troops of fan accounts leaving a stamp of their idol wherever they interact. This transfer of idolization to social media has even led to the appointment of special names for different fanbases, adding a greater sense of community to those who identify with that artist. “BeyHive”, “Army”, “Arianators”... the list goes on.

The psychology behind the phenomenon is likely different for different people. Maybe for some, dedicating large amounts of time and money to artists provides a distraction or escape from the rather ordinary life most of us have to get used to. Maybe others see pieces of themselves reflected in the artists and feel seen by their ability to consistently represent thoughts, feelings, and moods that the rest of us aren’t able to express so eloquently. Whatever the motive is, there is no doubt that music inspires and brings people together unlike anything else.

However, at what point does appreciation become obsession? Do those groupies from the 60’s and 70’s regret all that time they devoted in pursuit of just being noticed, or was the endeavor thrilling enough to justify it? Perhaps it depends on who you ask. In either case, dangers can arise once enthusiasm evolves into an intense parasocial relationship. Back in the groupie days, fans could snatch up every magazine article about their idol and catch every TV show appearance, yet still be left with a sense of separation from them. That gap has now been bridged with pop culture being pushed onto every facet of our digital algorithms, informing fans about everything, from what these celebrities ate for breakfast to what ex-partner they refollowed that day. This oversaturation of information combined with a greater sense of interconnectedness to the stars, due to social media presences and opportunities for direct communication, makes it quite easy for being a fan to become less of a fun hobby and more of an addiction. Even more harmful is the way that social media gives crazed followers a platform to encourage toxic behavior like stalking, sending death threats to those less than fond of their idol, attempting to mimic the behavior and appearance of their idols, etc.

Like many other interests, fandom can be a healthy passion that motivates and provides purpose to anyone who appreciates music or looks for role models in their life. The problem only occurs when this interest begins to consume one’s personality, causing them to devote excessive amounts of time to someone that will never reciprocate the attention, rather than bettering their own life and relationships. At the end of the day, we’re all humans trying to make our impact on the world. Some people are just doing it with a captivating amount of virtuosity and, ultimately, in service of someone else.

photographed by Ellie Woytek bts by Mira Carlson head stylist Natalia Diaz stylists Ava Basile, Jillian Pullen, Caroline Vegter, layout by Tristan Caudill, Olivia Childress modeled by Elizabeth Capetillo, McDaniel Fontus, Bradley Kaufman, Nikhita Lavu, Ava Leininger, Michael Pezzuto, Mo Walker collaborations clothing provided by Cherry Canary