Digital Volume 8 Issue 3 by SHEI Magazine

Volume 8 | Issue 3

Standford Lipsey Student Publications Building 420 Maynard St, Ann Arbor, MI 48109

ALEX ANDERSEN MACKENZIE FLEMING Editor-in-Chief

Publisher

Creative Director

Marketing Director

Operations Director

JACOB WARD

ALEX CHESSARE

JULIA NAPIEWOCKI

Design Editors

Print Fashion Editors

Print Features Editor

Print Photo Editors

GABI MECHABER TAYLOR SILVER

JOSIE BURCK KARLY MADEY

MELINA SCHAEFER

KORRIN DERING RITA VEGA

Video Editor

Digital Fashion Editor

Digital Features Editor

Print Beauty Editor

SAM RAO

SARAH ORY

LAUREN CHAMPLIN

YOUMNA KHAN

Finance Coordinators

Events Coordinator

Managing Photo Editor

Digital Photo Editor

SOPHIA AFENDOULIS SOPHIA GAJDJIS

CAROLINE MARTINO

GABRIELLE MACK

GABBY CERITANO

Human Resources Coordinator

Social Media Coordinators

Public Relations Coordinators

Street Style Editors

SENA KADDURAH

HANNAH TRIESTER APOORVA GAUTAM

JARRYN SHIN DAPHNE PATTON

SUREET SARAU ED TIAN

Digital Content Editor

ALEX STERCHELE

Design Team Andy Nakamura, Sandy Chang, Kai Huie, Christina Tan, Kimi Lillios, Rino Fujimoto, Kali Francisco, Olivia Ortiz, Camille Andrew, Emma Peterson

Digital Content Team Neha Kotagiri, Allison He, Christina Tan, Helena Grobel, Sonali Pai

Finance Team Fashion Team Sophie Alphonso, Kailana Dejoie, Chloe Erdle, Isabelle Fisher, Tavleen Gill, Amanda Li, Peter Marcus, Courtney Mass, Noor Moughni, Olivia Mouradian, Natalia Nowicka, Madison Patel, Abby Rapoport, Dhruv Verma Anastasia Hernando, Ayanna Bell, Benjamin Michalsky, Emily Hayman, Gigi Kalabat, Janae Dyas, Jordan Wade, Kathryn Dorfman, Kelsea Chen Meredith Randall, Sarah Dettling, Sandy Chang, Sophie McKay, Victoria Vaz

Features Team Meera Kumar, Brooklyn Blevins, Annie Malek, Lucy Perrone, Ben Decker Cat Heher Neha Kotagiri, Melissa Dash, Patience Young, Janice Kang, Ava Shapiro, Hannah Triester, Heba Malik, Tiara Partsch, Natalia Szura, Jayde Emery, Sarah Stolar Nadia Judge, Katy Pentiuk, Peter Hummer, Christina Cincilla

Photography Team Anna Fuder, Brooke Dodderidge, Chrisitina Merrill, Emma West, Hannah Anderson, Margeaux Fortin, Nolan Lopez, Riley Kisser, Selena Sun, Sophie Hendrich, Tess Crowley, Zahria Jordan

Videography Team Grant Emmenheiser, Madeline Kim, Hannah Mutz, Lisa Ryou, Sara Cooper, Eaman Ali, Rachel Ienna, Samin Hassan, Hannah Hur, Emily Veguilla, Riley Kisser, Coco DelVecchio

Swetha Susarla, Michelle Tao, Emma Lewry, Margaret Clark, Elle Donakowski

Human Resources Team Mary Mack, Lillian Fakih, Jacqueline Choe, Izzy Tuchman

Public Relations Team Megan Eng, Mya Steir, Ava Ben David, Rachel Pordy, Katherine Lambert, Izzy Saunders, Celia Pagnucco, Kali Hightower

Events Team Alex McMullen, Molly Kennedy, Makenzie Kulczycki, Annie Cooper, Liza Miller, Julia Barge, Tiara Blonshine, Anastasia Hernando

Social Media Team Samedha Gorrai, Amanda Sachs, Anastasia Hernando, Makena Torrey, Julia Goldish, Charlotte Foley, Neha Kotagiri, Sandy Chang, Olivia Sun, Carolyn Soltz, Lauren Rosenberg, Megan Eng, Sofie Harb

Street Style Team Sophie Hendrich, Becca Mahon, Calin Firlit, Devon Kelly, Emmalyn Kukura, Emma Moss, Hanna Erhardt, Jenna Frieberg, Leonie Muno, Maggie Innis, Nicola Troschinet, Riley Kisser, Rosalie Comte, Tess Crowley, Victoria Vaz

IN THIS ISSUE 04

Letters from the Editors

Look at Me

Magnetize

Influenced

Picking Myself

Xenon Flash

Melomaniac

Addiction

Rock, Wishes, and Other Debris

RT to Spread Awareness

Extraterrestrial

Love is a Game

LET T TER FR R OM

THE E EDITO OR T

his past summer, as I stood at the corner of State and Liberty waiting for the crosswalk, I unfixed my gaze from my phone screen to glance up at the sky. It was beginning to glow its August starburst colors, dotted with cotton candy clouds. In that moment, I could have watched the sun dip slowly below the horizon, and savor the feeling of existing in a fleeting instant. Instead I was caught in a technological trance, instantly satisfying my obsessive urge to capture the moment with my phone; an urge that did not even pass through my mind as a conscious thought. The sun slipped below the horizon, and all that remained was a flattened, desaturated, low-resolution version of the sky that did not even begin to do the sun justice. The world we are in when our eyes are glued to our phones is not the physical world; it is a new dimension, an altered state of consciousness. We are stuck in automatic, instantly capturing and sharing anything that catches our attention. We post to be seen, to be pictured in the image we cultivate. The sun had fallen right before my eyes, yet I was in another world, completely engrossed in documenting and sharing the moment in an attempt to convince others of its beauty and inspire an envy and yearning for this experience. My phone had overtaken my consciousness. Perhaps we already know this to be the case; we are self-aware. Tragically, it can feel impossible to change. Tethered to technology, we are swept up in a whirlwind of digital validation and self-obsession, incapable of enjoying a sunset without others knowing our experience. We lose our autonomy as we enter a digital hypnosis, trapped in our screens, endlessly curating a life to be seen and admired by others. In HYPNOSIS, our members explore the blind, complicit nature of social media activism; the gamification of dating with apps; the hypnotic nature of the beauty industry; the power of social media influencers; and the hypnotic effect of the ocean’s lapping waves, the moon and the tide as part of a reflection on humanity, war, and desolation; to name a few of the topics. I urge you to consider the ways in which you have become hypnotized in your own life, the spaces in which you have become complacent. Perhaps there is a piece of you seeking out change, and you have chosen to engage with this issue to explore that shift, to prompt your awakening and breaking of the cycle of hypnosis disconnecting you from your life. What can you do to return to your mindful state of consciousness and be present in this moment? Sincerely, Alex

Alex Andersen Editor-In-Chief

EDITOR’S NOTE I

t’s in the first snowfall of the year, fluffy flakes spiraling downward, one after another, as they accumulate in piles, covering lawns like fresh patches over old tears. It’s in autoplay and the endless viewing possibilities afforded by the refresh button. It’s in the double take at your own reflection in the mirror and the rabbit hole it leads you down. How long has that been there? Is that what I look like from this angle? How do other people see me? It is incredibly easy to fall into a rhythm, to wake up each day and feel time escape our grasps like sand slipping through the cracks between our fingers. A trance can feel idyllic, like music that drowns out your thoughts or the dream you never want to end, before it shows its head and reveals its shackles around your ankles. A hypnotic power is one that acts upon you unknowingly, and in turn, controls from the inside out. Hypnosis is a power that’s demise relies on resistance. Before we break out, we linger in this trance a little longer— biting into a pastry so delicious it excites every one of our senses; hearing a song for the first time and shutting our eyes to feel it in its entirety; rhythmically twirling hair, tapping feet, or running fingernails over skin to soothe the mind; the ease of complete submission. In HYPNOSIS, we grapple with both our tendencies to indulge in the mesmeric and our efforts to take control back into our own hands. Nothing is as simple as light or dark, push or pull, give or take. So as we attempt to grab your attention, hold it and take it on a sensorial trip, we invite you to give in.

Lauren Champlin Digital Features Editor

DIRECTOR ABBY RAPOPORT STYLISTS SOPHIE ALFONSO SHARIFA DOUDI ABBY RAPOPORT PHOTOGRAPHERS GABBY CERITANO ANNA FUDER RILEY KISSER HAIR SOPHIE ALFONSO MAKEUP ABBY RAPOPORT GRAPHIC DESIGNER SANDY CHANG MODELS OLIVIA JEONG MAYA PLOTKIN

OUTFIT SETS - ABBY RAPOPORT

WRITER PATIENCE YOUNG GRAPHIC DESIGNER RINO FUJIMOTO

efore I’m even aware of what I’m doing, my fingers take on a life of their own. They softly trace my skin searching for the slightest abnormality. Scanning and stopping occasionally to scrape a bump. The discovery of an imperfection alerts my mind and my eyes zone in. I pick at the blemish in a haze, controlled by some force greater than my conscious mind. Now, eyes and fingers work together, seeking ingrown hairs and pimples that only a person with my training could find. Blackheads that would be invisible to the average onlooker haunt me, I have to correct them, squeeze them, I must remove the offender. I’ve lost days this way, only to look in the mirror in shame at the red splotches across my face, chest, arms, and legs. Part anxiety, part obsession, part selfharm, it became a way to calm myself, a way to pass the time, a solution for stress or boredom. Sometimes I would struggle to cut back but I never took it seriously. It felt like a delight I couldn’t deny myself, the least I deserved for struggling through this world. The habit developed after I was sexually assaulted at 11 years old. Finally at 32, following an afternoon spent in a trance tearing at my skin, I confess I have dermatillomania. Dermatillomania, or excoriation disorder, is experienced by a very small percentage of the population, around 1.4%, who find themselves hypnotized by their own skin.¹ Whether as a response to stress, boredom, or simply catching the sight of something they can’t look away from, people with dermatillomania can spend hours picking at their perceived imperfections. The slightest aberration becomes an obsession, and sufferers feel a need to “fix” the problem. The disorder is often chronic in nature, with periods of abstinence and increased intensity. It is related to Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. The repetitive body-focused behavior causes extreme stress to the individual, including feelings of loss of self control, embarrassment, and shame. Dermatillomania is sometimes genetic, and can be associated with perfectionism and avoidance. It’s treated by a combination of dermatology to clear skin, talk therapy to address the root, and medication.

“Excoriation Disorder (Skin Picking or Dermatillomania).” Mental Health America. Accessed December 3, 2021. https://mhanational.org/conditions/excoriation-disorderskin-picking-or-dermatillomania#:~:text=Excoriation%20 disorder%20(also%20referred%20to,significant%20 disruption%20in%20one’s%20life.

I pour over the research, checking boxes for triggers I know all too well. I make note of difficult places—my desk, the bathroom. I scatter fidget toys everywhere, my favorites include a stress ball filled with beads and some cross between slime and putty filled with little fruit charms. I make deals and set rules. If I can get through this lecture without picking, I can eat as many Starbursts as I want. I’m allowed to pop whiteheads. A small concession to my obsession and anxiety, enough give to make my efforts manageable. I started lotioning my whole body every day, still spending time touching my skin, this time with love instead of violence, picking myself over my obsessions. Naming the disease allowed me to see it for what it was: something out of my control that I needed help with. I was able to find community, shedding some of the stigma of the behaviors I’d kept hidden for years, my weird, shameful compulsions. As I write this, my hands move of their own accord, away from the keyboard and toward the places they yearn to dig into. I pick up a toy instead, a pea pod, and I frantically pop the peas in and out. I had three good weeks before I started to slip. My doctor had recommended a medication for OCD and I had brushed it off because hey, wasn’t I cured? But this isn’t that kind of disease. I thought I could quit this like I quit drugs—cold turkey and white knuckles, distractions and substitutions. Instead of searching for cures, healing comes in the form of care. It is gentleness and introspection, therapy and forgiveness. In meditation, the practice is described as catching your mind drifting away and refocusing on the breath. I apply the same method here, retraining my mind and my fingers, and each glaring imperfection that I resist the urge to gouge is growing the muscle that doesn’t pick.

m o l

niac ma lo

c a i an

m e

melomaniac (n) : an individual that is inordinately and abnorm

mally affected by musical tones GRAPHIC DESIGNER KIMI LILLIOS OTHER CREDITS GO HERE

DIRECTOR DHRUV VERMA STYLISTS NATALIA NOWICKA VICTORIA VAZ PHOTOGRAPHERS TESS CROWLY MARGEAUX FORTIN SAM MCLEOD HAIR SARAH SHERAZI MAKEUP SARAH SHERAZI GRAPHIC DESIGNER KIMI LILLIOS MODELS SARAH SHERAZ

MUSTARD SHORT SLEEVE - VINTAGE WHITE MOCK NECK - MOTEL BLACK LEATHER JACKET - FOREVER 21 BLUE DENIM JACKET - THRIFTED PINK CHERRY CARDIGAN - MINGA LONDON

At the end of 2020, 82.4 million people worldwide were forcibly displaced, and 20.7 million of those were refugees.

t is hard not to think of the world when faced with nothing but your hand out in supplication like an offering. Nestled in the night sky, I watch as she sits among ruffled sheets, back to the wall, her head tilted to God. She flutters her fingers through the air, stroking the keys of a piano that isn’t there. To remind herself that she is alive. That a heartbeat solidifies her body in space. In the velvet fabric of the air and the cocoa dust of bodies. She is not abstract. Yet in this moment, she feels like nothing tangible. Nothing like me. I watch her as I have watched the billions before her. In the hours of limbo when sinners have not yet left for their walks and church-goers remain in bed, pearls in hand. Her eyes glisten as they look at me. As though the ceiling and the roof and the thousands of miles that separate us were glass. That deep dark, the kind that slyly arrives long after midnight, is a city of dichotomies. To be unaware, yet radically so. To be enveloped in the silence of a river that only flows at night.

She can only travel then, as I’ve come to know, when the weight that anchors her ankles to the earth’s cement loosens and those pretty feet slide out softly and rise like a drugstore balloon. She comes to me like a child in need. I see in her pieces of myself––of eternity. It is here that she becomes most like me. Immortal. I reach out with my hands, wispy and acute and white, and trace her face with moonlight. Already prepared to catch the tears when they fall or smooth the wrinkles when they settle into skin. Of those, hundreds of thousands fled from Syria and chose tocross the Mediterranean passage. Today, she swims across an ocean. Her feet land on a cliffside in northern Egypt, on rock porous and firm. She lies on her back and grimaces. Her head falls to the side, exposing her face to a man that walks past on the unpaved road. Her eyes find the sky and soften like the calloused hands that spin silk. She watches. A shooting star. Another. And another. Until the sky is littered with them. She’s old enough to know it’s a meteor shower, but for a brief moment, she wants to

pretend that they’re gift her the world if I would. I am bright human, trapped in irises that peer up a memory, I am only the world. An echo. Her head falls to locking on the point the sky. She feels its It is empty and bea

Thousands of on lan

But she’s old eno empty––not since crossed the very se with now. Less arriv rest scar the ocean memory and word.

And there I watching them: a that looks––an

She knows it co That a lottery of bir made her parents Whatever words l of migrant lips as

e magic––that they’ll she asks for it.

that day––almost the reflections of the at me. But here, in her light. Never touching

o the other side, eyes t where the sea kisses s shadow on her lips. autiful.

feet never stepped nd again.

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ould have been her. rth and pure chance inhale American air. lived on the edges s a boat sank or a

lung heaved close. She knew them. Whatever lives they lived before they turned to stone and were violently shattered until they were dust and rubble. Her family lived those same lives. The grandmother that sat on the navy blue rocking chair at the local mosque every Friday. The store clerk who always gave her sour striped candy when she stepped through the door with a ding. Her great-uncle who taught her how to look at stars and see them not as coordinates in constellations but as individual heavens. She knows they traveled at night, under the eyes of a God that did nothing to keep them on land. That the boat, or dinghy, or whatever you call a floating piece of tragedy, left the shore already sunken with regret. The land was destruction but the ocean…The ocean was a siren with her arms open in welcome. She knows that as that welcome came, those men and women held my gaze like it was salvation. She wishes she could pluck those flying stars and launch them across the Mediterranean. But she is old enough to know that shooting stars do not pull bodies out of water. You see, only a girl can create a grief so desolate you could enter it. Like a

door or a window to a house with none. She is young, I know. Yet already she has learned that the nearness of death does not soften its blow. She is sad and alone and by the end of the hour, she will long for those shackles that anchor her below. But for now, she is with me, gazing at the stars, trying to get drunk on infinity. It is only here that she can understand that perverse human need to parade one’s misery, one’s ruins–– and force the world to look at them. She says she is lost. I tell her being lost is man’s truest form. She cries silently. Her head does not move. Her eyes focus on the sea as they form their own. Drops fall little by little on a valley of rock below her head and pool together, eager for warmth. The limbs that brought her here apologize for every movement. They apologize for luck and for life. They are heavy because they know the drowned were light. Silence lies like an agony. She shifts her head to look at me, to see what they saw. But what she sees, instead of a circle of salvation, is a gaze that is heavy and unbearable and filled with judgement. She thinks it must have been a different moon for them. I know it wasn’t.

WRITER HEBA MALIK GRAPHIC DESIGNER KALI FRANCISCO

ES T

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GOLD SHIRTS - ASTR THE LABEL BLACK PANTS - SHEIN SHOES - ALDO & SHEIN

DIRECTOR EMILY HAYMAN STYLISTS EMILY HAYMAN SARAH DETTLING PHOTOGRAPHERS EMILY HAYMAN HAIR NADIA BAILEY NADIA DAVIS MAKEUP GUSTAVO NAVARRO GRAPHIC DESIGNER EMMA PETERSON MODELS NADIA BAILEY NADIA DAVIS

K O O L T A E M

DIRECTOR JORDAN WADE STYLISTS SANDY CHANG GIGI KALABAT JORDAN WADE PHOTOGRAPHERS JENNA FRIEBERG HAIR SANDY CHANG GIGI KALABAT JORDAN WADE MAKEUP GIGI KALABAT GRAPHIC DESIGNER CAMILLE ANDREW MODELS ENA HUMPHRIES SAMANTHA KAO

JEWELRY - JORDAN WADE

INFLUE L

ast week, when I was scrolling through my Instagram, I saw my favorite fashion Youtuber Ashley, aka BestDressed,

wearing this mesmerizing blue dress that made her look nothing short of a princess. I couldn’t help imagining the dress on myself, how I would stroll city streets with it’s skirt flowing behind me, a princess in my own right. I clicked on the tagged link that would take me to the website for which this post was an advertisement. I went deep into the rabbit hole of online shopping and ended up filling my cart with about fifty dollars worth of new clothes. All these pieces, mind you, would have been approved by Ashley, for otherwise, they wouldn’t be in my shopping cart. I’ve never met Ashley. I’ve religiously watched her YouTube videos, but this person that I consider a style mentor and best friend has no idea I exist. Why, then, does she have such a strong influence on my life? Why have I given her that authority?

Style icons influencing the world of fashion is a tale as old as time. Even before internet influencers, consumers’ mindsets were constantly being shaped by celebrities. Humans have the inherent urge to look to other people’s opinions to help us make the right decision. When we see someone whose opinion we trust or is considered to be knowledgeable in their field nudging us towards the “right” decision, we naturally tend to follow in their footsteps. Nowadays, the shaping of people’s decisions by gaining their trust has become much easier than it was in the past. Platforms like YouTube and Instagram make even the most famous celebrities feel like your next-door neighbor. Or, better yet, like your closest friend. Through this approach, style influencers have managed to completely morph the way humans interact with the fashion industry. Sponsored Instagram posts have taken the place of mannequins and models that were once the prime subject to market a product. The lines between models, influencers, and retailers are blurred. I often see people who started off as internet personalities creating their own brands and promoting the products on their pages as you would recommend them to your friends. Previously, the likeability of a specific product in the

ENCED

forever21

fashion or beauty industry was dependent on whether or not consumers found that the product fit the specifications they required or wanted. Now, consumers are changing their specifications to be more flexible and to coincide with those of influencers. Corporations are being made to cater to the preferences of a small community while still dishing out products to be used by millions. The most peculiar thing about this is that more often than not, the people being influenced have no idea that they are. They simply believe that their preferences are the same as those of influencers’. Not only are corporations able to easily cater to the likes of millions, but they’ve also figured out that using influencers to their advantage increases their outreach. An influencer that has two million followers likes a brand’s product. They promote this product on their profile, listing all the ways it has truly changed their lives, and a portion of the two million followers decide to purchase this product whether it meets their needs or not. The brand, noticing this trend, pays the influencer to promote more of their products, sending even more traffic to their website. Repeat. This is not to say that influencers are some scheming force with a grip over all that we know and trust. Whether this profound influence is a problem is up to personal opinion. As for me, I’ve decided that I don’t want the opinions of a few influencers to erase my individuality and shape my image of the “right” kind of fashion. I still love BestDressed, the way that she dresses and interacts with her followers, and I will likely continue to find inspiration in her style. What I won’t do, though, is let what she wears become my only guiding light in shaping my own personal style.

WRITER MEERA KUMAR GRAPHIC DESIGNER GABI MECHABER

Black Skirt - Bebe

DIRECTOR ISABELLE FISHER SARAH ORY STYLISTS ISABELLE FISHER PHOTOGRAPHERS LIV PILOT HAIR ISABELLE FISHER MAKEUP ISABELLE FISHER GRAPHIC DESIGNER KAI HUIE MODEL STEPHANIE SHOO

DIRECTOR KAILANA DEJOIE STYLISTS KELSEA CHEN KAILANA DEJOIE PHOTOGRAPHERS HANNAH ANDERSON RILEY KISSER NOLAN LOPEZ VERA TIKANOVA HAIR KAILANA DEJOIE MAKEUP YOUMNA KHAN GRAPHIC DESIGNER ANDY NAKAMURA MODELS KAT ANDRADE KATRINA CATABIAN NOAH JACKSON ELIZABETH NGASSA KALI TOWER

ORANGE SKIRT - CAT & JACK ORANGE VEST - MASTER SPORTSMAN GREEN JACKET - MAURICES GREEN PANTS - ZARA BLUE JACKET - LEVINE CLASSICS PINK JACKET - JACOBSONS PINK PANTS - DICKIES WHITE SILK SHIRT - FOREVER 21

RT to Spread A W

ith what I can only describe as a political hellscape behind us, a lot of the turmoils that plagued our thoughts and media in the summer of 2020 have appeared to die down. COVID-19 updates no longer hold such apocalyptic undertones and we have seen less and less protestors taking to the streets. The news feels more like news again instead of sentences regarding our fate. However, despite the events of 2020 being in many people’s rear view mirror, they are far from being concluded. The constant violent and devastating media surrounding the Black Lives Matter movement during these months left me feeling dazed and desensitized, as if I was relinquishing pieces of myself in order to stay as informed as possible. To say that it began with the death of George Floyd would be a radically incorrect understatement. However, my descent into a political haze can be traced back to the first few days following his death. I saw the video. I’m sure I’m not the only one. It plagued my Instagram, Twitter, and nearly every news outlet I came across. It was a natural reaction; say his name and share his story. When such a violent act is committed over something as trivial as a 20 dollar bill, it feels necessary for the incident to be broadcasted. But when George Floyd became the poster man for the Black Lives Matter Movement, and his character and personal affairs came into question without a sliver of relevance, a piece of him too was lost at the hands of

the media. At the time, I believed staying up to date and centering conversations around his death would serve as a means of preserving his legacy, but a legacy created at what cost? One born out of hatred and injustice, a legacy that shouldn’t have been necessary in the first place. Unfortunately these revelations didn’t surface until much later. In those days, I continued to immerse myself in the media under the pretense of being informed. Then came the civil unrest. This flooded my social media timelines. I continued to follow the news: protests turning violent around the country, the deaths of countless other unarmed Black individuals coming to light, the influx of white supremacist reactions. I quickly became overwhelmed trying to keep up with the latest information. The aftermath of protests, the best resources to share, and the unjust ways of the system became the focuses of my flurrying thoughts. And it hurt; the constant need to advertise to others why my life mattered took a toll on me mentally. I felt weighed down by this responsibility, as if the burden was mine alone to bear. If I don’t speak up and fight for my own people, how can I count on anyone else to? So I endured, I clicked, I read, I watched. After weeks of nonstop news consumption, defeat began to loom over me. My Twitter was a landmine, and auto-play was my worst enemy. Much like the videos circulating all over my social media, my life felt like it was on an endless

Awareness loop. Watching the same heartbreaking attacks be committed on Black individuals over and over made any meaningful efforts I attempted to support important causes seem futile. I’d read an article, share an informative post. My stomach would turn at every unjust incident, the horrors never stopped occurring, but eventually, the tears stopped coming. My resolve had weakened; the constant efforts for change coupled with the lack of action from the government pushed me towards a wrongful state of acceptance. This entrancement of hopelessness and dread persisted until what I would consider my most nerve-wracking days: the conclusion of the Derek Chauvin trial. I’m in my room, buzzing with fear as I await the verdict for a crime the whole world watched be committed. A crime everyone was subjected to in all it’s tragedy. I saw it. And I saw it again with Breonna Taylor, and with Daunte Wright. Videos of people protesting, fighting for the simple right to exist as they are, people who look like the people I love, people who look like me. It felt as though all of the long pushed aside emotions were making their way to the surface once again. In realizing the way my media consumption had entranced me into false tolerance, I was confronted with the consequences of not only my own actions, but of the media. By forcing myself to speak for a system that has never considered my voice, I had borne such a weight that it left me transfixed. I had no obligation to cater

my activism to an audience that was hardly willing to grant me grace in these overwhelming times. I had seen so much. Social media was simply a megaphone for the pain and suffering of Black individuals at the hands of the system. Under the guise of information, names and faces of individuals who have suffered a similar fate to George Floyd were plastered all over news outlets and social media sites. In some scenarios, we can acknowledge the importance of being informed. The problem lies in when the real lives of these people are turned into symbols; they’ve suffered greatly at the hands of the system and often their humanity is taken from them after their lives. The swarm of tragic and graphic reporting harms not only the subjects of these stories, but all Black individuals consuming this media. To say I have completely escaped the haze of desensitization after coming to these conclusions would be a rather lofty claim. The decline in media coverage surrounding Black Lives Matter in combination with my own self-regulation has left me more aware of the media I consume. Whether or not the decrease in coverage on such topics is actually an improvement is hard to say; the unjust violence is far from over. Continuing to raise awareness while remaining critical of the media we consume and share is essential, otherwise mindless consumption and regurgitation can leave us trapped in a complicit haze.

WRITER BROOKLYN BLEVINS GRAPHIC DESIGNER TAYLOR SILVER

LOV

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DIRECTOR MADISON PATEL STYLISTS TAVLEEN GILL JANAE DYAS SOPHIE MCKAY MADSION PATEL PHOTOGRAPHERS ALVIN YAO GABBY MACK ZAHRIA JORDAN HAIR MADSION PATEL SOPHIE MCKAY TAVLEEN GILL MAKEUP MADSION PATEL SOPHIE MCKAY JANAE DYAS GRAPHIC DESIGNER OLIVIA ORTIZ MODELS MATHEW BAUERSFELD TERENCE HUANG ANDY ZHOU MAHAMED DINKI

OUTFITS - THRIFTED SHOES - AIR FORCE 1S, AIRMAX 97S, REEBOK’S, & ADIDAS STAN SMITHS

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