Lunar

Design Editors

MARGARET LAAKSO RINO FUJIMOTO

Video Editor SAM RAO

Finance Coordinators

MAGGIE CLARK

Standford Lipsey Student Publications Building

420 Maynard St, Ann Arbor, MI 48109

MELINA SCHAEFER Editor-in-Chief SOPHIA GAJDJIS Publisher

Creative Director

SARAH ORY Operations Director SOPHIA AFENDOULIS

Print Fashion Editors ANASTASIA HERNANDO DHRUV VERMA

Digital Fashion Editor MADISON PATEL

Events Coordinator

MAKENZIE KULCYZKI

Human Resources Coordinator MOLLY KENNEDY

Print Features Editor BROOKLYN BLEVINS

Digital Features Editor JANICE KANG

SENA KADDURAH

Social Media Coordinator NEHA KOTAGIRI

Print Photo Editors GABRIELLE MACK SAM MCLEOD

Print Beauty Editor

JANAE DYAS

Managing Photo Editor NOLAN LÓPEZ

Digital Photo Editor RILEY KISSER

Public Relations Coordinators IZZY SAUNDERS

KALI HIGHTOWER

Digital Content Editor

JESS CHO

Design Team

Maggie Laakso, Rino Fujimoto, Camille Andrew, Kai Huie, Kimi Lillios, Mary Wurster, Liza Miller, Hannah Salameh, Nick Pippen, Kamryn Almasy, Ashley Glabicki, Terri Kang

Fashion Team

Madison Patel, Kelsea Chen, Olivia Mouradain, Peter Marcus, Sarah Dettling, Angela Li, Ava Wadle, Dana Gray, Darnell Perkins, Elissa Li, George VanHaaften, Linsey Wozniak, Mia Lollo, Minh Phan, Peyton Benjamin, Quincy Bowles, Quri Kim, Sian Tian, Skye Thompson, Brandon Martinez, Ankitha Donepudi, Niko Smith, Sidney Vue, Bobby Currie, Andy Zhou

Features Team

Brooklyn Blevins, Janice Kang, Nadia Judge, Melissa Dash, Lucy Perrone, Jayde Emery, Tiara Partsch, Meera Kumar, Amina Cattaui, Natasha Martin, Catherine August, Sailor West, Lynn Dang, Shelby Jenkins, Steve Liu, Melissa Werkema, Mya Fromwiller

Photography Team

Riley Kisser, Nolan Lopez, Pearl Thianthai, Oliver Segal, Paulina Rajski, Alexander Kim, Udoka Nwansi, Korrin Dering, Taylor Pacis, Rita Vega, Lindsey Archibald, Alex Lam, Yueshan Jiang, Sam Rao, SinYu Deng, Jessica Cho, Maggie Kirkman, Adrienne Hoffman, Carly Nichols, Nikki Vergara

Videography Team

Sam Rao, Samin Hassan, Eaman Ali, Gianna Galette, Olivia Ortiz, Juana Mancera, Caroline Nichols

Digital Content Team

Street Style Editors SUREET SARAU ROSALIE COMTE

Jessica Cho, Esther Murray, Shari Frazer, Sophie Ding, Haniya Farooq, Irem Hatipoglu, Iris Ding, Alana Vang, Clare Hong, Kiana Pandit, Ally Chang, Radhika Patel

Finance Team

Maggie Clark, Makenzie Kulcyzki, Elle Donakowski, Suma Moolaveesala, Manvita Battepati, Rendie Zhang, Olivia Jabari

Human Resources Team

Sarah Lindenbach, Lily Watchel, Diya Nambiar

Public Relations Team

Izzy Saunders, Kali Hightower , Harini Shanker, Brandon Cole, Katherine Lambert, Devin Vowels, Ava Ben-David, Ava Ray, Samantha Wright

Events Team

Sena Kaddurah, Tara Nayak, Erin Segui, Shruti Patel, Tiara Blonshine, Paris Rodgers, Allie Cain, Lottie Winegarden

Social Media Team

Neha Kotagiri, Samedha Gorrai, Olivia Sun, Charlotte Foley, Hannah Ding, Aubrey Borschke, Camila Escobar, Ellie Ngassa, Aarya Padhye, Luiza Santos

Street Style Team

Jordyn Hardy, Ernest Hawkes, Ellie Ngassa, Nina Walker, Oliver Segal, Jenna Frieberg, Nikki Vergara, Adam Marakby

When I was a kid, my brother and I used to think that the moon was following us home. We would sit in the back of the car, searching for it after every turn around a bend. We’d look for flashes of it between tree branches or from behind dregs of clouds. Every time we spotted it, sitting on top of a building like a fried egg or hanging like a street light in a clear sky, we would cry out. It’s unclear whether it was a cry of fear or joy.

I was reminded of this again last spring when I was studying abroad. When I looked at the moon, it brought me comfort to know that I had brought it all the way there with me, and that someone I love could be looking at the very same moon. And if not, at least its light would be reaching them, shining on them.

But it’s a borrowed light, and the moon is a borrowed planet. It’s made of Earth stuff, and its light is that of the sun. Perhaps this is what makes it even more strange and beautiful, the way it is both familiar and foreign. The moon exerts power over this planet, and some believe, on people too. There’s evidence to show that crime rates increase on a full moon, and I know some people who track the phases of the moon to better understand their emotions.

In this issue, we wanted to explore the complicated power the moon has over us and the world around us, and the moon as a symbol for our own innate magic and

connection to the natural world. In “Twin Moons” the phases of the moon are related to the everchanging series of expressions and emotions we cycle through in a day. In “Shadows” we explore the moon as a mysterious and imposing answer to the sun’s brightness, taking its form from shadow; it suggests that we too are a contradiction of shadow and light. “Don’t Wait for Me” by Lynn Dang presents the night as a time for exploration and indulgence of our most poignant emotions as a nameless main character reconciles longing with a desire for independence.

The moon serves as a reminder of our own humanity, as well as the inescapable connection between ourselves and the natural world. Under the cover of night, our emotions come to the surface in powerful and sometimes heartbreaking ways, but it’s also a time to make contact with that part of ourselves which is drawn to the moon and its mystery.

Sometimes I’ll wake in the middle of the night to a room completely illuminated. The moon is outside my window, standing guard like a sentinel. The borrowed, bluish light pours in like a quasi daylight. Every time, I’m shocked by its strength. I wonder also why I’m called to wake up to this light. I suppose it’s because it’s too splendid to miss.

Melina Schaefer Editor-In-Chief

Most of today’s world goes by the solar year using the sun-based Gregorian calendar, but our earliest calendars were lunar. Our ancestors structured their lives around the cyclical phases of the moon, using it as a means to form meaning from the meaningless, creating constructs such as those that we’ve decided to call time and age and mythology. Perhaps the fact that the moon has yet to cease its orbit of our collective cultural psyche is indicative of how we have never quite been able to let go of our pasts and of the occult.

The same way its gravitational pull raises a pair of tidal bulges on the opposite ends of the Earth, the moon brims with contrasts and contradictions. It’s ever-changing but everconstant. One half is always lit and the other half is always in shadow. It’s both a symbol of modern progress and an ancient icon of the past. It has been tirelessly orbiting the Earth for the entirety of its existence but it’s also been slowly, very slowly drifting away for just as long. The moon contains a multitude of selves in both the face she chooses to show us and the face she does not.

LUNAR is a compilation of our reflections on the characteristics of our planet’s reflective satellite. Examining the moon at its brightest and at its darkest and in the various shades and slivers in between, we can all find a piece of ourselves in its intimate familiarity and ethereal enigma.

Janice Kang Digital Features Editor

TWIN

MOONS

SHOOT DIRECTOR

MINH PHAN STYLISTS

MADISON PATEL

GEORGE VANHAAFTEN

PHOTOGRAPHERS

NOLAN LÓPEZ

MINH PHAN

VIDEOGRAPHER

SAMIN HASSAN

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

TERRI KANG

MODELS

ZOE TURNER

DEXTER KAUFMANN

WRITER

CATHERINE AUGUST

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

RINO FUJIMOTO

My mother always insists that my eyes are my loveliest physical feature; a hazelnut green and honey-brown fusion, she gushes over their radiance, perceiving an aura of wisdom and warmth in them that she vows I obtained from her genes.

Yet I can’t identify the same tenderness with my own eyes. When I look at them, I am met with weary flecks of hazel straining against my bathroom’s overhead fluorescent lighting, and sunken bags of purples and blues that appear particularly pigmented through my bulky prescription glasses—telltale signs of the sleepless nights that plague my existence.

As midnight approaches, I once again find myself in this predicament. I toss and turn, and hazily glance at the oldfashioned mantel clock that rests on my dresser as seconds, minutes, hours tick by. Begrudgingly, I cycle through my mental catalog of tried-and-true sleep remedies. I count fluffy mammals as they soar above my head, sip warm varieties of faithfully endorsed teas, and flip through the worn pages of classics.

I’ve exhausted my roster of possible options, yet sleep still evades me. Chamomile tea in hand, I trudge to my bedroom window and sit upon the wooden ledge, accepting my restless fate. I cozy up in the nook and nestle my head against the glass in hopes of relieving the heaviness beneath my eyes. The coolness of the glass against my cheek is jarring, but grounding. The frigidity spreading across my cheek serves as a reminder that my pain exists within the vastness of the universe, that I am a singular human in an enormous world experiencing a sensation as simple as a chill running down my spine. Breathing deeply, I turn my puffy eyes to the sky.

Stars glimmer throughout the expanse of sapphire. I can’t make out the constellations—I never could—but I am captivated nonetheless. Wispy blurs of white threaten to veil the beauty and grandness of the cosmos, but to no avail.

And all at once, I heed her presence. A waning crescent, she regards me with a warmth at odds with the palpable look of misery plastered on my face.

My brain wants to register her presence as a mockery, as if the very act of laying my eyes upon her is a tease at my inability to fall asleep. But my heart knows that her presence is a consolation; she is a muchneeded listening ear in the solitude and silence of the night.

Waning Crescent, how does one overcome gut-wrenching heartache? When a flood of beautiful memories overwhelms my senses, how am I supposed to manage? What can be done to initiate healing when a problem has no solution? Whom do I speak to when I can’t possibly speak about this? And overarchingly, why?

Grievous emotions tug at my tear ducts, and a slow, steady, hot stream of tears flows down my face, eventually dripping onto my neck. It stifles the air flow in my chest, my lungs straining for air in between sobs. It feels as if my heart, beating at an impossible rate, will give out at any moment.

It doesn’t, even as hours continue to tick by on the mantel clock. Eventually, my emotions and senses grow exhausted. I peel my cheek from the window and slowly regain my composure. Sipping my chamomile tea, I wipe the tears from my eyes and once again look to the sky. The alluring moon draws my attention, and in my nocturnal delirium, I could have sworn she starts to speak. All Earthly inhabitants observe the same moon and reside within the same universe; take comfort in the fact that your love can travel to the moon and back.

Immediately, as if on cue, I feel fatigue overtake my body. My eyelids seem to have gained a new weight, and my mind seems to have obtained a new sense of tranquility. Finally, mercifully, I drift off to the emerging sound of birds chirping outside my window.

Tidal

SHOOT DIRECTOR

MIA LOLLA

STYLISTS

JESS BERG

PETER MARCUS

PHOTOGRAPHERS

SAM RAO

JESSICA CHO

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

NICK PIPPEN MODELS

NATALIE RUE

ERIKA RIOS

Lost in Thought, Lost in Space

Maybe in another life, I am an astronaut. mastered my space skills are in this Especially when they are so essential.

I lay awake in my bed, and I dream a certain clarity, as if I have been there expanse that I see spread in front of my eyes in the form of a comet with never felt more alive than in a moment

I am weightless, floating through the most beautiful thing I have ever not watching this happen to someone reminded that I am not really free as back to reality. I stay closer to the ship ship and plummet down to the hellhole

I can understand why it may appear do something about it, but I do not perilous journey my mind goes on without eyes for fear that the black hole I am body eventually gains enough strength have tangled me—entrapped me in

If I choose to explore the foreign same as me. Yet, there is no peace. something punctured my oxygen tank? Maybe in another life, I am an astronaut.

Thought, Space

astronaut. I cannot say for certain that this was my occupation in a past life because I am not sure how this one. And if I was an astronaut, wouldn’t some of those qualities be transferred over to help me now? essential.

dream of the great frontier to be explored—outer space. It dances in my mind with images possessing there before, as if I am there right now rather than trapped on this miserable rock. The dark and cold of me is filled with the dazzling radiance of a million stars. A heated moment of passion passes before with a mass large enough to wreck my ship with me confined within its walls. My skin tingles and I have moment that could have been my last. through the components that make up the air in the great expanse that lies beyond planet Earth, and it is ever experienced. I would say the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, but I am here, and I am in it. I am someone else through a screen or hearing of the details from afar—I am here. I am free. But as I float, I am as I am aware that if I stray too far, the rope keeping me tethered to the ship will pull taut and jerk me ship and turn my back to it, pretending it does not exist, pretending I do not have to get back onto that hellhole that I came from and leave this paradise. appear that I am one of a sea of entitled youth, relishing in the exaggeration of my anguish rather than relate to the depths of space for no reason. I lay weighed down in my bed for hours exhausted by the without my permission, without my consent. It leaves me weak and exhausted while unable to close my am in will become inescapable. If I eventually drift off, too tired to conjure any images in my mind, my strength to bring it to the brink of panic. I begin to sweat and frantically grapple against the sheets that in their clutches—until I wake with a start. terrain outside of my house, I am met with a million dazzling people making their way in this world the peace. It is not the same as the expanse of space and the people shuffling past me begin to close in. Has tank? I can’t breathe. astronaut.

WRITER NATASHA MARTIN GRAPHIC DESIGNER MARGARET LAAKSO

DIRECTOR

ELISSA LI

STYLIST

DARNELL PERKINS

PHOTOGRAPHERS

ALEX LAM

LINDSEY ARCHIBALD

YUESHANG JIANG

DARNELL PERKINS

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

HANNAH SALAMEH

MODEL

JEFFREY BASS

SHADOWS SHADOWS

DIRECTOR

LINDSEY WOZNIAK

STYLIST

LINDSEY WOZNIAK

PHOTOGRAPHERS

OLIVER SEGAL

ALEXANDER KIM

VIDEOGRAPHER

GIGI GALLETTE

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

MARY WURSTER

MODEL

CHARLOTTE UM

They were the perfect couple. The perfect entrepreneurs. The perfect artists. The perfect people.

How could they not be? They were my parents. Everything they did was perfect and, sure, they’d yell at me sometimes but it was fine because they knew best. I woke up to my parents’ gentle words and fell asleep to the same. I had my school and my friends, but at the end of the day, I always came back to my parents. My life revolved around them.

Sure, I grew older and we fought a little more. But it was fine because they were my providers and, at the end of the day, they were my everything. And even when I wanted to digress, to lash

out, I couldn’t because my brother wouldn’t. My brother whom I looked up to and who taught me most of what I know. I’d seen the relationship my parents had with their own parents—distant and detached—and thought never could that be me.

I loved my parents far too much.

There were lots of rules in the house, but never those that seemed unreasonable. The rules made me sad sometimes, sure, but they were my parents and they were my world.

No dyeing your hair.

No second piercings.

No tattoos.

No going to your friend’s house unless I approve.

No kissing boys.

No pets.

No swearing.

No grades less than an A+.

The Perfect Parents

Slowly, though, the people around me started to change. My best friend at school dyed her hair, the straight A student behind me was saying the F word, and my project partner told me about making out with her boyfriend. But, no. They were only the people I spent nine hours a day with. They were not my parents, so they didn’t know what was right. Or did they?

That’s when the questioning started. Why do I have to listen to every single thing my parents tell me?

It’s my body, so why can’t I pierce it?

It’s my future, so why can’t I get bad grades?

These moments of rebellion flickered inside of me, but they were never quite enough to break me free of the pull of my parents’ rightness. Their rightness always insisted that I come back to it. I was always to stay within the grasp of this rightness.

My brother went to college, and he started to push against our parents. He didn’t think everything they said was right. He had his own thoughts and ideas, his own path to take. A path beyond the gravitational pull of our parents.

Then I turned 18. I was allowed my first drink. I could, with discretion, start using dating apps. I could find a guy. I could have my first kiss. I could taste the sweetness of rebellion.

I wasn’t quite at college yet, but I could see that finish line approaching ever closer and closer. I broke free when I reached it. I did everything I was never allowed to do. I dyed my hair, I got a piercing, I got tattoos, I got a C+, I finally got a cat. I wasn’t perfect to my parents anymore. But they weren’t perfect to me either.

My parents aren’t perfect. They don’t have the final, most perfect say in every matter. As my life stopped revolving around my parents, slowly but surely, I learned that I could have a connection to them—a strong and wonderful one at that—while being my own person. I don’t have to listen to every piece of advice or always worry about whether or not they’d approve. They are their own people with their opinions, and I’m my own person just the same. That’s when the fighting stopped and the freedom felt real—when I recognized this one truth. My life does not revolve around anyone else’s, and nobody’s life should revolve around mine. We are our own people, our own beings, our own thoughts, our own bodies. We have unbreakable connections with other wonderful beings, but never does that mean we aren’t our own.

SUBZERO

SHOOT DIRECTOR

SARAH DETTLING

STYLIST

SIAN TIAN

PHOTOGRAPHER

SINYU DENG

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

KIMI LILLIOS MODEL

APRIL CHOE

RITUAL

RITUAL

Don’t Wait for Me

The warmth and richness of the brew is curated for those with a sophisticated palate for ristretto. It requires a particular degree of care to achieve such a balance between bitterness, saltiness, and sweetness. At least, that’s what I recall from your last speech on why no other establishment could ever surpass the brilliance that our beloved exudes. I can already smell the nuttiness of the almond blend as I walk down this desolate street. When I stop and close my eyes, for a fleeting moment, I can almost hear the bustle and chatter of the busy swarm. It’s easy to get lost in the comforting embrace of reminiscence, but a touch of dampness on my skin is enough to draw me back to reality. I tilt my head upward, remembering to try and catch a glimpse of the celestial body that will be engulfed in the Earth’s shadow later this evening. Though I now realize I’m much too late, as I’m met with a gloomy overcast that will soon begin to nearly drown me in frigid rainwater. Karma for running late, I suppose. I accept the overdue warning with grace and hurry along.

I approach the entrance drenched from the downpour. In the corridor, I try to fluff the moisture out of my hair but it’s to no avail. I take a deep breath,

removing my coat and creating a precise fold whilst draping it over my forearm. I enter through the second door, spreading a smile across my face, and instantly dart my attention to the table we always sit at. Both seats remain unoccupied, and my heart begins to slow from the psychological marathon I just ran. I rush to the restroom and kneel down underneath the hand dryer, hoping to spare my hair from the frizz. I silently pray that upon arrival, you will not notice my lack of preparedness. No longer sopping wet, I make my way over to our spot and take the seat adjacent to the window. One leg of the chair is uneven, so I habitually sit on the edge with my back stiff. I consider ordering but remember that coffee makes me jittery. Though perhaps you might be excited to see a cup waiting for you, so I go up and order. When I return, I set the cup containing two shots of blonde ristretto with almond milk down neatly before your seat and feel a chill graze my arms. It’s been years and the window still hasn’t been resealed. I go to pull out a book but pause mid-reach, staring out the glass. The shower has slowed and the sky is beginning to clear. I see the divinity lurking in the shadows, and it sees me.

WRITER LYNN DANG GRAPHIC DESIGNER KAI HUIE

I find solace in the sonder. Over the next few hours, I get lost in other people’s realities. I sit and watch as children delight in the simple pleasure of cake pops, as college students study together for an exam, as work acquaintances get to know each other, and as old friends reminisce on their childhood memories. People arrive as quickly as others leave. Occasionally, I take my eyes off the orderly chaos and glance at the coffee sitting across from me. An hour till closing, yet there it remains—untouched. I look out the window still streaked by rain, staring at my distorted reflection. I rotate my head slowly, examining it from every angle as I trace my features with my fingertips. During my orbit, I briefly lock eyes on the total eclipse in the ether, but continue along my path until a feeling of uncertainty compels me to stop. Leaning in toward the face reflected in the makeshift mirror, I could’ve sworn I’d just seen a glimpse of you. Suddenly, an unforgiving cold coats every inch of my skin, causing me to recoil with a force that almost sends me plummeting backward. I regain my balance at the edge of my seat and absentmindedly adjust my sweater, but am so disoriented that the haze is only narrowly cut through by the sound of the door jingle. I stand up swiftly, thinking that you’ve finally arrived, just to be

paralyzed by an instantaneous bout of grief as I’m met with an unfamiliar gaze.

Blood flushes my face, and sweat moistens my underarms. My heart palpitations consume me, and I recount all the times that I’ve sat here in this godforsaken place waiting for you for hours on end. I grab my belongings and storm past the befuddled stranger, slamming the drink into the trash can as everyone watches me disintegrate. I thunder through the corridor, coming to a halt when I arrive outside. I tilt my head up finding the celestial orb gleaming in full, and I collapse on my knees, gasping for air. A sudden flash illuminates the distance and before I know it the sky is once again a blur trickling onto me. Lifting myself to my feet, I allow it to wash away my tears. As I walk home, I look forward to seeking comfort in the existential bliss of my own pursuits. I let myself get lost in solitude, feeling the sympathy of the moon.

GRAVITATE

SHOOT DIRECTOR

PEYTON BENJAMIN STYLISTS

KELSEA CHEN

QURI KIM

PEYTON BENJAMIN

PHOTOGRAPHERS

TAYLOR PACIS

MAGGIE KIRKMAN

VIDEOGRAPHER

EAMAN ALI

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

ASHLEY GLABICKI MODELS

EMILY MAO

AMER Y.K.

SCARLET ECLIPSE

DIRECTOR ANGELA LI STYLISTS

QUINCEY BOWLES

SKYE THOMPSON

PHOTOGRAPHERS

UDOKA NWANSI

PEARL THIANTHAI

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

KAMRYN ALMASY MODELS

OLIVIA

BENNETT MEIJA