state press magazine
state press magazine
EXECUTIVE
Alexis
EDITOR-IN-CHIEF
Savannah
MANAGING
Audrey
Leah
DESIGN
Lavanya Paliwal
Paulina Soto
ENGAGEMENT
Wendy
WRITERS
Gokul Achaththekoot
Jude Banihani
Claire Geare
Gib Manrique
Bella Mazzilli
Evan Silverberg
Abigail Wilt
ILLUSTRATOR
Lilliana
PHOTOGRAPHERS
Sophie
Ollie
Editor’s letter
The concept of contrast tells us that there’s more — there’s complexity, there’s juxtaposition, there’s tension, there’s duality. But contrast isn’t just about opposition; it’s about balance, growth and nuance. In art, it’s a unique beauty — light and dark, warm and cool, or hard and soft; the point is to create something visually appealing with obverse elements. Contrast is about differences coming together, colliding or uniting, in order to push boundaries and challenge perceptions for the purpose of reflection and learning. We hope to encourage you to embrace contrast, whether it’s in nature, society or yourself.
In this issue, writers tackled contrast through a variety of ways. Some grappled with identity, like being Indian American, being a nonbinary girl or existing in the gray space of religion. Others dug deeper into the conditions of issues like gender-affirming health care, gender bias and feminism. One writer satirized the differences between Los Angeles and Phoenix, while another writer provided recommendations for cheap eats. Finally our feature story highlights organizations pushing back against food insecurity and operational barriers.
Trans lives, liberties and the pursuit of happiness
The risks and realities of restricting gender-affirming health care
By Abigail Wilt
Designs by Lavanya Paliwal
Kormac Moore, a freshman studying music audition, left his class to take a call on Jan. 28. It was his hormone treatment clinic informing him that they were no longer able to treat him due to President Donald Trump signing an executive order restricting gender-affirming health care for people under 19 years of age. Moore is 18.
After the phone call, Moore called his mom. He sat outside, the overcast sky started to rain and he told her the news. Two things were clear: He was unsure what would happen next, and he felt there was little he could do.
Leading up to his 18th birthday, Moore thought about hormone treatment every day. His mind was a victim of an endless slew of self-critical thoughts about his identity. The thoughts were often distressing, resulting in anxiety and depression, but the thought of hormone treatment kept him hopeful.
On the day of his first testosterone shot, Moore was overcome with excitement. He was taking the first step toward feeling at home in himself. He rode the light rail for over an hour to get to the clinic. When he arrived, sunlight poured through the waiting room windows, filling the space. It evoked a sense of calm and safety for Moore, assuring him that he was where he was supposed to be.
Moore described the moment as a ceremony. Although receiving the shot was quick, the impact it left on his life was significant.
“When it came to that day and I got that first shot, it was all I ever wanted,” Moore said. “A third of my life I had been waiting for that moment. After, I felt this feeling of peace and serenity that I was finally starting this journey and I wouldn’t have to wait anymore.”
Moore felt that the news of Trump’s executive order threatened his right to make his own health care decisions and halted any progress he had made toward living a happier life.
Uncertainty and fear
Trump’s executive order claiming to “[protect] children from chemical and surgical mutilation” directs federal agencies to prohibit access to a variety of gender-affirming health care options for people under the age of 19 and take additional steps to discourage access.
The list of restricted health care options includes the use of puberty blockers (including GnRH agonists), use of sex hormones (androgen blockers, estrogen, progesterone, testosterone) and surgical procedures.
Ari Kravitz is a nurse practitioner at Spectrum Medical in Phoenix. The
center provides gender-affirming care to patients 18 and older. Kravitz explained how the executive order resulted in widespread fear among the medical community, causing many clinics to stop treatment altogether.
“As far as the general chilling effect on the whole trans community, that’s been massive,” Kravitz said. “There’s a lot of fear and uncertainty because we mainly see people 18 and up. We’re just sort of waiting for the other shoe to drop for our own patient care population. I have seen people get their prescriptions refused to be refilled as well as surgeries get delayed or canceled.”
In the United States, people 18 and older are considered legal adults and are able to make decisions about their health care. Trump’s executive order seeks to restrict gender-affirming care for people under the age of 19. This puts 18-year-olds at risk for losing access to treatment.
“I thought that I was in the clear because I am a legal adult. Trump never talked about considering young adults who are 18 to be minors,” Moore said. “He considers us children. I was shocked because I didn’t think I would have to face this so early on.”
Stopping treatment comes with health risks. Trans feminine people who have received surgeries like gonadectomies, vaginoplasties or orchiectomies need access to sex hormones. Without them, they will go into premature menopause resulting in hot flashes, mood swings and potential long term effects on bone density. For trans masculine people who have had hysterectomies, without testosterone, they will experience similar physical symptoms, Kravitz said.
According to Kravitz, forced hormonal detransition also results in distressing health consequences for patients still in the range of puberty (18 and 19). If trans feminine people stop hormone treatment, there is a potential for added facial and body hair growth, as well as changes to body structure, fat distribution, facial structure and voice deepening. For trans masculine people, they may have a return of menstruation, breast development and changes to body fat distribution.
“It’s psychologically distressing,” Kravitz said. “And then the physical toll of big hormone switches is not something to be taken lightly. It’s extremely physically unpleasant.”
Discrimination and hate
Other gender-affirming cosmetic surgeries, more typically associated with cisgender people, remain accessible, including facial plastic surgeries and breast reductions.
“It’s discriminatory [against] trans people. Trans people are not even the biggest consumers of gender-affirming care,” Kravitz said. “Cisgender people are. If a cisgender man can walk into a men’s wellness clinic and is able to receive testosterone for gender-affirming reasons, a transgender man should be able to do the exact same thing.”
Banning gender-affirming care is more than a health risk. Anti-trans legislation also promotes discrimination which can be
mentally distressing and physically dangerous to trans people.
“This response from the administration gives validation to a lot of discriminatory beliefs or practices and a federal stamp of approval on viewing trans people as undeserving of care and autonomy,” said Parker Powley, a freshman studying chemistry and physics.
“With all of these policy changes, it’s definitely having a big effect on people’s perceptions and it poses a big risk for this kind of hateful rhetoric that continues to be pushed on the trans community,” said Al Garayzar Lopez, a freshman studying neuroscience.
According to a study by the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law, more than 40% of transgender adults have attempted suicide in the U.S. Another study by the Trevor Project showed that anti-transgender laws contributed to a 72% increase in suicide attempts for transgender youth.
“The day I started hormones was truly the happiest day of my life,” Powley said. “It felt like a cloud had been lifted and I could see the world as it should be. My life had the capacity to be right again. I was so bogged down and seemingly limited beforehand, and that experience saved my life. I wouldn’t be here today if I hadn’t started [hormone replacement therapy] when I did.”
A study published in the National Library of Medicine found that gender-affirming care was associated with lower odds of suicidality and depression. Access to gender-affirming care has the capacity to save lives.
“I do believe that trans people will resist and make our way through this,” Powley said. “It’s a question of time. It’s a when, rather than an if. My only worry is how many people will be lost along the way.”
Hope and support
Two weeks after Trump issued the executive order, two federal courts from Washington and Maryland issued temporary nationwide restraining orders, halting the enforcement of certain provisions
in the order.
Since then, clinics all over the U.S., including ones in Arizona, have resumed treatment for their patients.
Moore was at home when his phone screen lit up. It was his clinic calling. He shot up out of his chair — his heart racing — and he answered the call. The clinic informed him that they were able to resume his treatment due to the temporary blocks on the executive order.
Moore was shocked and relieved. He called his family to tell them but made sure to emphasize that while it was good news, the block was temporary and the future of his treatment was still uncertain.
“I had just been so anxious and nervous about this for weeks on end. It was a very high-energy moment, and it was exciting,” Moore said.
Some aspects of the executive order will have an immediate impact; however, the Trump administration will need to go through formal processes to implement other aspects. A permanent ban on gender-affirm-
ing care, if it requires a statutory change, would have to go through Congress. Additionally, the broad framework of state laws and court precedent regarding gender-affirming health care means that most actions outlined in the executive order will face prolonged legal action.
Though the Trump administration aims to limit access to gender-affirming care, it won’t do so without pushback. Already, states are taking legal action against Trump’s sweeping executive orders. While the future of gender-affirming health care access remains uncertain, there is still a community of support for transgender youth.
“These people are human, and they deserve to be treated with humane treatment. It’s not as if we’re some kind of sub-group. Trans people deserve the equal amount of rights that anybody else could have,” Garayzar Lopez said.
“There is a larger group than I knew about fighting for our rights, and it will inspire more people to stand up. I hope that I can live a normal life and I won’t have to worry about this anymore,” Moore said.
I’m a nonbinary girl — deal with it
Gender is whatever I say it is
By Claire Geare
Photos by Ollie Slade
My name is Claire. I’m a girl. Or a girl-thing. Or one of those wavey arm men at a car dealership. Depends on the day really. I’m some sort of in-between of all of it. And that’s the thing about gender — it’s really fucking complicated.
I will not explain myself, and I will not listen to reason, for I am a nonbinary girl, and you’ll all just have to live with that.
Yes, I’m your sister. And yes, I’m your girlfriend. But I’m also none of those things, you know? I have this weird ick that I’d never want to be a woman. But I am a girl deep down inside. Just… a nonbinary one.
Some days I wake up and I wish I could carve my boobs off with a butcher knife, and other days I wish I had a push-up bra. There are times when wearing a skirt sounds like a public-torture mechanism, and there are times when skirts are the only thing that feel right. Every day I’m confronted with the question: Who am I? And the problem is, it changes every time.
I really love being a girl. They get certain privileges others don’t have. I get to own a million stuffed animals and wear
copious amounts of jewelry without a second look. I get to be complimented on the street by other beautiful girls, connected to them through our girlhood.
I identify strongly with the idea of girlhood. I grew up female, and these experiences shaped me in unfathomable ways. I can’t let go of something so integral to who I am, yet woman doesn’t speak to me the same way.
A woman is refined. A woman is discerning. A woman is some made-up concept. Yet, that concept is something I just don’t feel is me.
I had a friend tell me one time that I speak like a man. What a compliment, truly. I love my masculine speech patterns, but I’m no man. A man is strong. A man is aloof. A man is also some made-up concept that has nothing to do with me.
A boy, on the other hand, is something I can relate to. Boys are innocent, playful, confused. I would love to be a boy. But never a man.
So where does that leave me? I’m neither a man, nor a woman, yet I’m a
boy and a girl. I ask this question on paper, and I have no answer. Is it my youth that makes me feel such a way? Is this just some inability to fathom adulthood confused with gender dysphoria? Who knows? Certainly not me.
Sometimes I act the way a boy would and others how a girl would. Sure, there are tomboys and femboys and all the other stuff in between. But none of that fits.
I remember I first changed my pronouns when I was 16. I was drunk off a bottle of strawberry lemonade Svedka and turned to my best friend at the time, simply saying — should I be bad? I’m not sure what “bad” meant in that context; maybe it meant rebellious, maybe it meant nothing at all. I just knew in that moment that womanhood wasn’t for me.
I’m not here to be the gender police. You may disagree with this all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m proudly a nonbinary girl — straddling the gender spectrum and holding on for dear life. It’s a complicated place to be in, yet, I’m in it. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
Photo by Ollie Slade
In frame: Dane Futrell
Photos by Ollie Slade In frame: Melvin
Mapping my mother tongue
Navigating my identity through Malayalam
By Gokul Achaththekoot
Illustrations by Lavanya Paliwal
Palm trees and paddy fields. Dirt roads and fresh backwaters. Steep hills and curvy roads. These are all words I would use to describe where I’m from. Sure, I’m your regular Indian American kid who was raised in Louisville, Kentucky. But what I’m describing is where I’m from — that is Kerala, India.
The suburban, moderate, green-forested city of Louisville is a stark contrast to the small Indian state I was born in. I remember watching Malayalam cartoons while my grandmother would cook unni appam, a sweet, round, doughy banana dessert. I remember watching my older cousin get on the school bus in the morning and waiting for her to get back in the evening. Most of all, I remember my native tongue Malayalam being spoken everywhere. But when my family and I moved to Kentucky, where the Malayali diaspora was only about 20 families, the absence of my native language was a piercing silence.
Grasping at my roots
Up until we moved when I was 3 years old, I had only been exposed to my mother tongue, and the only words I knew were rapid Malayalam. New Malayali family friends we made in our Louisville home were shocked when they met me. “Wow, this kutty (child) knows a lot of Malayalam.” I was considered the golden child of our family friend group because I spoke the language.
But even if I spoke well for my age, it didn’t really matter. I quickly had to learn a new language before
starting school in the United States. Suddenly, my brain had to switch to English, but I still tried my hardest to retain the sounds and patterns of my first language.
Indians pride themselves on being from a different part of the world: one with a unique language, culture and tradition every time you cross a state border. For a long time, my parents held on to our roots. They broke the idea of assimilation and spoke to me in strict Malayalam. I would hear scolds from my amma (mom), stories from my achcha (dad) and even advice from my ammamma (grandmother) in Malayalam.
When my baby brother was born in the States in 2009, we all spoke Malayalam to him hoping he would also become fluent in it when he started speaking. English words were rarely used.
Growing up, I wouldn’t hear the name Gokul. I mean, everyone called me Gokul at school, but I grew up almost resenting that name because it was the one that was official. It was for outside the home, not inside. Inside, I was called Kannan. Although a fairly popular nickname among South Indian boys, Kannan held a special place in my heart. It was the name my family back in India called me, as did my mom, dad and family friends we met in Kentucky. It was my familiar name — the one that truly encapsulated all the parts of who I was.
I keep this nickname with me today. I often get mad when my dad calls me Gokul, or when people from India refer to me as that.
It was a revelation to me when I figured out that not every immigrant family stuck to their roots. While I was instinctively on Malayali autopilot, some of my Indian friends stuck to English. The color of their skin ran brown, but the tips of their tongues ran white. At least they could still understand their native language — right? But even that didn’t make sense to me. How could someone understand a language but not speak it?
Growing and changing
They say you can’t stay in an environment without adapting — the natural cycle of evolution. So, just like my Indian American brothers and sisters, I began to let go of my first language. I spoke more English at home. I didn’t talk back in Malayalam. I let go of ‘Kannan’ and became ‘Gokul.’
Throughout middle school and into high school, there were plenty of times I’d pick up a phone call from my parents to only respond in English. Or if I had to speak Malayalam, I’d do it discreetly so my friends wouldn’t ask questions afterward. It was suffocating, and I knew I was hiding my identity. My face burned with shame, but not as bad as the shame of being different, being singled out. I was American now — a product of my environment.
Things changed for me when I was in high school. Something clicked when my friend and their family drove me home from school, and all they spoke was Hindi. They didn’t hide their identity of another language, another background, another culture in front of others.
In that moment, ‘Kannan’ came back. I was furious that I had decided to let my native language go for the sake of similarizing. I was furious that I had made my own language an insignificant part of my life. But mostly I was furious because I realized I had lost fluency in Malayalam, a skill I prided myself on as a child.
As I got out of my friend’s car, it wasn’t Gokul who exited; it was Kannan. I slowly got back into appreciating my native roots: my Malayali thoughts, my Malayali customs, my Malayali self. It took patience.
Even now, I sometimes trip up on hard words or slur my sentences, but I try my best, and people can understand me.
It takes a lot more effort for me to understand my language now. Unlike before, my brain is on English autopilot, so when I speak Malayalam, I have to translate my thoughts from English to Malayalam and then speak it. But with this manual translation inside my brain, I learned that there is a lot more to my language than just words and phrases. The vocabulary, the tone and the conjugation of words add to the beauty of what it means to be a Malayali.
I learned to love my language. In fact, I was so passionate about it, I started to learn how to write it. My parents never really taught me because they found no use in me learning how to read and write a
language I’d never been exposed to in America. I practiced on Google — searching up letters and writing on my own. I’d ask my mom to check my work, and she’d encourage me to keep going. I eventually learned another language, Tamil, because it has a similar structure to Malayalam.
I not only learned to love my language, but to love languages in general. I picked up some Hindi on Duolingo during the COVID-19 pandemic and was passionate about the Spanish classes I took in high school. Languages became a place of solace for me: a way to escape the mundane reality of the English I constantly spoke.
Malayalam was also the language that tied me to my family in India. Growing up in Louisville, all my Indian friends were from different parts of India — primarily places that spoke Telugu, Hindi and Tamil. There
weren’t many Malayalis around, let alone ones who spoke Malayalam.
It was the language that kept me tied to my ammamma and muthasan (grandfather). Whenever the phone would ring from India, Malayalam conversations about how we were and what was going on in our lives connected my grandparents and me. Whereas a lot of American families experience grandparents much closer to home, Indian Americans often only have two- to three-minute phone calls. I held my language close to my heart and learned to cherish the ability to speak and practice it.
Blossoming in college
When I came to Phoenix for college, I was surprised to find so many other Malayalis who were my age and who spoke the language. It was nice meeting others from Kerala, but
it was weird adjusting to an environment where Malayalam was so normalized. The Malayalis I surround myself with aren’t amazed that we have the ability to speak another language from across the world — it’s like a chore. I speak Malayalam to them and they respond in English.
But I don’t let that discourage me from practicing my ability to speak it. I call my parents once a day, and even though these 30-minute conversations are the only opportunities I get to speak in Malayalam, I cherish them. But once the call ends, my language is silent.
I don’t have to be silent though. A part of me has always wondered if language is the one thing stopping me from appreciating who I am. Is it the fact that being able to speak Malayalam is what makes me different from other Indian Americans? Is it the fact that I love this skill? Or is it that speaking my language makes me feel like I am not just an American but also an Indian?
I know that I am different from native
Malayalis just based on my dialect and how I speak Malayalam. It isn’t the same as those who grew up in Kerala, and my cousins always remind me that I am in fact an American. But at first glance, my American friends see the color of my skin and know I am, and always will be, an Indian. Finding that balance is hard, and going back and forth between contrasting identities makes me question which one I fully am — or even if I am one of them at all.
It’s a delicate balance that I’ve learned to curate through self-expression. I wear a religious necklace my parents bought for me in India not tucked inside my shirt, but on the outside for the world to see. I speak Malayalam to those who know it. I celebrate the harvest festival, Onam, and our new year, Vishu, with immense pride and joy — even wearing the traditional piece of clothing, the mundu, to the celebrations.
I don’t do this to prove to others that I am Indian or prove that I am still the same golden child I was at 3 years old. I do it to prove to myself that I
am a blend of all those that have come before me in an environment that is different. I am a product of my environment, but a testament to my heritage. I am ‘Kannan’ and ‘Gokul’ all at once — experiencing both identities in a fluid and proud way.
I am still far away from the land of palm trees and paddy fields. Dirt roads and fresh backwaters. Steep hills and curvy roads.
My spirit oozes of the language my grandmother whispered to me as she put me to bed, the words my father and mother used to raise me and the vocabulary I use to communicate with my Malayali brothers and sisters.
Ok kanna, umma. My mother kisses me as she tucks me to sleep. I reach for her hand as she leaves the room, hoping I could get one last look. But instead, I’m left to cradle myself to bed with the shifting crib of identities as I whisper to myself, goodnight naale kaanam. (I will see you tomorrow).
Equal (on paper)
A look into gender bias in academia and its effect on women Report
By Jude Banihani Illustrations by Lilliana Lopez
Stephanie El Khoury is a Ph.D. candidate at the W.P. Carey School of Business in the economics department. Originally from Lebanon, Khoury received her bachelor’s and master’s degrees from the American University of Beirut, both in economics. In 2020, she began her economics Ph.D. at ASU. Khoury, who’s particularly interested in gender issues within education, focused her most recent project on gender bias between students and their professors. According to the International Institute for Management Development, gender bias is the “preferential treatment or discrimination against individuals based on their gender.”
Khoury gathered most of her data
from students in ASU’s economics department. Gender bias in academia is common in many fields, but Khoury decided to focus on economics due to her expertise, her personal experience and the prevalence of gender bias in economics.
“I know a lot of people might be reluctant to admit it, because we cannot fix it, per se, but it is a fact that exists,” Khoury said.
Through her initial research, she found a gap in the rating of male and female professors, with female professors consistently ranking lower across the economics departments from multiple universities. However, the gap didn’t specify whether the ratings were due to gender bias, so she focused on that in her surveys.
She surveyed students by presenting them with two options of professors for the same course. Both options included a description from Rate My Professors, a website that allows students to review and rate professors and courses.
“I see how students are rating
females and males by giving them videos,” Khoury said. “I give them the same video, but one has a female voice and one has a male voice, and I see if they rate them differently — and females did have the penalty.”
She then wanted to see if students still preferred male professors even if their class was more expensive. In another survey, she listed an expensive textbook for the male professor and a cheaper textbook for the female professor. The results showed that students were more willing to take a class with a poorly ranked male professor with a more expensive textbook.
Khoury’s study found that spending time on Rate My Professors lowered students’ views of their female professors. A potential reason for this could be confirmation bias, or the tendency to seek out information consistent with one’s existing beliefs. Gender bias is subconscious, so it’s likely that students are unknowingly resonating with negative reviews of female professors.
“Students who are exposed to these websites were more likely to report that females have lesser values than males,” Khoury said. “They process this information, then they go to class and potentially they learn … that females aren’t as bad as they thought, but at the end of the day, these websites are giving them information
and they internalize them.”
The effects on female professors’ careers
William Martin is an English instructor in the College of Arts and Sciences. Martin meets with other instructors and administration at the end of each semester to review course evaluations.
According to the University Office of Evaluation and Educational Effectiveness, these course evaluations are important because they allow faculty to “gain a better understanding of how well they are meeting the learning needs of students.”
In addition, departments use these course evaluations to review an instructor’s teaching effectiveness, and these reviews “influence decisions about salary increases, contract renewals, and promotions.”
Martin said he noticed gender bias in these evaluations, specifically in comments made toward female professors that go beyond their teaching styles and expectations.
“It’s only from female colleagues where there is often a bit of consternation at the kinds of criticism they receive for, say appearance or what they wear,”
Martin said.
However, the English department has taken initiative to learn about bias and how to mitigate it. “There have been texts that we’ve been bringing in recently. … Some of the more recent texts have really involved both individual and structural biases, thinking biases,” Martin said. Other texts focus on gender, race and other kinds of unconscious biases.
While Khoury’s research did not focus on course evaluations, she expressed concern about there being potential gender bias in these evaluations that can determine the livelihood of professors. Not only could gender bias impact their jobs, but it could also skew their selfworth.
“If you, as someone who is pouring your heart [into your] work, continuously receive harsher reviews than you deserve, you will feel demotivated. It becomes like a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Khoury said.
Course evaluations aren’t unique to ASU. According to Watermark, there’s an increasing number of higher education institutions administering course evaluations. At the same time, studies have found evidence of gender bias in course evaluations across universities. This can stem from selection bias — those with negative experiences are more likely to leave a review.
Diagnosing the problem
Sally Kitch, a women’s and gender studies professor at the School of Social Transformation, has researched and written extensively about bias against women.
Kitch said there has always been a bias against women in academia, but in recent years, she has seen an increase.
Her approach to the issue is through a cultural lens. “The culture has inculcated the idea that women are weak, they’re not as smart as men and that all they know are ‘fluffy things’ — they don’t know hard science, they don’t know math,” Kitch said.
“We know that there have been some very powerful social media personalities — [Joe] Rogan is one name that comes to mind — not to mention a very competitive and hostile political environment where the talents of anybody who’s not white and male have been called into question and that they’re only there because there was some requirement to diversify the workforce,” she said.
She believes young adults are hearing these conversations and internalizing them. “They have all these online resources telling them that women are stupid and men ought to be in control of them, that women are not only stupid but hateful and deserve violent responses, that they have no place in leadership and that real men control women. That message is out there, powerfully out there,” she said.
Kitch said during her graduate years at the University of Chicago, students had great respect for professors. While they may have discussed difficult exams and assignments, their remarks never attacked the character of their professors. This is quite different from today, where students view the difficulty of a course based on their professor rather than the content or level of the course.
academia. “This is a scary time, and if I were [a young woman], I’d be a little scared about the implications of this because it can carry over into every area of life,” she said.
Daniella Kemigisha, a sophomore studying digital marketing, said students seem to hold a preconception that male professors will be tough and hard on grades while female professors will coddle their students and be lenient on grades.
Concerned over the future job and career prospects for women, Kitch expressed the reach of the cultural and political environment into
“If [female professors] come off as a bit strict, then automatically everyone’s like, ‘We don’t like her,’ [but] compared to men, it’s like it’s already expected,” she said.
As for Rate My Professors, Kemigisha feels that many students writing reviews don’t even consider factors other than who the professor is. For example, instead of considering that the class may just be difficult, they may blame the female professor for the class’ general rigor and leave a negative review.
Kitch is aware of the impact of Rate
My Professors and said that although it was designed as a resource for students to get an understanding of professors, it’s like social media. “What we know about social media is that it does not promote our better angels,” she said. “It plays to the lowest levels of intellect and emotional maturity. It’s become a completely useless tool.”
Room for change
Khoury said diversity initiatives and trainings can combat the problem. According to the Oxford Review, awareness and recognition is the first step in bias correction. An experiment to measure the
impacts of diversity training by the Harvard Business Review found that employees who they believed were the least supportive of women prior to a diversity training were more likely to acknowledge their discrimination against women and their gender biases after the training.
Unfortunately, there was little evidence on how the training affected later behavior, but the experiment did note that the training focused on gender bias had positive effects on employees’ attitudes and behaviors toward racial minorities. Therefore, “helping people recognize biases towards one marginalized group of people can have positive spillover effects on their attitudes and
behaviors towards other marginalized groups.” Though awareness and recognition doesn’t always lead to behavioral change, it’s still an important step toward progress.
Khoury said since most of the bias in ratings and evaluations on female professors is done subconsciously, students are more likely to correct the bias once they learn of it. “I don’t think they actually hate women,” Khoury said. “If you give this information to students, they become more self-aware, and what ends up happening [is] … they correct for the existence of the bias, and they give females a fair shot.”
Black, white and gray
By Abigail Wilt
Designs by Paulina Soto
At 12 years old, I accepted that I was evil.
Tears were always shed on the third night around the fire at church camp. Not sad tears. Tears of conviction and cries for salvation. I sat with the other young girls in my group, linking arms, exchanging revelatory glances. The pastor used our tears to build his pedestal, which he haughtily climbed. I looked to him, an extension of God himself, and gave my life to God that night.
We listened to the pastor as he recited a verse intended to usher us into the fold.
“For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, so that whoever believes in him shall
‘You can’t innovate on an empty stomach’
Two Tempe-based organizations experience pushback distributing food to those in need
By Evan Silverberg
Soto
Illustrations by Paulina
Do you have limited or unreliable access to nutritionally adequate food? If so, you may be experiencing food insecurity. Don’t let that scare you; this dilemma is not uncommon among ASU students.
According to a 2021 Arizona Board of Regents report, 26% of the University’s students are food insecure.
Pitchfork Pantry is a group that aims to fight this disparity. The student-run organization distributes food, along with hygiene products, clothing and nutrition education, to ASU’s student body. Starting in 2017 by distributing canned food out of a Tempe dorm room, the Pantry now operates on all four campuses,
providing a wide range of perishable and nonperishable food items.
“Food insecurity is directly linked to your mental health, your capacity for stability, not only on a personal, individual level, but also on an academic level,” said Abby Noel, co-director of Pitchfork Pantry and a senior studying civil engineering.
Just off campus, Tempe nonprofit AZ Hugs started hosting weekly picnics for the city’s homeless population half a decade ago.
“It’s three to five courses of food spread out through the afternoon so that people don’t have to all show up at one time,” said Austin Davis, founder of AZ Hugs and an ASU alum. “The idea is, here is a safe
space where you can come and get your basic needs met … and if at any point you want to talk to us about getting off the streets, let’s try to figure out a plan together. Turns out if you create that safe space, eventually people process what they need to process, work through it and at least attempt these next steps forward.”
Even though food insecurity is a pressing issue for many Tempe residents, both Pitchfork Pantry and AZ Hugs have faced pushback. Pitchfork Pantry has struggled to gain material support from ASU, and AZ Hugs has faced operational barriers from Tempe authorities.
Pitchfork Pantry
“A lot of our conversations have identified that ASU does not like the idea of using a food pantry to counter food insecurity,”
Noel said. “They would prefer to go through quote unquote ‘more innovative’ means.”
The organization has struggled to solicit support from the University.
According to Bailey Holmes, codirector of Pitchfork Pantry and a senior studying chemistry, ASU grants the organization $600 per semester for the Tempe chapter, none of which is permitted to be spent on food. When ASU’s Graduate Student Government voted last November to allocate $20,000 to Pitchfork Pantry, the group was unable to receive the funding due to differing account types and miscommunication with ASU’s Educational Outreach and Student Services office.
“We received a response saying we could not transfer the money to Pitchfork Pantry because of the type of account that they have,” said Michael Kintscher, assembly president of GSG and a graduate student studying computer science. “We responded back asking for where that policy is or where those rules are. To my knowledge, we’ve yet to receive anything in writing confirming that.”
EOSS also clarified that the Pantry cannot accept student fees into their account, or accept certain types of transfers from other student organizations, because of the way ASU Foundation accounts function. “There are certain student organizations that have asked to provide us with funding, and ASU administration has identified that they cannot because we are a part of the ASU Foundation,” Noel said.
With Pitchfork Pantry’s limited ability to garner financial support from ASU administration or student organizations, it has relied largely on off-campus food banks and pantries for assistance. Still, it’s not enough to sufficiently meet their demand.
Oftentimes, the Pantry runs out of food before students have the opportunity to eat. “We had helped maybe 200 people and there were almost 200 people still in line,” Holmes said of one distribution. “It sucks because some people were in class or some people have a job — something like that where they might not be able to get there in time.”
Holmes said better funding would also allow the Pantry to serve more well-rounded and healthy meals, while Noel said it would allow for more meals that accommodate students’ dietary needs and restrictions.
“A major long-term goal for me would be to have a way to quantify what items we have in stock and to allow students to shop [for] them as if it’s a typical pantry,” Noel said. “So you have your need-based limit — let’s call it four pounds of food — and you’d be able to go through the pantry and pick what you need and what you will actually use versus what we just have available to you.”
Noel added that there are ways other than funding that ASU can support Pitchfork Pantry’s mission, like providing them a permanent space, staff support or simply recognizing the work they do.
“We don’t have the capacity to store the quantity of food to serve all the students that may have showed up for previous distributions,” Pitchfork Pantry Adviser Maureen McCoy said.
In addition, staff support from the University could also allow the Pantry to be open longer hours, regardless of whether or not its student members are available.
Being student-run
“The pantry isn’t innovative,” Vice President of Student Services Joanne Vogel told The State Press in 2021. “What some schools do to feed
hungry students are bigger and bolder ideas than a food pantry. Those are the ideas we want to put in front of students.”
“You can’t innovate on an empty stomach,” Holmes said. “I’ve had a time when I wasn’t sure when I was going to eat next because I just paid rent, paid all these things. … And one time I was able to get food from the Pantry while I was volunteering there, and after that I didn’t need it again. I was out of that situation.”
In a meeting with The State Press on March 4, ASU President Michael Crow said, “The food pantry is a valuable project and we support it in every way, and we can support it even more, but it’s not the solution. The solution to a student that has food insecurity is [for them] to come to the University and say, ‘I have food insecurity, I need to look at my financial aid package, I need to look at my food package.’ We will assist any student with any financial interruption that affects their food supply.”
Kintscher emphasized that food insecurity isn’t black and white. “The reality is that what puts people and students in these situations is often unpredictable,” they said. “A medical expense comes up, maybe your bike breaks or your car breaks or you have some kind of expense you have to pay for. Those are often situations that will lead to a student or a person having to choose between ‘Do I eat food this week,’ or ‘Do I fix the thing I need to get me to school everyday?’”
Kintscher added that ASU could help students escape the poverty cycle that causes food insecurity by paying student workers more and charging less for tuition. Crow said the University has student jobs that pay $20 per hour or more. “We can pay the federal minimum wage, which is seven something, but we don’t,” he said.
Although some student jobs pay $20 per hour or more, the minimum wage for student workers at ASU is $14.35, and the average student worker makes around $16-$17 per hour, according to job sites Indeed, Glassdoor and ZipRecruiter.
ASU’s other ideas for more innovative strategies to fight food insecurity on campus have had drawbacks. “Based off their report to Arizona Board of Regents in 2023, those innovative means include a meal-swipe exchange program which provided only 60 meal swipes to students in that fiscal year,” Noel said.
What makes Pitchfork Pantry’s approach different from the administration’s, according to Noel, is its relationship with the ASU community. While ABOR reported that students are often reluctant to discuss food security with administration, the Pantry has had no such issue.
“It’s by being students and being able to communicate with our student population directly that we identified this need in the first place. This grew from students asking other students in a dorm, ‘Are you able to get enough food to get through the week?’ And it’s that sort of communication that we’re finding is missing from here and upper administrative levels.”
Crow reiterated that Pitchfork Pantry has a place on campus but said when students have these issues, they need to “raise their hands.”
“We’re trying to find as many ways as possible to be helpful to students, but I think what happens in emotional moments — you get off track,” he said. “Maybe you don’t want to raise your hand. Maybe you’d rather go to the food pantry, so we support the food pantry and all that it’s doing, but we also support the students.”
AZ Hugs
“I’m banned from every park in the city and all the preserves,” Davis said. “AZ Hugs is barred from hosting any events on Tempe [public land].”
of money. … That’s a lot different from serving the hungry for free.
“We still don’t think what we do fits into needing this permit, but in an effort to kind of work with the city and continue serving those we serve, we did apply for the permit. The point of contention was the City said ‘You have to stop for 60 days while we review your permit application.’ … They wouldn’t give us a definitive reason as to why we couldn’t find a compromise where people were still going to be receiving these essential resources but also working within the guidelines of the city’s permitting.”
“Being student-run, we are directly involved with our student population that comes to our distributions, and we’ve had many conversations [about] how we can better improve, how we can better serve,” she said. “A lot of those conversations reflect not only student ideals, but also their struggles on a day-to-day basis.
The City of Tempe has not always been an obstacle in AZ Hugs’ mission of distributing food and other essentials to the homeless community. According to Davis, the city once considered teaming up with the organization, but this changed when Rosa Inchausti became city manager in 2023.
“The city came to us and said, ‘You have to get a special events permit for the Sunday family picnic,’” Davis said. “A special events permit is usually used for a big concert at Beach Park, a festival, a carnival — some sort of big event where there’s an exchange
AZ Hugs refused to go two months without providing its services to Tempe’s homeless population. As a result, the organization’s permit was denied.
“Access to food is a basic human right that we believe needs to be protected, and it didn’t make sense to stop for 60 days,” Davis said. “That’s a really long time.”
Davis received his first citation for distributing food without a permit in December 2023. Since then, he has been arrested twice and cited many more times. “I had at one point 60 or 70 counts of special event permit violation,” he said.
Davis was first arrested in July 2024. “I got in the car and was headed to the picnic,” he said. “There were undercover police officers in the neighborhood and they followed me out of the neighborhood and immediately pulled me over once I had gotten out of the neighborhood. They knew my name, they got me out of the car, handcuffed me, arrested me and took me to jail.”
To avoid jail time, Davis pled guilty to 34 counts of trespassing and hosting events without a permit in September. In exchange, he received one year of unsupervised probation, an $1,148
fine and agreed that neither he nor AZ Hugs would enter or host events in Tempe parks.
“The city forced us into this plea deal because to have a chance to win at trial, we would have had to appeal two levels up,” Davis said.
Davis’ second arrest was a probation violation for entering one of the city’s parks, which he said he did accidentally. While other groups and members of the Tempe community have taken up the task of supplementing the group’s distributions, they too have received citations.
“The plea agreement that Davis signed specifically stipulates that Davis shall not enter, stay or host events at any City of Tempe park or preserve,” said Kris Baxter-Ging, communication and marketing office director for the City of Tempe.
Distributing food to the homeless community without a permit is being enforced as a crime in the City of Tempe under the City Code 5-2. Sleeping, cooking or storing property on public land are also illegal under City Codes 23-90 and 23-91. According to Davis, these are societal flaws as a result of a war on the unhoused.
“What they have been doing to me and my team is what they do to those experiencing homelessness every single day,” he said. “Folks on the street are targeted, they are harassed, they are jailed for simply existing. … A lot of folks are being arrested and having to go to jail and see a judge for sleeping at a bus stop with a blanket or being in the grass with a backpack.”
While no such statistics exist for Tempe specifically, around 37% of all people arrested in Phoenix are homeless.
Davis said a disproportionate amount
of those with him when he was in jail were homeless, most of whom were there for trespassing violations. “Criminalizing homelessness is not an effective way to get people out of their complicated situations,” he said. “It’s just a really inhumane way to deal with people who need a little help.”
‘Access to food is a basic human right’
“Sharing food is not a crime, and access to food is a basic human right that the people of Tempe agree needs to be protected,” Davis said. “Since AZ Hugs and myself cannot be operational in Tempe, groups like the New Deal Meal service and neighbors all around Tempe coming together to organize is a really beautiful thing to see.”
“I can’t see why [ASU] would want to not help something that is helping the students,” Holmes said about Pitchfork Pantry. “Nobody knows about these issues, and we have to be very careful and walk on eggshells around it because if we cause too many problems, we can be shut down.”
Kintscher thinks the University needs to reevaluate their relationship with Pitchfork Pantry. “The similar pantry at the University of Arizona is directly funded by the University, similarly with NAU,” they said. “So it’s interesting that ASU is the one school that does not directly fund this as a service to their students.”
“I would say the greatest ASU support that we would love to see at the moment is just better communication between how the Pantry and ASU can collaborate and fit into each other’s ideals for the future,” Noel said. “Without that communication, and without a potential to collaborate
and compromise and to grow, we find ourselves at an impasse.”
Both Davis and Noel stressed the importance of community in the work they do. “Sunday for a lot of people seemed symbolic of family,” Davis said of AZ Hugs’ Sunday family picnics. “So from that we realized the best service that we can provide in this current moment to those
around us is a safe space where we create family for each other.”
“Food is a major driver and a major representation of individual identity, and that’s why it becomes so important and so significant from small, daily levels to global conflicts,” Noel said.
“Food is used as a measure of protest, food is used as a measure of war — from food shortages to food aid — and a smaller organization like ours, we use food as a measure of community engagement and community support. It’s a way for us to support the people around us, and not only better an individual’s life, but to improve the overall health of our community.”
Good, cheap eats around ASU
A guide to eating out on a budget for college students
By Bella Mazzilli
Photos by Sophie Schaeffer
For college students on a budget, going out to eat can sound implausible — but it doesn’t have to be. Here are some delicious eats that won’t break the bank. Not only are these spots cheap, but they’re near campus too.
Kabuki
Kabuki, located at Tempe Marketplace, offers a surprisingly inexpensive happy hour deal. From 3 p.m. to 6 p.m. Monday through Friday and 2 p.m. to 5 p.m. on the weekends, sushi lovers can indulge in a wide range of cheap rolls, appetizers and beverages.
Ranging from $3.95 to $4.75 each, the eight-piece rolls on the happy hour menu were a delicious steal. The salmon roll was a standout in the group, with a cool, salty fish center encased in rice and a taut seaweed wrapping. Each table at the restaurant has access to unlimited pickled ginger and wasabi, as well as soy sauce for dipping.
The words ‘cheap’ and ‘fish’ do not usually pair well, but at Kabuki, they pair extraordinarily well. The fish was high quality, the garnishes were fresh and quickly refilled, and the service was attentive but relaxed.
Depending on your appetite, one meal at Kabuki during happy hour can easily cost around $10. This is a great option for students who want to grab a quick bite of quality sushi before shopping around.
Venezia’s New York Style Pizzeria
Venezia’s New York Style Pizzeria’s gargantuan slices of salty, hot pizza are sure to sate any student’s appetite. Located on the second floor of Sun Devil Marketplace, Venezia’s serves whole pizzas, slices and classic sides like salads and wings.
The best deal for a student’s lunch is the 1 slice + drink combo, which runs anywhere from $5.67 to $6.42 (depending on what slice of pizza you choose). This price includes free refills and an exceedingly large slice of pizza.
The pepperoni pizza slice, a Venezia’s classic, buckles under its own weight. Topped with enough cheese to bankrupt a dairy farmer and loaded with crispy pepperoni slices, this slice is a feast.
Venezia’s unique location allows for students to admire views of Mountain America Stadium and University House. Floor to ceiling windows let natural light into the room and set the tone for an upbeat, pizza-fueled study session.
Taco Chelo
Taco Chelo has two locations: one near the Downtown Phoenix campus on Roosevelt Street and one near the Tempe campus on College Avenue. Its atmosphere is more date night than study session with Luis Miguel’s voice pouring from the outdoor speakers, but the tacos are legendary. The “Sonoran” and carne asada tacos are best paired with a bottled Coca-Cola, for a grand total of $14.07 — each taco is around $5. While this is the most expensive meal on this list, it has a great value as Taco Chelo’s chefs do not hesitate to pile on the delicious ingredients.
Taco Chelo is a full sensory experience. Warm tacos and sweet soda are complemented by fresh salsa. The street taco is a very easy food to ruin. If the tortilla rips, your night is doomed. If the meat has gristle, it becomes difficult to eat. But Taco Chelo’s fare is street taco nirvana. Soft corn tortillas support a whopping amount of fillings, including well-seasoned meat, tangy salsa and crisp vegetables.
Sunny’s Diner
Located in a nondescript strip mall on University Drive, Sunny’s Diner is a solid choice for a hearty meal before 3 p.m. The interior may be dated, but the food is solid. Whether it be breakfast, brunch or lunch, Sunny’s has a plethora of options. Savory or sweet, pancakes or eggs, this diner has almost too many options. In fact, the menu is so big that you and your dining partner can’t open your menus at the same time.
The banana chocolate chip pancakes are a Sunny’s classic. Richly flavored and served in plentiful amounts, two thick, fluffy pancakes are filled with slices of ripe banana and chocolate chips. Topped with creamy butter and slathered with chocolate sauce, these pancakes are an experience. Served with an unhealthy dose of maple syrup, this dish is the perfect breakfast after a late night. At $12.50, this is a steal.
This classic Tempe burger joint on University Drive, offers large amounts of beef for a very cheap price. Hungry students can get a hamburger with a half of a pound of ground beef for only $8.55, called “The Great Big One.” For slightly less hungry students, “The Big One” (one-fifth of a pound) might suffice. Popular sides include “Chuckbox Potatoes,” the house fries, for $3.56.
“The Big One” with cheese is a delicacy. Rich, gooey cheese is complemented by the smoky charbroiled flavor of the meat. A simple sesame-covered bun keeps the burger together. The “Chuckbox Potatoes” are perfectly salted and paired with a large selection of sauces and burger toppings. In a salad bar-style setup, customers can add mayo, ranch, ketchup, white onions, pickles, tomatoes and lettuce to their meals.
The “Two Eggs Classic” is the best option to satisfy students craving a home-style breakfast. Your two eggs can be cooked any way, and they’re served with a choice of breakfast meat and an optional side of fruit. This dish is another massive portion size. The only downside to Sunny’s level of affordability is their hot coffee. While it is served with free refills, the weak amber coffee is $3.89.
The Chuckbox
Photos by Ollie Slade In frame: Dane Futrell
Feminism in an age of uncertainty
ASU students and professors reflect on the evolution of the movement
By Bella Mazzilli
Photos by Lavanya Paliwal
If you asked Rosalie Fisher, an instructor at the Hugh Downs School of Human Communication, if she thought feminism was moving in the right direction prior to the 2025 presidential inauguration, she would have said yes. Now, she’s not so sure.
According to Fisher, the progress of the feminist movement is largely dependent on the political landscape of the country — the office of the presidency, and the party the president aligns themself with, has a lot of influence on the perception of social justice and human rights issues, such as feminism.
Fisher believes that feminism is a part of the political pendulum, and that President Donald Trump’s election swung the pendulum’s momentum to a far right extreme. “It’s a rough period we’re in right now,” Fisher said.
Avery Hampton, a second-year law student, said feminism has made progress since the dawn of the movement but echoed Fisher’s sentiments about Trump’s administration.
“The feminist movement has made amazing strides within the past 50 years. … With the recent transition of power, I know some things could change. I hope that feminism continues to grow, and I hope that women continue to be supported,” Hampton said.
From being labeled as ‘man-haters’ to being blamed for promoting
inequality, feminists have continuously faced backlash amid their pursuit of their ultimate goal: equal treatment for all genders.
Today, feminism has an uncertain future, but at ASU, student groups and professors are working to keep the true essence of the movement alive through community initiatives and educational outreach.
Misconceptions about feminism
Hampton, the president of the Women Law Students Association at ASU’s Sandra Day O’Connor College of Law, said feminism is often misunderstood due to harmful stereotyping.
“A perception that some people might see when they think of feminism is that women are trying to be better than men, or they think men are less than,” she said.
Julianne Culey, assistant director of the Reynolds Center at the Walter Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication, who has expertise in gender equality, believes that feminism is misconstrued as not wanting women to care for children or become stay at home parents.
“People assume that anything I do — and I call myself a feminist — means I want everyone else to do the exact same thing,” Culey said.
Culey argues that feminism is about choice; not about one singular path for all women. She explained that
being a stay-at-home mom is just as ‘feminist’ as having a career, as the meaning of the movement is to allow women to exercise the right to choice and autonomy.
“It’s not a monolith whatsoever,” she said.
Jillian Coronato, a member of the Women’s League at Barrett and a senior studying English, said feminism is misunderstood as only being a movement for women. She argues that the same forces of oppression that affect women and non-binary people can harm men as well. Coronato said feminism is a liberating force and that liberation benefits all genders.
“In reality, feminism is [called] feminism because it is the uplifting of women for the benefit of everyone,” she said.
The waves of the movement
Despite common misconceptions, Fisher defines feminism as “a movement that advocates for equal rights.”
Fisher said the start of the first wave of feminism in the United States is nebulous, but it can be estimated to have been between 1900 and the early 1920s. The fight for women’s suffrage was the genesis of what is considered to be the first wave. She said the equal opportunity of access to education was a large contributor to the ratification of the 19th amendment, which granted women the right to vote.
“One of the arguments women were using was, ‘If men are the ones running things and making the decisions of becoming the lawmakers and the politicians, [and] they are being raised by women … wouldn’t it behoove men to be raised by educated women?” Fisher said.
Defined as between the 1960s and the 1980s, second wave activists focused on women’s roles in society and the workforce.
“This was really kind of turning into women in the workplace — the wage disparity, issues [of] discrimination, issues [of] mobility and power,” Fisher said.
The second wave of America’s feminist movement was also marked by growing civil rights concerns, but feminism, according to Fisher, had become an intersectional movement more so in its third wave, which began in the 1980s and ended in the early 2010s. The “intersection of oppressions,” as she called it, has informed the continuation of feminism into the 21st century.
The end of the third wave and the beginning of the fourth wave was marked by the inception of the #MeToo movement on social media platforms. The hashtag was used to spread awareness of the widespread nature of sexual assault, violence and harrassment in U.S. culture, eventually becoming an international online movement.
The overturn of Roe v. Wade in 2022 marked a turning point in the modern feminist movement, as the decision signified that a conservative influence in the Supreme Court could prove to be powerful. According to a blog by the Coalition of Feminists for Social Change, the overturn of Roe v. Wade will “erode women’s autonomy over their bodies and reproductive rights. This is also setting the stage to erode the rights of other marginalized groups in the United States, especially LGBTQ+ rights.” Roe v.
Wade was a decision made in the 1970s.
Fisher believes an introductory gender studies class should be a general education requirement for first-year students at ASU. She said this process would be complicated, but it would ensure all students attending the University would have a basic, standardized understanding of gender roles and how they affect communication.
“I do think incorporating more classes on … gender or differences in general within the core program of students — sort of introducing a basic sociology class into core curriculum [with] this basic concept of understanding people and dynamics — could go a long way,” Culey said.
ASU students and feminism
Emma Wymore’s feminist work on campus is through Devils in the Bedroom, a student organization that provides sexual health and wellness education to the ASU community. The sophomore studying economics and political science feels empowered to disseminate sexual education, which she feels is inherently intertwined with feminism.
“Feminism is all about ensuring equality between the sexes and between all genders and making sure that people don’t feel like their gender is something that holds them back from doing anything,” Wymore said.
Devils in the Bedroom conducts tabling outreach at all kinds of on-campus events across ASU’s four campuses. Wymore highlighted their peer-to-peer distribution system.
“We give out free pregnancy tests, free condoms, free Plan B, free tampons, pads and all that because we just want everybody at ASU to be able to explore their sexuality freely and not let any of the costs or … barriers be able to prevent someone
from doing that,” Wymore said. Wymore’s experience as a member of Devils in the Bedroom demonstrates how intersectional the American feminist movement has become. Feminism intersects with race, class and sexuality, in Wymore’s opinion.
Hampton said her experience in WLSA has allowed for her to feel supported in her personal and professional growth. WLSA provides many resources for female law students, including a mentorship program in which a first-year law student is paired with an older student for guidance.
“Our whole goal and our mission is to raise women up in society, especially [in] the legal community,” Hampton said.
Similar to WLSA, the Women’s League at Barrett allows women and non-binary students to find community and network beyond their gender identities. Coronato believes community connection is the key to feminist success in modern America.
“We want to make sure that people feel welcome, that they have a safe space to come and that they can meet other women as well, whether those women be students, alumni or faculty,” she said.
Coronato said the League collaborates with The LGBTQ+ Club at Barrett and the Black Student Association at Barrett to provide networking and community events.
“We’re trying to put on events that highlight the intersectionality of women’s experiences,” she said. “A lot of our members have come to us and stated maybe they don’t feel safe or maybe they are stressed about the things that are happening in the world, and we want to make sure that not only do they have access to a supportive environment, but also that they have access to resources, help and guidance.”
Gib’s research mission into Los Angeles
Scientific observations from a magazine reporter in a foreign land
By Gib Manrique Designs by Lavanya Paliwal
Photos by Ollie Slade
The following entries are real and accurate scientific observations made by State Press Magazine reporter Gib Manrique. He is currently stationed in Los Angeles on a research mission and has reported back with details of his findings. In this record, you will come across knowledge not previously seen by the public eye, and it may change your perspective about the world around you. Proceed with caution.
Entry one
Hi. My name is Gib Manrique, and when I arrived, everything was on fire.
This is not a metaphor. Los Angeles was experiencing some of the worst wildfires in history.
It was definitely not the most encouraging time to be sent on a research mission to LA. All of my parent’s friends called and asked them, “Are you sure you want to let your child go to LA right now?” “Do you hate them?”
While I have no way to confirm that my parents do not secretly hate me, I can tell you that I came here regardless because I am in the pursuit of knowledge; I am a goddamn explorer. In a way, I’m just like Kurt Russell in the classic 80’s film “The Thing.” I look just like him by the way — no need to look at my Instagram.
I will continue to document my findings about this distant land and share how it is different from the place we all know and love (or deeply despise), Arizona. If you have ever wondered if LA is the place for you and you’re thinking about coming here on your own excursion, I’ll give you the deets.
I was sent here not by the United States government, but by a higher, more important power. I’m not talking about God either. I’m talking about the editor-in-chief of State Press Magazine, Savannah Dagupion.
Your bravest little explorer, Gib Manrique
Entry two
Today, I will be describing my first round of findings from this terra incognita.
First, climate change actually exists here. Now, that may seem obvious due to the fact that this place was actively burning a few weeks ago and mudslides have swept all the debris into the local drinking water, but that’s not all. It actually exists in people’s consciousness — they are trying to do something about it. It’s not like where I’m from — if you talk about using a paper straw, you’ll get shot.
I first came across this phenomenon at The Egyptian Theater, a place where locals flock to for entertainment. I settled into my seat to watch “Wallace and Gromit: Vengeance Most Fowl,” my personal “Best Picture” winner, when a voice boomed over the loudspeaker with strange instructions: When exiting the theater, you could a.) throw away your items in the trash, b.) recycle your paper cups, paper straws and popcorn buckets, and c.) compost any of your leftover popcorn.
The fuck? COMPOST? Has anyone heard the word “compost” since the second grade when your elementary school had its own garden? The instructions might as well have been in an ancient language.
The craziest part is that everyone did it! The entire theater got their asses up after the movie and threw their slightly stale popcorn down the compost chute. Even I partook, though it was mostly out of fear that the LA residents would take out pitchforks and impale me if I didn’t comply — and then proceed to recycle their pitchforks.
It’s not like I’m against composting or don’t support efforts to stop climate change. I’m not stupid; it just felt very foreign. Many places in Phoenix don’t even give you the option to recycle, let alone compost.
I also can’t help but think: Would those plants even want movie theater popcorn? It was kind of mediocre and had far too much salt. I also might have a deep misunderstanding of what composting is, but my point stands.
Anyway, the weather situation out here is just nuts. Yes, the fires, but also the weeks of continuous
rain that followed. My Arizonan ass didn’t bring an umbrella, so I have shown up to several of my classes at the ASU California Center looking like a teddy bear that was left outside for several years. Also this isn’t technically weather-related, but I experienced my first earthquake a few days ago. The Earth literally shook beneath me as I was sleeping. That was so scary!!
Your soggiest and most terrified explorer, Gib Manrique
Entry three
I’m going to jump right into today’s entry because honestly, I’m pissed.
In yet another excursion into the dense wilderness of piss-smelling metros and gum-covered Hollywood stars, I stumbled upon a grand marketplace called Amoeba Music.
Amoeba Music is essentially Zia Records — an Arizona staple — but it’s cooler older brother who is in a band and does coke only socially. It’s a multi-story warehouse with every single vinyl, sticker, patch, CD, DVD, poster and book from every decade you can think of. It’s an absolute gold mine filled with things I could only dream of finding at Zia Records, all in one huge building.
I was venturing to this physical media paradise for normal, non-egotistical reasons. I wanted to purchase some local wares and vinyls from punk bands if you will. But I would be lying if I said that was it. I also wanted to prove to myself that even in LA, I was still very cool and very different, like those who frequent record stores.
Let me explain. I am pretty hot shit in Arizona — in the alternative sense, I mean. Not to act like I’m special or whatever, but I get enough dirty stares from old people to know I must have nailed the homosexual vibe I’m going for. I wear Doc Martens’ platform loafers everywhere. I have a black and white knit hat covered in pins that I got from a local queer art market. You can take me to any gay bar in the Melrose District in Phoenix, and I’m going home with someone who has a tattoo of a cryptid and piercings in places you have never heard of.
I am very aware of the fact that besides Bushwick, New York, LA is the place to be if you’re queer and weird-looking. I wanted to prove to myself that even in the land of homos, I am still just as hot and different here as I am in Arizona, and I will not fall victim to the “everyone is hotter in LA” curse.
WELL APPARENTLY NOT. Every other weirdo in a 100-mile radius had the same idea. In this place, everyone was either as hot and different or more hot and different than I was. In this hellscape, I can throw a rock down the street and hit 15 gay people. Having he/they pronouns in my bio just wasn’t enough.
In LA, everyone wears platform Doc Martens, or better yet, they have boots custom-made by their ex-situationship who is a leatherworker. You can’t just wear a knit hat; your whole outfit needs to be multi-colored and knitted by hand, and your whole body needs to be covered head-to-toe in ironic pins and patches. You need to have 48 pieces of accessories on at all times, and I fear the 27 pieces of jewelry I’m wearing as I write this just don’t make the cut.
I feel discouraged in this new land. The City of Angels is an unforgiving landscape, and it exists in a vacuum of overpriced JNCO jeans, raccoon tail hairdos and despair.
Your most basic and boring explorer, Gib Manrique
Entry four
Everyone here is really rich. If I see one more Cybertruck, I’m blowing it up.
This is a joke by the way. I’m sure I don’t need to do anything to a Cybertruck for it to blow up.
Anyway, everyone here is really rich. Not your casual Scottsdale rich, but real, actual wealth. Honestly, the richest parts of LA feel more deadly and dangerous than anywhere else. The flora and fauna is all plastic, and it feels like there are more shops dedicated to accessories for dogs than clothes for humans.
I think I saw a Goodwill somewhere in Beverly Hills during one of my expeditions, but it might have been a mirage.
Teslas pollute this city. I know they technically can’t because they’re electric, but their vibes alone are polluting. Every person who drives a Tesla could probably hit you with it and have enough money to cover it up — and then have money left over to buy dozens of single-packaged Erewhon strawberries.
This kind of wealth feels more malignant than it does in Arizona. While the wealthier areas in my home state are still places of terror, the bloodlust of the millionaires here feel all the more apparent.
I think the reasoning behind this is that the disparities between those in wealth and those in poverty are much more apparent here — as they tend to be in larger cities. I currently live in the Fashion District, which is a few blocks away from Downtown LA’s infamous Skid Row, an area everyone and their mother warned me about before traveling here.
I have been in that area a few times (they have great pizza over there!) and let me tell you, there’s nothing like seeing heroin needles scattered around a Starbucks. There’s nothing weirder than seeing homeless encampments right next to million dollar studio lofts with an artisanal french bakery in the lobby.
It all feels much more in-your-face than in Arizona, and California Governor Gavin Newsom’s decisions regarding the unhoused community are not making the situation better.
This is the type of place that makes you understand why those people did what they did in the movie “Parasite.” If my friends and I could find a way to all sneak into a millionaire’s home and trick them into hiring us, I’m sure we would go for it. Unfortunately, no one is hiring 20-year-olds to hang out in their house.
All I’m saying is that if I have to see another menu with $15 avocado toast, I’m asking a Tesla driver to hit me. If I tell them who I voted for, I’m sure it won’t take much convincing.
Your $40-sea-moss-from-Erewhon-eating explorer, Gib Manrique
Entry five
Hello everyone. I think this is going to be my final entry. While I am not done with my expedition in LA yet, I don’t feel like writing about it anymore. I feel as though my painstakingly accurate observations have made me a bit cynical toward this new city, so I am ending the project here.
Don’t get me wrong. What I have said about LA is true, and it should be considered when discussing the city as a whole, but I would be lying if I said I wasn’t also having the time of my life.
It is very different from Arizona, yes, but that is not necessarily a bad thing. I feel as though many people are scared of what they don’t understand, and I hope this research helps broaden everyone’s understanding of this place.
I hope when I return to my home and share my findings with the rest of my team of expert scientists over at State Press Magazine, they can appreciate the lengths I have gone to provide this absolutely necessary and critical information.
That is, if I don’t die via an earthquake or from the shame of not being the hottest person in West Hollywood, which is always a possibility.
Your LA resident, Gib Manrique
