Strike Magazine Boston Issue 04 by Strike Magazines

ISSUE 04

BOSTON

PRIMAL INSTICTS

Have we reached a point of such intense domestication that we think of ourselves as completely separate from animals? At our core, humans have the same violent tendencies, lack of inhibitions, and survival instincts as animals, we have simply evolved to conceal them. Our primal instincts may be the most natural reactions we have.

Our society tries so hard to suppress our natural habits, but perhaps we need to find out what would happen if we just embrace our primal instincts. The instinct to say the things you should never admit out loud, and do what most would never dare. The instinct to be primal. to hide. to fear. to migrate. to own. to show off.

Creative Directors: Naomi Cohen, Paige Yoskin Photographers: Will Chapman Beauty: Valeria Ramirez Lascano, Sarah-Eve Gazitt Style: Cecilia Muniz Galib Design: Alexandra Purdy Models: Valeria Cavagliano

THE SIGNS AS A PRIMAL PERSONA By Annika Chaves & Kaninika Dey hen the Natural world trembles, the celestial table works to restore harmony. We’ve grouped the 12 zodiac signs into four categories based on their primal personas. While each has their distinctive traits, they all come together to maintain the balance between human tendencies and cosmic destiny.

ARIES

LEO

GEMINI

OTECTORS T H E PR

CAPRICORN

PISCES CANCER

THE PROVIDERS

Amid hustle culture and the synonymous use of independence and agency, there’s an inevitable desire to provide for ourselves. Despite this, our equal yearning to be loved and cared for is inescapable. These cosmic providers aim to strike a balance between independence and nurturement. Their innate ability to restlessly work as a means to supply the people around them with the exact survival elements needed — whether it be physical or psychological— the providers work in tandem in the hopes of providing a kind of love that is transmittable from realm to realm.

VIRGO

TAURUS

AQUARIUS

PATHIZERS THE EM

In the face of adversity, these celestial defenders aspire to safeguard the people they love. As warriors battling the gruesome obstacles in both the spiritual realm as well as the Earth, the protectors must carefully, yet turbulently, know how and when to strike. With a fierce combination of unwavering courage, loyalty and natural leadership, the protectors rise with steadfast valor and will readily make sacrifices to ensure the safety of others.

SAGGITARIUS

LIBRA

SCORPIO

THE LIBERATORS

With their natural instinct to liberate, these celestial signs pursue a life that is unhindered, free of all restrictions. Their outlook on life is one full of wonder and intelligence, having an imaginative and innovative way about them. The refreshment and exhilaration they feel at the freedom of their lives is one they want their loved one’s to experience. Being effortlessly independent, allows these inhibited signs to navigate their lives in a carefree manner. At the same, inspiring all who surround them to live life unrestricted.

Having a powerful mind, these cosmic empathizers do not just linger at the surface level but always strive to fully evaluate every situation in life. They give out the best advice laced with wisdom and an insight into the deeper meanings of life, always figuring out the solution to problems. With the innate ability to love the people closest to them, they want to help and relate to them through any situation - be a rock in their loved one’s life when their emotions are running haywire. The means of understanding life and people, in general, can be quite tiring but these signs can never get tired of it.

D I D Y U KNOW ? O ARTEMIS IS THE GODDESS OF PRIMAL INSTICTS!

In the summer leading up to the formation of Issue 04, I spent an arguably insane amount of time scrolling through pinterest, pinning anything and everything that spoke to the theme. Sharing the theme and inspiration with the entire team was scary. I had a clear vision in my head and worried about it getting lost in translation. After an anxiously awaited and very successful shoot pitch night, we were off and running. I was even more excited. With such creative ideas that never even crossed my mind, the struggle became choosing just five. Watching my mess of ideas take shape to become something beautiful through our extraordinarily talented team has been an incredibly special and rewarding thing to witness and to be a part of. There are so many moving parts behind the scenes that go into making the magazine you see today, and without the hard work of each and every team, none of it would be possible. So with that, thank you to the wonderful Issue 04 team. Thank you to my co-EIC, Paige, for being constantly compassionate and on top of things. Thank you to my ever-supportive Grandma Ruth and to my amazing friends for keeping me grounded. Thank you to my roommate, Lilly, for sitting in the kitchen and listening to my weekly twenty minute brain dump, and to my family groupchat for letting me ask them for ideas, only to inevitably choose what I was already thinking. And finally, thank you to Strike for giving me the opportunity to do what I love most and learn so much in the process. Strike out, Naomi Cohen Co-EIC If I would’ve told my younger self, who stumbled into her mom’s makeup bag, that she would be an EIC of a fashion magazine she would pass out on the spot. Going from a beauty member on Strike Boston’s founding issue, to a leader of the publication two years later has been the most surreal experience. None of this would have been possible without the determination of the founding EICs of Strike Boston, Savannah Tindall and Olivia Sanderford, for bringing this chapter to life. This issue also would not have been possible without the incredible talent and passion demonstrated by our staff. I am constantly amazed by all that our team can create, and I’ve never been around so much creative ability in one place. I truly cannot thank our team enough, and I am so grateful for their hard work. Strike has been an incredible light in my life, and I can confidently say I would not be the individual I am today without its influence. The process of being an EIC has been a learning curve, but I am so excited to apply all that we’ve learned to the next issue. I want to thank my friends and family who were reliable soundingboards, and specifically Annika Chaves who would always be there to help regardless of her crazy schedule. Lastly I would like to thank my partner Naomi Cohen for all of her creativity and hard work for this issue. I am so proud of what we were able to accomplish, and I truly cannot wait to see what we can do in the future. I hope you enjoy Issue 4, Primal Instincts, as much as we do! Strike Out, Paige Yoskin Co-EIC

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

st aff S TA FF..

EDITORS IN CHIEF NAOMI COHEN PAIGE YOSKIN

BRANDING

BEAUTY

ADVERTISING

SARAH-EVE GAZITT REEYA MATHUR MELISSA MOLINA SOPHIA GROEN MARIA FISCHER

MANAGER: MARY CORBIN DIRECTOR: DEVANSHI BANSAL ANNA WELSH KEILAH ECKHART VIVIAN JIANG MADISON BERNABEO AMANDA CUCCINIELLO FLORENCE WANG SOPHIA SULLIVAN FRANCISE AU

SOCIAL MEDIA

DIRECTOR: MADISON LLOYD

MEGAN LU AMELIA REEVES SAMANTHA MATA AVA RHEINGOLD JORDAN MEDINA TEJIRI OGUFERE EVA HENRY SAMANTHA RIZZO ZHIYI MEN

MERCHANDISE

DIRECTOR: FERNANDA VALDEZ SAMANTHA MATA

FINANCE

DIRECTOR: SARAH-EVE GAZITT

PRODUCTIONS

MANAGER: CAIT KELLEY

PHOTOGRAPHY

DIRECTOR: WILL CHAPMAN

ELLIE WATSON CARRIGAN BOYNTON KRISTIAN MORAVEC ALEFIYAH GANDHI JASMINE ALLEN JULIA CHANG ANYAN LUO ZARA MEGGETT ALEXANDRA ARIAS-PIRANIO

VIDEOGRAPHY

DIRECTOR: SARAH REEVES

AMANDA HESS KIARA ROJAS NATALIE WILLIAMS RASHIDA SAHERWALA CHAN-MI JOO ALEXANDRA ARIAS-PIRANIO

DIRECTOR: VALERIA RAMIREZ LASCANO

STYLIST

DIRECTOR: CECILIA MUNIZ GALIB

CARLY INTRAVERSATO AVA ACOSTA JULIA CHANG KATE SEO

ART

MANAGER: ANNIKA CHAVES

DESIGN

DIRECTOR: ALEXANDRA PURDY

ALEXIS RODRIGUEZ SHERYL PENG EMILY CARMICHAEL KWOT ANWEY SOPHIA GROEN CHLOE PATEL

WRITING

DIRECTOR: KANINIKA DEY ASSISTANT DIRECTOR: LAILA MUSLEH KYLA SMITH ELLEN DONG DEIDRE MONTAGUE CATHERINE KNOX CHANEL THORPE DANIELA CEJUDO KOHANA BONDURANT KIM RODRIGUEZ KRISTIAN MORAVEC KIARA ROJAS MARIANA CASELLAS MANDILE MPOFU PIPER JIYAMAPA

EVENTS

DIRECTOR: CECILIA MUNIZ GALIB

WES ALSHEHRI SOFIA OSTLAND MEGAN LU AMELIA REEVES ANYAN LUO

STRIKE MAGAZINE BOSTON

38 20 29

TABLE OF

CONTENTS

11 13 18 20

TO HIDE

FEAR: A SHIELD FOR WOMEN TO SURVIVE

TO MIGRATE

FAMILY TIES: FINDING MY WAY BACK HOME THROUGH MY HOBBIES

36 38

THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES

I’M A MASTERMIND AND NOW YOU’RE MINE: A RED STRING THEORY

45 49

TO SHOW OFF

CAMOUFLAGING FOR SURVIVAL COLORS OF CONCEALMENT TO FEAR

TO OWN

AM I ARAB ENOUGH?

Written By: Laila Musleh | Edited By: Annika Chaves | Layout By: Emily Carmichael & Alexandra Purdy

Our interactions with one another resemble a masquerade ball. The masks placed around our eyes and atop our cheek bones represent the constant efforts to assimilate into a social tapestry. We desperately attempt to Camouflage the parts of us that set us apart from the rest, attempting to fly under the radar. We engage with

one another in our concealed identities in the hopes of staying hidden. While we may succeed in this quest of secrecy, perpetually trapped in the shadows, the masquerade ball we’re born into is a relentless game of hide and seek — there is never a truly secure hiding place. Always on the inevitable verge of being found.

Creative Director: Kristian Moravec Photographers: Will Chapman, Kristian Moravec Videographers: Chan-Mi Joo, Natalie Williams Beauty: Valeria Ramirez Lascano, Sarah-Eve Gazitt, Maria Fischer, Sophia Groen Style: Cecilia Muniz Galib, Kate Seo, Julia Chang Design: Emily Carmichael, Kwot Anwey, Alexandra Purdy Social Media: Madison Lloyd, Ava Rheingold, Tejiri Ogufere Models: Jimi Taiwo, Alicia Hamm, Sydney Jackson

Written By: Kristian Moravec | Edited By: Kaninika Dey | Layout By: Alexandra Purdy & Kwot Anwey

n my freshman year of high school, I indulged in what I called “Fancy Fridays” – a day where I donned the most absurd outfits possible. It was a rebellion for me, as I normally felt the need to tone myself down by dressing “in style” as much as I could afford and constantly tying up my curly hair. I would defiantly show up at school in statement pieces like tutus, biker vests, sunglasses, vintage heels layered with scarves and jewelry. My mother, a chic woman who raised me on America’s Next Top Model and What Not to Wear, looked distraught each time I left the house. When I ended up breaking my collar bone and put into an immobilizer that same year, she pounced at the opportunity to buy me a new set of disability-friendly yet less ridiculous clothing. To protect her child from bullying, my mom fretted over my appearance. It’s the price to pay when you don’t automatically fall within the confines of white beauty values. As a mixedrace woman, I am no exception. At least to some extent, we must camouflage ourselves to be “safe.” A 2017 study by Thierry Verdier and Yves Zenou showed that ethnic minorities often choose to assimilate – adopt language and cultural practices - into majority cultures to survive. They risk losing resources such as networks and income otherwise. The majority culture also burdens us with questions like “What are you?” and “Can I touch your hair?” pressuring us to present in a way that minimizes reductive interactions. And, representation in the media is an incredibly powerful influence. Vogue has published 42 issues since 2020 - the year where DEI became the topic in all corners of America – yet most of these covers feature white or whitepassing women. America’s deeply rooted status quo is best summarized in Peter Kivisto’s book, Incorporating Diversity: Rethinking Assimilation in a Multicultural Age: White, Protestant, MiddleClass and of Anglo-Saxon origins. I would modernize that definition further by adding thin, cisgender and heterosexual. Living as a wildflower amongst lilies can be mentally tolling. Ashley Auguste, a Massachusetts-based therapist, says the consequences of not assimilating can affect our health. Not conforming can come with depression and anxiety. Letting those feelings sit inside you can lead to physical ailments. In 2017, the year of #MeToo’s revival and Trump’s inauguration, Casting Director James Scully guest starred on the Business of Fashion podcast to slam industry practices.

In his eyes, the personality and racial diversity that graced the runways in the ‘90s was replaced with dull catwalks and petite, teenage white models. Many trends and decisions became about appeal – utilizing small bodies, fewer non-white models, and mainly featuring celebrities on covers. But, Scully says, fashion is not supposed to be about appeal. “It’s about a dream, it’s about a fantasy,” he said, later adding: “I miss the magic that brought me into this business in the first place.” Three years later, in 2020, we approached the threshold of change. Confined at home by COVID and submerged in social media, George Floyd’s murder forced Americans to reckon with the issues that pervaded our system. Brands promised more diverse hires, a larger variety of models, and donations to grassroots organizations. Since 2020, some changes have been made, but not enough. The MBS Group, in partnership with the British Fashion Council, released a report in 2023 stating that while some companies finally began collecting data and setting aside budgets to implement change, only ten percent of them had comprehensive goals for progress. The reason why people strive to pass as the majority is about survival. We are not hired, befriended or represented otherwise. We are not chosen. Presentation is everything. With a Haitian background, Ashley Auguste was challenged to appeal to white social values while studying to become a therapist. After a professor made a negative comment about how quiet she was in class, she felt pressured to compete with other students by perfecting the way she talked, looked, and behaved. “I was hiding a part of myself,” she said in reflection. Even now, as a practicing therapist in New England, Ashley feels pressured to code-switch. She does it so frequently now that it almost seems like second nature. But constantly dimming yourself can be exhausting. That’s why, she says, it’s important to find a release. Ashley’s release is finding the time to do her hair and nails. She favors afros in the summertime, protective styles in the winter, and constantly sports long, funky nail designs, even if it’s not considered “professional” by white society. “Just don’t lose yourself - if you start to lose yourself, ask yourself what you used to do before that you enjoyed. Bring it back,” she said. “If we don’t like it, just tweak it.”

Written By: Kohana Bondurant | Edited By: Kaninika Dey Layout By: Emily Carmichael & Alexandra Purdy

n the outside, expectations are met and falling short of the identity bestowed upon me is not a possibility in this society. Day to day, different hues of what makes me who I am, are deemed by shadows of societal standards dictating what version of myself shines through. Impending pressure to exist with the impression I left behind and uphold the preconceived notion that I am someone who is approachable, friendly, and nonthreatening. The girl-next-door doesn’t have to conceal who she is day in and day out to overcome the stereotype of stale and not inviting. Only those close to me provide a spotlight for me to showcase my gradient of gestures and mannerisms. Losing myself by erasing portions of my personality to appease my surroundings is suffocating yet necessary for my survival. As always I will keep adapting and adjusting my palette to blend in.

Creative Director: Cait Kelley | Photographers: Alexandra Arias-Piranio, Alefiyah Gandhi Videographers: Chan-Mi Joo, Kiara Rojas | Beauty: Valeria Ramirez Lascano, Sarah-Eve Gazitt, Maria Fischer, Paige Yoskin Style: Cecilia Muniz Galib | Design: Sophia Groen, Chloe Patel | Social Media: Madison Lloyd, Samantha Rizzo Models: Han Hoang, Fabian Agostini, Bianca Frintu

Written by: Annika Chaves | Edited By: Kaninika Dey | Layout By: Alexandra Purdy The countdown begins. Look beyond the curtain and see how they watch. Shakespeare’s words “All the world’s a stage” convey the very essence of our life, where we, the actors, have momentary seconds to decide if we perform or submit to the stage fright— limitless fear. The fleeting fantasy of a roaring standing ovation is quickly overtaken by the spine-chilling dread of perception. The horror of judgment, for our very presence. Our existence. Showtime calls for a decision. Do we cower behind the curtains as piercing eyes lurk in the darkness? Or, perhaps we take the risk— a chance to bow right at center stage, reveling in the spotlight.

Written by: Kaninika Dey | Edited By: Annika Chaves | Layout By: Alexandra Purdy & Chloe Patel Last Thanksgiving, two of my friends and I took a trip to New York City. After a long day of exploring around the city, we found ourselves in Battery Park in Manhattan at around 10 pm at night to admire the beautiful skyline across the Hudson River. As we were walking out of the park, we saw him. A man standing in the dark, very slowly moving towards us. We did not know his intentions and completely freaked out. Trying to make our conversations louder, we were trying to draw attention ourselves to make sure people could see us in case the man approached us, when we heard voices from behind us. Two men taking a stroll in the park were laughing loudly and the man in the dark stopped,and then moved in the opposite direction. How ironic that the sight of two men gave us respite from a seemingly dangerous encounter with a man. Every woman has stories of at least one such experience. It is unfortunate that we, as women, have begrudgingly accepted that living in fear is the norm. We carry pepper spray, tasers, key chains that could double as a knife when in need and drink covers when we go out. We stay prepared to fight in the face of danger. As soon as the sun goes down and the sky starts turning the darkest shade of grey, I start double-checking behind me to see if the person behind me is actually trying to get by or is following me. Fear is instilled in us from a young age - I remember being five and patiently listening to my mother as she repeated for the thousandth time, “After school, I am going to come pick you up. Do not get in the car with anybody even if they

say I have sent them. If I cannot come, I will call the school and let them know.” This is one of my first memories of my mother warning me against the dangers of the world as I slowly prepared to enter a world where she could not keep her eyes on me all the time. In the naiveties of childhood, it is easier to implement the ideas of stranger danger. Growing up blurs these lines of danger and surprisingly, we become more trusting, whether it is going on dates with strangers from dating apps or talking to someone at a grocery store as we browsed the same aisle over and over again. So many horrendous incidents have taken place simply because someone innocently trusted a stranger. Sometimes, men like to waive these genuine fears faced by women, saying “It’s fine” but they have never had to ask “but what if?” if they dare walk home with their groceries after 6 pm. They don’t fear the carload of catcallers who scream at them as they cruise past, wondering if they will do a U-turn and come back for them. In moments of adversity, you must always smile, placating the fear and the thought that the person you’re smiling at could harm you. Society puts the burden on women to be really afraid, says Jodi Lane, a University of Florida sociology professor. “Women feel like it’s all my fault if something happens to me. Because I wore the wrong clothes or went to the wrong place or didn’t take a friend with me or I didn’t have a weapon to protect myself.

Despite the fear of these male-encounters, women keep quiet because they are also afraid of making them angry. As author Margaret Atwood said, “Men are afraid that women will laugh at them. Women are afraid that men will kill them.” When I look around, I see fear all around me. Like a dark cloud hovering over, lingering with the threat of drenching me in its negativities. It is supposedly common for a woman to live in constant fear while trying to exist simply because that’s what has been happening since the beginning of

time. While women carry the brunt of this fear, they are not alone. People of color and individuals in the queer community similarly live with these feelings of dread, of having to watch their every move. Over the years, women have utilized this fear as a strategy for empowerment. It’s not something that keeps us stranded, but something we have mobilized so often that it has become omnipresent, a muscle memory of sorts that shows us how to survive.

Creative Director: Annika Chaves Photographers: Will Chapman, Alefiyah Gandhi, Zara Meggett Videographers: Betil Gorgu, Sarah Reeves, Amanda Hess Beauty: Sarah-Eve Gazitt, Melissa Molina, Maria Fischer, Sophia Groen, Valeria Ramirez Lascano, Paige Yoskin Style: Cecilia Muniz Galib, Ava Acosta, Carly Intraversato Design: Sheryl Peng, Alexandra Purdy, Kwot Anwey Models: Ebony Nkrumah, Ben Locke

Written by: Annika Chaves | Edited By: Laila Musleh | Layout By: Sheryl Peng In the epic the Odyssey, the great tales of Odysseus record the precarious situations he finds himself in, often left at a crossroads of choosing survival or comfort. Across all fronts, he chooses survival. Migration captures the adaptive movements we make, physical or psychological, from a setting that is no longer suitable for us, to one that is. While this movement can be self-decided, an urge we feel boiling up inside, it can equally be forced upon us, begging the question of how instinctual our tendencies truly are. The dichotomy humans face between discomfort and liberation as we traverse impossible borders created by none other than humans, highlights the intricacies of our own 21st century odysseys — a unique insight into our abilities to sacrifice, adapt and move in the name of survival, for life.

Family Ties

Finding My Way Back Home Through My Hobbies Written by: Mandile Mpofu | Edited By: Kaninika Dey & Laila Musleh | Layout By: Sheryl Peng & Alexandra Purdy

ike all mothers, mine is special. Not because she is my mother but because she is who she is. My childhood existence is anchored in my memories of my mother with whom I spent much of my early years, while my father traveled for work. I have memories of my mother and I sitting on our black leather couch, the kitschy kind you can find in many Zimbabwean homes, watching TV and eating jelly, or Jell-O, as Americans call it. Some days, as a toddler, I would wake her up in the middle of the night because I was scared. Other nights, after she had fallen asleep, I would tiptoe past her bedroom door at 10 p.m. to watch “Courage the Cowardly Dog” which, as all Christian mothers did, she had expressly banned. My mother’s favorite weekend outing was going to the movies, probably second only to going to church. We went to the movies all the time. Family-friendly comedy was her genre of choice. We watched “Spy Kids,” “The Pink Panther,” “Mr. Bean’s Holiday” and her favorite movie of all time, “Johnny English.” She has made us suffer through the original and the sequels many times since then — my siblings and I watch on as she literally cries from laughing at the same Rowan Atkinson scenes she knows by heart. But my favorite my-motherat-the-movies memory of all time is the moment she pulled out containers of chicken, rice, and corn on the cob from her leather handbag — that bottomless handbag where keys and makeup went to die — and passed them down the row to my siblings and I, the aroma of umami seasoning making itself present where the smell of freshly popped corn should have been. Today, when the lights in the theater dim and I pull out smuggled gummy bears and chocolate candy from my handbag right before the movie begins, I think of my mother. I did not know what I would lose when I left home at 18. It is common in Zimbabwe to leave the country for university if one can afford it. When it was finally my turn, I was excited to live life on my own terms for the first time in almost two decades. I fully intended to return home after earning my bachelor’s degree; instead, I found myself tied to America, grounded in a reality so different from my upbringing that the thought of returning to Zimbabwe scared me. It has been seven years since I spent more than two months at home, and I miss my family dearly. In the years I have been gone, my parents have gotten married, my grandfather’s health has severely declined, my grandmother has finally retired, my mother has renovated my childhood home, and my dog Danger has died. I have broken down at the reminder of all the years I missed out on with my siblings, who seem to morph into completely different people every time I see them. In some ways, I raised my siblings as much as an older

sibling can. Being seven and 11 years older than my sister and brother respectively meant I was often their caretaker. I fed them spoonfuls of baby food, changed their crappy diapers upon my mother’s request and begrudgingly helped them with their homework. These duties bonded us in a way in which I am not with anyone else, and yet I speak with them only once every few weeks, not because I do not want to, but because there is seven years’ worth of change between us. Seven years of missed birthdays and Christmases; missed sibling spats and gossip sessions; missed Sunday brunches and movie nights. Seven years of distance which I attempt to close by playing tennis and watching Disney movies because, when my siblings and I were not fighting, that is what we did. My family has never been particularly close, at least not in the way other families are. Once the naivete of childhood wore off, so did the possibility of our being like the families you see on TV — open, honest, perfectly imperfect. Too much damage has been done, too much left unsaid. My friends call their mothers regularly, sometimes daily, to ask for advice on boys, to recount their days at school, or just to say hello. I am not that way, but I yearn for that kind of closeness. I know my mother wants that closeness too because once, out of the blue, while I was in New Jersey, she in Zimbabwe, she called me and said, “You know you can tell me anything, right?” Could she somehow have sensed that I was in the darkest stages of a depressive episode following a heart-wrenching break-up? Or had her relationship with my younger sister who tells my mother everything prompted my mother to want the same from me? I never asked. I have many aunts, uncles and cousins. Weddings were often a massive ordeal when I was growing up, drawing family members from all over the country, some of whom greeted me with the classic, “Oh, the last time I saw you, you were a baby. You don’t remember me?” (I had no idea who they were.) Years of unresolved hurt, which I never grasped as a young girl, shrunk my concept of family until it included just the branches nearest to me in our family tree, some of which have since been snapped by the weight of complication. But I have consistently resolved to put more effort into my relationships. Where others maintain long-distance bonds over the phone or the internet, I find myself increasingly engaging in hobbies to keep me connected to my family. My grandmother is one of my favorite people in the world. She is resilient, funny, boisterous and generous with a contagious laugh. When she was a teenager in colonized Zimbabwe, she left her home to work for a white family. Girl children were not a priority, so while she badly wanted to attend school, her father prohibited her from doing so. Instead, when she should

have been in mathematics or social studies class, she was taking care of another family’s child and doing chores around another family’s house. In her free time, she put to use the skills the women in her village had taught her, such as knitting doilies and sweaters. She was determined to make something of herself, and she did. Not long after, she opened her own clothing factory where she produced knitwear that she sold in her store. In a chambre de bonne — a small room on the top floor of bourgeoisie apartment buildings once reserved for maidservants — in Paris, where I had taken the year off from life to work as an au pair starting in 2021, I began knitting a scarf to keep my fingers off my phone and me out of my head. I picked up blue, green and gray yarn from a department store in the city, bought the cheapest pair of wooden needles I could find, and tucked into a three-week-long project that yielded maybe the longest scarf ever made, about three meters in length. I had just left Zimbabwe and had seen my family for the first time in almost three years. When I missed home and grew anxious in Paris, I threw on a childhood favorite movie and picked up my needles, mindlessly maneuvering the wooden sticks around one another.

I imagined showing my grandmother the final product and pictured how she would smile widely and genuinely, exposing her toothless gaps, feigning impression with my shoddy handiwork because she loved me and anything I did would make her proud. I thought about the sacrifices she made for her family, those that led me to this seven-floor walk-up in Paris. As the strings of my yarn bound together and my scarf grew in length, I thought about the “thank you” I had always wanted to tell my grandmother but could never find the words to. No spoken language could express my deep appreciation for what she had knowingly and unknowingly done for my mother — her daughter — and me. My mother is special, and I mean it. I do not know anyone who is not a professional marathon runner but chooses to wake up early to run long distances, except my mother because she loves a challenge. I get that from her. Once, she ran a minimum of 12 km every single day for 100 days. I, on the other hand, mostly hate running. I find it extremely tedious, and it really is bad for my already bad knees. But once or twice a week, I wake up early, warm up my creaky joints, slip on my running shoes and head out for a run. Despite the tedium and discomfort, I do this because it is what my mother does.

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Written by: Kiara Rojas | Edited By: Kaninika Dey | Layout By: Alexandra Purdy & Kwot Anwey To Whom I Built My House of Memories, You. I let go of you. And now with all the heavy stones of memory that come piling one on top of the other, I must leave. I leave this home because I was the foolish architect while you were the comfortable guest. It was supposed to be our home and yet, it wasn’t. I built the living room where we shared moments of laughter until our eyes were baptized in holy happiness, I built the kitchen where the messes like a tornado of flour, we cleaned together and healed in a matter of time, I built the bedroom where we whispered secrets, not even the dust mites could hear. I built it all. Handcrafted memories molded into a warm embrace just for you. It was a craftsmanship too special to be a friendship. I knew this and yet you didn’t. You feared leaving your own apartment as I built this house of memories. You saw my splinters, my cuts, my bruises and my tears that were etched into the walls of this house. You knew it was built on the foundation of every moment we’ve grown together, yet you couldn’t even hammer one nail into the wall. Always there, but never really there for me. Now, I have decided to walk out of this house because I can’t stand to be in it anymore. The four walls I’ve built are closing in on me as I remain stuck in the past. I am leaving because I only think of you in this house, more than I thought I would, but what did I expect when I built this house of our memories? These memories haunt me of the possibilities that could’ve been but never were. While you remain trapped in complacency, I had to tear down the very walls that held our bittersweet echo. But since I didn’t have the heart to destroy our creation—it was too pure and full of life—I simply left, locking it up. In the future, I will try to build new houses with others who want to start from the foundation, reaching the clouds with the many memories we’ve built together—grounded, yet free. I will leave this house that I had started from scratch to show you there’s nothing to be scared of anymore. Even though I am gone from this place, it is never too late to start a new house. When the time is right or when your apartment has succumbed to the silence, you will learn to start building. You will learn what it means to have someone walk into your house and start nailing memories to the walls. Sincerely, Kiara

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Creative Director: Mariana Cassellas Photographers: Will Chapman, Jasmine Allen, Ellie Watson Videographers: Rashida Saherwala, Natalie Williams Beauty: Valeria Ramirez Lascano, Maria Fischer, Melissa Molina, Paige Yoskin Style: Cecilia Muniz Galib Design: Alexis Rodriguez, Sophia Groen, Alexandra Purdy Written by: Laila Musleh | Edited By: Annika Chaves Social Media: Amelia Reeves, Samantha Rizzo, Megan Lu Layout By: Alexis Rodriguez Models: Ethan Kohn, Yu Wen (Alvin) Lai, Charu Tiwari, Jay Randle

Young love. Intense and magnetic — a force drawing hearts together with a craving of an infinite togetherness. The whispered promises of “forever and always” serve as vows, covenants for eternal love. This is not just a share of affection and attraction, but a ravenous tendency to gatekeep one another. We adorn ourselves with tattoos and jewelry, as a mark of who we belong to and who belongs to us. What extremes are we willing to reach to safeguard our ownership of one another? We are driven by jealousy and greed. We pursue permanence in each other, and in these pursuits, we learn of the inevitable impermanence of people, objects, and moments. Our response? a never-ending pursuit to mark our territory.

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I'm a mastermind and now you're mine

A RED STRING THEORY Written By: Chanel Thorpe | Edited By: Kaninika Dey | Layout By: Alexis Rodrigeuz

knew I had to have you when we first made eye contact. Your eyes were enough to pull me in. You quickly surpassed the stage of infatuation and resembled closer to an obsession. There was no reason for me to fight my impulses, it became my mission to possess you entirely. I wanted you to be mine. It wasn’t hard for me to find out more about you, who consumed every moment of my very being. I mapped out your world meticulously - finding out what your major was, what interested you, where you were at any given moment, who your friends were, and most importantly what kind of person you were. Learning more only pushed me further into the realm of delusion and panic and I decided to work tirelessly to make us happen. Somehow, I succeeded. You unknowingly stepped into my labyrinth that I meticulously crafted so that it flowed with the threads of destiny. I managed to web you into my trap of red string. I made sure that you were so twisted up in crimson that you thought it was fate that brought us together but to me, it was a precondition. I couldn’t stop connecting the pieces of string so much that it surpassed just connecting our fingers and intertwined our whole being into each other: our hearts, our necks, our souls. The red string theory is something so beautiful and so ensured for each and every person in the universe. It was a philosophical theory originating in China but spread into other eastern countries, creating renditions of the myth. The myth is the idea that two people were connected by an unbreakable red string, bound to a different part of their body in each version. It is viewed by some as a folktale to explain

soulmates. It was my inspiration which motivated me to draw you to me. You were so perfect for me. And I was desperate to show that we belonged to each other. When you asked me if I had heard of the red string myth, I played it off by saying I had never heard of it all the while knowing that I was doing everything in my power to make sure there wasn’t a single loose piece of string that could break away from us. You thought it was beautiful that such a myth existed and unbeknownst to you, I was using it as my lifeline to hold on to us. To me, it was more than just this hypothetical string. It was more than fate. It was an insatiable hunger/thirst to keep you away from anyone, everyone. So when you attempted breaking free, I simply couldn’t let that happen. My conviction in the string allowed me to ignore the signs and ignore the fact that those strings were becoming looser, some falling and some turning a color darker than the bright red they originally were. I didn’t care that you no longer wanted me because that’s what you thought but we could work it out, we could do something to fix our situation and go back to normal. I was certain of it. And you believed me. You fell for my trap a second time and let me lead you into the web of my creations. I know that you were the one for me. I had a bright, true red string attached to my pinky connected to someone else but you rendered me oblivious. I didn’t care. I didn’t want to know who my fated person was. I was blinded by the fact that you were the one for me and my delusion about our destiny didn’t let me see anyone else.

To To Show Of Creative Director: Naomi Cohen Photographers: Will Chapman, Ellie Watson Videographers: Kiara Rojas Directors: LoremSarah-Eve ipsum Beauty: Gazitt, Valeria Photographers: ipsum RamirezLorem Lascano, Paige Yoskin Videographers: LoremMuniz ipsumGalib, Style: Cecilia Beauty: Kate Lorem ipsum Seo, Carly Intraversato, Style: Lorem ipsum Julia Chang Ava Acosta, Design: Design: Lorem ipsum Chloe Patel, Alexis Social Media: LoremAlexandra ipsum Purdy Rodriguez, Models: Social Lorem Media: ipsum Madison Lloyd, Jordan Medina, Eva Henry Models: Kate Seo, Leslie Chin, Lauren Tomala, Ashley Walters, Andres Marquez

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Written By: Laila Musleh | Edited By: Annika Chaves | Layout By: Alexis Rodriguez & Alexandra Purdy We crave attention, adorning ourselves with jewels and patiently waiting for the light to hit each and every detail of our embellishments. An attempt to become a work of art admired and adored by all who see us. Humans possess an innate desire to stand out, seizing the opportunity to flaunt their uniqueness. In the human world, the act of ‘peacocking’ serves as a visual language, a reminder of one’s status, attractiveness or sheer confidence. When we fully give in to self-expression, we must ask ourselves. Is our yearning to be understood genuine? Or, is it a performative act where the self forever takes precedence in the place of those around us?

Written by: Laila Musleh | Edited By: Annika Chaves | Layout By: Alexandra Purdy

e’ve all encountered that one person– the one who has turned their home country, language, cuisine and ethnicity into a mere personality trait. If you’ve met me, I am that individual. My Arab identity isn’t just a facet of who I am, it’s a defining factor in how I present myself, seek others’ validation and navigate all realms of living. For those of us with roots in distant lands, there’s an unspoken pressure to act as a walking advertisement for our home country and heritage. While it’s not explicitly imposed, we are nurtured by our traditions and language, fostering a deep appreciation for our cultural identity. This prompts a critical question. Why do we feel compelled to showcase our cultural identities so prominently? The media perpetuates a misconstrued image of what an Arab looks like. It has painted us as monolithic. Olive skin, lifted cheeks, long black hair, long nose. My skin is as pale as Snow White, my hair mirrors the hues of Little Red Riding Hood and my English slips naturally off of my tongue. When you look at me, can you easily discern my Arab genes? Do my curls, the bridge of my nose, or the shape of my eyes signal I’m Arab? Now that my accent has faded, I grapple with my inner thoughts– the ones convincing me that no external trait of mine seems “Arab enough.” This internal struggle has birthed a desire to embrace and emphasize my Arab identity in every way possible. I vividly recall my nine-year-old self, newly arrived in America, befriending a girl who was intrigued by my Arabic-infused English. She excitedly called her friends over to hear my accent. I remember loathing every moment of this experience. Frankly, I just wanted to blend in and be one with the Americans. Today, I envy my mother’s accent, wishing my English carried the roll of the ‘R’ and the distinct articulation of the letter ‘T’. I praise my grandmother’s culinary talents —her unmatched seasoning. I serenade my loved ones with the music that molded my childhood. The mention of my country weaves its way into every conversation. Nostalgia guides me as I attempt to relive moments of my childhood, searching for each intricate detail and consumed by a yearning for everyone

to recognize my Arab identity. This desire is one I’ve attempted to absolve by curating a collection of aspirations that orbits around this seemingly lost part of my identity. I adorn my body with pieces of gold symbols. These are not merely pieces of pretty jewelry but are reminders of my connection to my homeland. My name, scripted in Arabic, rests on my neck, and underneath it sits a map of my country. On my index finger, a delicate map of my country sits beside the Palestinian national flower. My thoughts and nightly dreams are interwoven in my mother tongue. While I articulate my opinions in English, they are essentially translated expressions from the language I inherently understand the most – Arabic. 11 years into my immigration, my proficiency in the English language has surpassed my Arabic skills. While I’m speaking in English, Arabic continues to influence the cadence of my everyday expressions. I continue to pause mid-sentence, emphasize certain syllables and parts of words, and use hand movements as if they were spoken words. The desire to show off my cultural identity is undeniable. My love for my country is unshakable and my yearning to seem “Arab enough” is noticeable. I have molded myself to be a display of Arab culture. I wear my identity pridefully and smile at the recognition I receive. As I’ve pridefully indulged in celebrating my identity, some may see it as flaunting. Is it possible for both to exist– attempts to both heal an insecurity and express my Arab pride? I recall this intense display of my Arab identity came about at the peak of my homesickness. The strategies utilized to explore and showcase my Arab self have evolved since then. Initially driven by a yearning to reclaim what I left behind, it has gradually evolved into mere self-expression. Today, I understand that my Arab identity is a facet of my existence that I cannot ignore. My Arab pride transcends mere showcasing. It’s an endeavor to carve out a space where my loved ones can see me, in my most authentic form, leaving no room for misinterpretation. It’s not just a display of culture, it’s an attempt to delve deeper, go beyond our surface understanding of each other, and allow our genetics, ancestry and language to be embraced in their fullest form.