Strike Magazine Chattanooga Issue 05: TETHERED

ISSUE 05 STAFF

CREATIVE

ART DIRECTOR

Gus Gaston

GRAPHIC DESIGNERS

Olivia Leggett

Abby Randolph

CJ Barney

Stu McGuire

Aisy Nix

Marley Hillman

LAYOUT DESIGNERS

Dean Azzouz

Gus Gaston

Sophie Johnson

Rook Tilley

Aisy Nix

Marley Hillman

FASHION DIRECTOR

Caroline Bowden

STYLISTS

Lillian Dent

Knia Robinson

Camille Graves

Hannah Irwin

Melisande Cross

MAKEUP ARTISTS

KateLynn Fronabarger

Erica Benton

EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Aisy Nix

CREATIVE DIRECTOR Marley Hillman

EXTERNAL RELATIONS DIRECTOR KateLynn Fronabarger

WRITING DIRECTOR

Hanna Bradford

WRITERS

AK Anderson

Kushi Zaver

Madison Meadows

Katherine Stegall

Sarah Singleton

Rebecca Morgan

Emma Sofia Griffin

Paula Macena

Alicia De Lise

Jane Dodge

BLOG EDITOR

Jane Dodge

PRODUCTION DIRECTOR

Ella Laughmiller

PRODUCTION ASSISTANTS

Darcie Denton

MK Kirksey

Will Chen

Mila Bales

DIGITAL DIRECTOR

Erica Benton

VIDEOGRAPHER

Alicia De Lise

PHOTOGRAPHERS

KateLynn Fronabarger

Olen Quinn Davis

Mila Bales

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

Oscar Villenueva

EXTERNAL MODELS

EVENTS DIRECTOR

Madison McKissack

EVENTS ASSISTANTS

Sydney Gibson

Kate Barnes

Rylee Ridner

Kortney Segraves

MARKETING DIRECTOR

Emily Redden

MARKETING ASSISTANTS

Caitlin Reeves

Will Gibson

Baylor Dublin

SOCIAL MEDIA DIRECTOR

Amelia Madden

SPOTIFY COORDINATOR

Emaan Aziz

INSTAGRAM COORDINATORS

Ellie Sudderth

Caitlin Reeves

TIKTOK COORDINATOR

Baylor Dublin

GROCERY STORE

Jalen Burkins

UNTETHERED

Zaria Gibbs

Lauren Ignoni

Katherine Stegall

Molly Stegall

BRANDALIZED

Emma Womble

Brandon Mignard

CYCLICAL PACE

Sydney Gibson

Nelly Patel

Kendall Robinson

Mane Gueye

Abby Randolph

INDUSTRIAL OBLIVION

Debora Nix

THE INTERRUPTER

Melisande Cross

Photography by Oscar Villenueva

A LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Five issues later, and here we are. It is a privilege to share my final words as Editor-in-Chief of Strike Magazine Chattanooga. As I write, I am filled with deep appreciation and gratitude for the opportunity to have worked alongside some of the most brilliant and passionate individuals, each bringing their own unique perspective, creativity, and commitment to the team.

It feels surreal to be ending my time with Strike. I first joined the Chattanooga chapter as Assistant Art Director, ignited with a passion to create, and a desire to build friendships. I never would have guessed that it would become the central focus of my life for the next three years. Continuing my time as Assistant Creative Director, Co-Editor-in-Chief, and Editor-inChief, I realized it truly takes a dedicated team to build a magazine.

Strike Chattanooga is a special chapter. I have never seen a group of people so motivated to bring a vision to life, and support the process along the way. The late nights building an entire set design from scratch, the long days spent decorating for fundraising events, the early morning touch-ups to an outfit before a photoshoot, the strategically planned marketing pitches, the immeasurable efforts poured into the bounds of an InDesign file, and so much more. Every second of hard work has encouraged us to lean on each other, creating some of the strongest bonds. I am continuously impressed by the unwavering dedication and enthusiasm of everyone on this team; It has been critical to the success of this magazine.

Aside from the wonderful relationships Strike has provided me, it has also been a platform to share my thoughts and beliefs. Issue 05, Tethered, probes the structural systems we have built and bound ourselves to. These systems loom as clouds above our heads, suffocating us with their weight everyday. How do we alleviate the pain of working a grueling 8-hour day, making just enough to last until next week? The dopamine hit of consumption, of course. The more we consume, the more distracted we are from the

pressing weight of it all. We consume to numb, but why not create to feel? Tethered is a critical response to this weight, a creation to combat the consumption, a vessel to feel rather than suppress.

To the team: To know you is to love you. Keep truckin’. You all have worked tirelessly to create content that is both thought-provoking and visually stunning, and I am so proud of everything that we have accomplished together. I am continuously impressed by your commitment to our shared vision. I cannot thank you enough for the constant support, laughs, and memories. You all have inspired me every step of the way, and I am so grateful for the opportunity to have worked with each and every one of you.

To our readers: thank you for your support and engagement with our work. We created this magazine for you, and it has been an honor to share it with such an amazing audience.

As I sign off as Editor-in-Chief of Strike Chattanooga, I do so with love and gratitude. I am grateful for this chapter in my life, and I know that this team will continue to create amazing content for years to come. Without further ado, I present to you Issue 05, Tethered.

Aisy Nix (she/her/hers) Editor-in-Chief

Photography by Oscar Villenueva

AISY NIX EDITOR–IN–CHIEF

KATELYNN FRONABARGER EXTERNAL AFFAIRS DIRECTOR

MARLEY HILLMAN CREATIVE DIRECTOR

DIRECTOR’S L E TTERS

Holding onto the spheres of laughter, of a longform creative genesis, of artistic community.

For the past five issues, our team has evaluated the world which holds us and responds each time with a vivid and artistic output. To so diligently create alongside those who were once strangers and now my closest and dearest friends - is a privilege I’ll hold close to my heart forever. Beginning as a graphic designer to Assistant Creative Director and now Creative Director has been the most fulfilling experience. This magazine hosts a community of individuals who are truly beyond special: they’re kind, they’re passionate, they’re gifted. These are the people who have permanently touched my life, and to fully birth this vision for one last time seems incomputable.

The conception of Tethered was approached with a wish to skillfully and artistically comment on what we all experience – with a need to apply our contemporary lens in one sound, but spirited response. This is our reclamation. There’s no better way to oppose unprecedented mass consumption than to fully lean into its antithesis – creation. My wish for Tethered is to visually display a complex issue in a way that can be freshly understood. When was it normal to trip over our heels for eight hours a day, reaching for a medal we don’t know exists? This can’t be our ultimate purpose, so why do we constantly submit? My joy is different from yours, but your joy could be perfect beside mine. Whatever it may look like, I know it’s not hair clumping out from the stress of a corporate job. I know it’s not another amazon wish list or Shein haul. I know it’s not aisles of lifeless food, never to know or touch the true earth it came from. When our daily lives are jumbled in endless low-quality consumption, how do we regain our true essence? Maybe more importantly - when?

To be tethered implies there was once a pocket of time we were untethered, unbound by the constraints of the world we so tirelessly operate in today. My wish for all of us is to unravel from the string, the rope, the wire, the yarn. To release our soft bodies from all that keeps us gasping and entwined. Who were you then? Who could you be now?

With utmost love,

Marley Hillman (she/her/hers) Creative Director

I want to express my gratitude for the opportunity to be the Externals Director this semester. As someone who typically operates on the creative side of things, this role allowed me to step out of my comfort zone and merge my creativity with the external aspects of Strike to help bring Issue 05 to life. Working with so many talented individuals who brought fresh ideas to the table was an incredible experience, and I am thankful to my team for helping us execute this issue’s vision.

Throughout my time on Strike, starting from Issue 01, I have gained so much knowledge, experience, and cherished friendships. From my initial role as a graphic designer to my subsequent positions as the Social Media Coordinator and finally the Externals Director, I have seen every aspect of the creative and external process for this magazine. It has been a privilege to be a part of this group of incredibly creative and talented individuals.This semester, the marketing, events, and social media teams worked tirelessly to create a unique Strike identity that truly captures our chapter and community. I couldn’t be prouder of all that we have accomplished together.

Leading this team alongside Aisy and Marley has been an incredible experience, and I am grateful for the opportunity. I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to everyone who contributed to bringing Issue 05 to life, both creatively and externally. We truly did slay, and I am so proud of every single person who was involved in making this issue a success.

Love to you all,

KateLynn Fronabarger (she/her/hers) External Relations Director

GROCERY STORE

Consumer AK Anderson

The Table on the Balcony Jane Dodge

UNTETHERED

Commondity Culture Katherine Stegall

Ms. Luna Madison Meadows

29......20

BRANDALIZED

Transcontinental Wasteland Alicia De Lise

Formulaic Judgement Kushi Zaver

CYCLICAL PACE

Ready, Set, Go Sarah Singleton

The American Dream Marley Hillman

INDUSTRIAL OBLIVION

Which Came First? Paula Macena The Mother Rebecca Morgan

THE INTERRUPTER

Hanna Bradford

rocery Gro cery Store

y y

CONSUMER

CONSUMER

By AK Anderson

Walking down those interminable checkered aisles, you gaze at each brightly packaged food product. You grab the bag of chips that’s eye-catching and trendy with the promise of “organic and gluten-free goodness!”. You throw it in your cart and continue, forgetting why you were even here in the first place. You grab a few cookies, a prepackaged meal and go on your way.

At home, you warm up the frozen meal in your microwave. You lift the spoon to your mouth. The same, small spoon you use for every dish. This meal is simplicity and ease within a plastic-lined box. Four quick minutes in the microwave and five more to put in your body. Afterward, you feel your stomach uncomfortably gurgle and bulge against your pants. Why do you feel so bad? After all, the food was made for you, perfectly crafted for you! Above all, you and your taste buds savored it.

When did we allow our nutrition to be in the hands of a company without regard for our health? To this company, you are a number. One among thousands who purchase and eat their products. You are a consumer of their “high quality” product and nothing more.

Grocery stores are designed to predict exactly where you will walk and to place exciting, inviting foods in your path. They are also mapped so you are forced to peruse their aisles over and over, picking up food that you never intended to buy. The aisles are purposely designed to be narrow enough to where you cannot easily turn your cart around, forcing you to walk it’s long, full length.

We’re trained to think we have a choice when shopping, but the reality is we can only choose what’s already been provided to us. There’s careful calculation in placing expensive, modified food at eye level for easy grabbing, while placing cheaper food at the top of the aisles, out of sight. For these higher–priced foods, the packaging is often emotionallyprovoking and eye-grabbing, forcing you to make an aesthetic choice rather than a rational one. To ensure you can buy all of these foods, they give you extra–large shopping carts. This makes you more inclined to fill up your cart with their products. How often have you gone to the grocery store planning for one or two items, but you leave with a basket full?

Food was once a vitamin and mineralrich form of energy for our bodies. Real, whole foods continue to become a smaller part of our culture and diet. Since 2007, there has been a steady decline in the number of farmers in the United States. To combat this, the U.S. has decided to genetically modify food while increasing the amount of processed foods. To ensure you consume these products, ingredient names that are hardly recognizable are placed on the back of packages. For example, did you know there are 61 different words for sugar? Have you heard of dextrose, fructose, galactose, glucose, lactose, maltose, sucrose, beet sugar, agave nectar, or brown rice syrup? They all mean the same thing to our bodies. A simple carbohydrate that is broken down and processed in the same way.

While gut health has become a trendy word for influencers to throw around, it does have scientific validity. 95% of your serotonin receptors are within the lining of your intestines. In the study Transferring the blues: Depressionassociated gut microbiota induces neurobehavioural changes in the rat, we learn that the gut microbiome has a direct effect on our mental health. By taking the gut microbiota of depressed rats and putting it into healthy rats, the researchers found that the once-healthy rats showed symptoms of depression (Kelly, et al). For humans, this shows how depression can manifest due to an imbalance in your gut microbiota heavily influenced by your diet. With studies like this, we can link the mental health crisis to an overconsumption of foods that are not easily absorbed by our bodies nor are nutrient dense.

We deserve the right to know what we put into our bodies. Our gut is the center of our being and it is the system that uptakes and controls the nutrients and minerals that fuel our existence. The ability to walk, read a book, drive your car, and laugh with a friend are all functions that are fueled by what you put into your body.

The United States has an epidemic of health. It is an issue we can never avoid. Food is essential for life, however what we’re provided with in stores doesn’t constitute healthy living. Our well-meaning trust in companies and the government is thrown aside; our submission is a constant commodity. Food has become a genetically modified form of power that companies have over us.

Food was our shared humanity, but we’ve only become further seperated from it’s source. Our belief that we have a choice when shopping is an illusion that everyone’s spoonfed. Although we believe we have quality access to sustenance, the grocery store only offers lifeless aisles.

References Kelly JR;Borre Y;O’ Brien C;Patterson E;El Aidy S;Deane J;Kennedy PJ;Beers S;Scott K;Moloney G;Hoban AE;Scott L;Fitzgerald P;Ross P;Stanton C;Clarke G;Cryan JF;Dinan TG; (2016, July 25). Transferring the blues: Depression-associated gut microbiota induces neurobehavioural changes in the rat. Journal of psychiatric research. Retrieved March 30, 2022, from https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm. nih.gov/27491067/

The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony

The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony

The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony

The Table Balcony

The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The Table on the Balcony The

By Jane Dodge

I spent the Summer of 2022 in Italy, more specifically, the small city of Viterbo. The quality of life I experienced there was unlike any other. Good food was incredibly easy to find.

The grocery stores are small, far smaller than Americans can even conceptualize. Stock turns over within two to three days. If I was looking for something specific, I could ask the shopkeeper, and if they didn’t have it, they’d simply order it for me or point me to a different store, even if it was their direct competitor. Often, grocery stores carry basic fruits and vegetables; however, most produce can be found at a separate store, a few minutes’ walk down the road in the city center. The fresh produce sat under a hanging awning that read “frutta e verdura,” with an open door that welcomed me to the inside. I would grab only the necessities knowing I’d be back tomorrow. Not only because it was a ten-minute walk home and I could only carry so much, but also because I trusted what I needed would be there the next day, and it would be fresh.

Somehow everything I want and need withou

erything erything I want and need omehow omehow my plates have without need trying. trying. have

I went home and prepared a Caprese salad, it cost three euros, one euro per ingredient, excluding olive oil because my neighbor made too much to use before it expired, (but I know she really just wanted la studentessa americana to try some).

In the most simplistic way, at that moment, I was living within my means. It was the best feeling, I felt free. My body hurt less. I spent more time in the sunlight and even more time with friends. A bottle of good wine was four euros–we would drink it on the balcony while we discussed our days, shitty ex-boyfriends, and our favorite songs while waiting for the restaurant to open at eight. It was easier to decide what to eat, I wasn’t worrying about

what is “healthy” because I knew that it didn’t matter, I was eating good food. The shopkeeper told me where everything was from when I checked out. I’m pretty sure he thought I was stupid, but I didn’t mind. Somehow my plate had everything I wanted and needed without trying.

My Italian professor yelled at me and bought my croissant when I told him I hadn’t had breakfast that morning.

“Food is how you live. It’s simple.”

Our class always took a few minutes’ break to go down to the coffee shop on campus to eat and drink there, sometimes continuing the class discussion, sometimes talking about nothing – but there is an everythingness to what we talk about.

Sitting under the sun, while pieces of my croissant flaked off from biting into it, I couldn’t help but wonder why it can’t be like this at home. I knew it couldn’t. My gut ached, realizing there was no way I would be able to find food so fresh, so cheap, and so readily available in America. I knew that there will always be an assignment looming. I will always be expected to do something. That’s what aches – knowing that I would have to abandon this slow living that has given me more peace than I had ever been able to generate on my own.

This slow living is real, and it is something Italy is trying to harness, trying to push us to see that life does not have

to be so painfully fast. “In Italy, 18 towns and cities presently comply with the prerequisites envisaged in the [‘Citta Slow’] statute and have thus been certified as ‘Città Slow’, many others are in the process of being certified and more are still waiting to be taken into consideration.” These “Slow Cities” have to go through various bureaucratic processes; however, they are saving people, conserving communities, and preserving a way of life that is not so incredibly plagued by capitalism.

“Il cibo è come vivi. è semplice.”

Food is how you live. w you live.

It’s simple.

The United Nations’ Sustainable Development goals clearly outline seventeen objectives for a properly developed society, and many of these slow cities particularly target the goal of “making cities and human settlements inclusive, safe, resilient and sustainable.” When I was reflecting on life since returning stateside after my summer of good eating and meaningfully spent time, I realized that if I slowed down, I would be left behind. Although “slow living” is cultural, it’s something that can extend beyond borders, but requires structural change. We are unable to live this slow life because of America’s engrained values. Structural changes like the UN’s Sustainable Development Goals and the Citta Slow movement get us a step closer to putting our well-being, culture, and planet above corporations and capital. Until we see this systemic change, the most forward action is to live more intentionally – starting with the food we eat.

“I think therefore I am” makes the assumption that to have thoughts, any thoughts, is the premise on which we exist. Our entire being consumed whole by French philosopher Rene Descartes’ quick catchphrase. I think… and therefore I now have a purpose, breath, voice to take up space on this Earth. I think about my desires with a partner or whether or not God exists or how to fold butter into flour and suddenly I am very alive and very here not there and ready to eat my portion of the universal time sliced for me. This five word slogan, careful to tread on the very dense idea that it does not take much and yet takes everything for us to exist. “I am”. You are. We will be or have been… and it gets much worse than this.

Barbara Kruger is an artist from New Jersey, close enough to the big city to consider her a tortured New Yorker. Suffocated- along with everyone else who overpopulates that little corner of the world. Kruger, like a true graphic design student, felt her work lacked

meaning in the early 1970s and took a hiatus completely from 1976 to 1977. When she returned to the art realm, she fell in lust with Future Bold Italic and got to the core of her work. She began using pronouns like “you” and “I” because it “cuts through the grease” (Kruger). The grease being the fat that surrounds us when we settle into a new, successful job or find a group of posh friends or fall in love with a certain pair of shoes. Kruger and her pronouns come for that soft, meaty material and get down to the grit: “I shop therefore I am.”

The Captivationof Commodity Culture

By Katherine Stegall

“Untethered” relates to an individual breaking chains, whom is held captive, whether in body or mind, to something in the material world that is deemed obligatory to thrive. You are told keeping up with societal standards and buying the newest version of everything keeps your vitality at its peak. Remain with the trends; remain with society; and remain with everything culture has to offer to your brokendown, tired soul. What do you need to remain tethered to? Belligerent bosses come close to your sunken-in, purple eyes as they say you need to come into the office more, or your skirt is too unprofessional. You remain at the feet of manufacturing companies as you clean and wipe away the dirt from their shoes with your dollar bills. The tiring cycle of remaining tethered to the pervasive means of living takes a toll on your fragile soul as you become another number in the line of impersonal beings trying to make ends meet.

our industrial mode of life. Don’t have it? You

the catch: you don’t always need what’s being commodified. Your life was just the same

You think you need this product, so you stand in line with countless others hoping to get a glimpse of how your life would be “so much better!” if you just took one bite of the apple and curves. You take in all of its promises, all of its earthly wisdom, and you continue in the pursuit of what commodity culture is supposed

Commodity culture has slithered its way into our industrial mode of life. Don’t have it? You need it. You haven’t seen it on the market? You must make it so you can profit from it. Here’s the catch: you don’t always need what’s being commodified. Your life was just the same without the products being shoved down your throat. It’s all about the impersonal process of making, selling, and buying from a face you will never look in the eye or shake hands with. You think you need this product, so you stand in line with countless others hoping to get a glimpse of how your life would be “so much better!” if you just took one bite of the apple that could change your exhausted existence into something immortal. You receive the shiny, new product as you take in its crevices and curves. You take in all of its promises, all of its earthly wisdom, and you continue in the pursuit of what commodity culture is supposed to give you.

Blindly chasing after fame, money, and selling your soul to the infinite amount of companies taking pieces of your heart, you realize you’ve lost your essence. Your passions and dreams disintegrate as you shop for a new corporate outfit or slap on the $5.00 concealer to cover your dark, purple under eyes. May I provide you with some advice? Don’t. Don’t fall prey to the whispers and condescension from a society that doesn’t know your soul. Don’t fall prey to a society that doesn’t know how your eyes light up under the warmth of the golden sun, or how your nose crinkles ever so slightly when you smile at the people you most adore.

Most importantly, find your Third Place. The coveted Third Place connects to escaping all forms of consumerism and societal expectations. You can disappear from your soul – find the ones that create an authentic community in a world full of manufactured faces. There are no deadlines or monotonous meetings; it’s a place of relaxation where all the through your hands. It’s not work, and it is not your house; it is simply a place for you. Whether it be your small-town library as you rummage through pages of fairy tales and fables, or on top of a

crinkled nose. May I give you some more advice? Make your Third Place your refuge. Do not isolate, but keep it wrapped within your grasp enough to separate from the calls from our world

Most importantly, find your Third Place. The coveted Third Place connects to escaping all forms of consumerism and societal expectations. You can disappear from the office, rub off your lipstick, and find your people – find the ones who warm your soul – find the ones that create an authentic community in a world full of manufactured faces. There are no deadlines or monotonous meetings; it’s a place of relaxation where all the expectations of this sinking society sift through your hands. It’s not work, and it is not your house; it is simply a place for you. Whether it be your small-town library as you rummage through pages of fairy tales and fables, or on top of a look-out where you let the omnipotent sun add a few more freckles to that crinkled nose. May I give you some more advice? Make your Third Place your refuge. Do not isolate, but keep it wrapped within your grasp enough to separate from the calls from our plastic world.

By Madison Meadows

The lady next to me didn’t know it, but she was the most intriguing person I’d ever encountered. This train ride couldn’t go any faster than it already was. I wanted to linger around for a little longer.

As I was observing her, I couldn’t help but notice how sleep had taken residence in this woman’s entire being. Her eyelids remained at a consistent droop, all the way from the East Village to Midtown. Her palms looked like they’d already bore the world and then some more of it. It was only 10 am.

Her hair reminded me of a honey suckle; sweet, shiny, and soft. But there were rough hands running through it—owned by a man nowhere near as ethereal, yet not as tired as her—but he was still there nonetheless. Her greenish eyes withheld an unavoidable beauty that seemed to be yearning for more. For better.

I stood up to leave them and head back to the library. It’s disheartening, parting from a captivating stranger you know you’ll never see again.

I ascended the stairs of the station and was welcomed to New York by the sounds of the city– sirens wailing, young children shouting at their nannies in demand for ice cream, the silent gray clouds wrapping us New Yorkers up in a blanket.

I ascended the of the station and New York by the sounds of the city– sirens young children shouting at their nannies in demand for cream, the silent gray clouds wrapping us New Yorkers up in blanket.

“Welcome back,” said Ms. Luna, a librarian I looked forward to seeing each day. In between a pitied smile, she looked at me. “My dear, you know you don’t have to come here every day though, right? Shouldn’t you be chasing the life you want out there?” I nodded and considered this.

“Welcome Ms. Luna, librarian I looked forward to seeing each day. between a pitied smile, she looked at me. “My dear, you know you don’t to come here day though, right? Shouldn’t you be chasing the life you out there?” nodded and considered this.

Back before I arrived here, knew expect nothing, appreciate everything. Be curious, stay friendly. Listen, wait ask things. and await knowledge. Observe, judge less. extend offers. Pursue not constraints.

constraints. Look embody bountiful energy. Analyze no one, accept everyone.

Back home, before I arrived here, I knew life like this: expect nothing, appreciate everything. Be curious, stay friendly. Listen, wait to ask for things. Learn, and await knowledge. Observe, judge less. Smile, extend offers. Pursue freedom, not constraints. Look for abundance, embody bountiful energy. Analyze no one, accept everyone.

It was hard to sustain this outlook on life here in the city, and essentially everywhere. I felt better when I was surrounded by Ms. Luna, the books whose spines never cracked under the burdens of the human condition. This New York Public Library was home to the finance men who needed passports, young office assistants scrambling for working printers, and even victims of the housing crisis that plagues this city. This was the third place; nothing on the surface mattered about a person, but everything internally did.

Ms. Luna glanced outside the window and then back at me. She complimented how my smile was large and my face looked like it’d been untethered.

“What do you mean when you say that, Ms. Luna?”

“I mean that you haven’t let the world consume you.”

Flashes of angry strangers, a lust— chase—for the things that cut the deepest, the craving to be burned when you’re already on fire. Being chained to constructs, money, and society must not hurt anymore when you’ve been stuck for so long. That’s what this place has brought for me. The strings we all tie ourselves to—who we associate with, what we eat, the goods we buy, the money we make, who we give ourselves to— all of these pressures can be ridden by us.

When we shop, we are consistently pursued by things and how they portray themselves. We are seduced by lace and its cursive. We are excited by the red ink bled around “SALE” and we love to play the game of match the color on the tag to the discount. And while I feel complex- capable of love and hate, having feelings so strong they need to be medicated, and a crippling need for human connection- I am easily swooned by this trick that possesses the mind and feeds the economy. Kruger looked this sheeplike quality of the greater population dead in the face. She challenged us and our humanity with large print and five words. It is a disruptive element in the frenzy of everyday life. Barbara Kruger discovered how the clock of corporate America ticks, and stuck a wrench in it.

BRANDALIZED

BRANDALIZED

FORMULAIC

FORMULAIC

By Kushi Zaver

I pray to myself that the shoes on my feet don’t during my shift as I turn the stools over and unlock the door. I work at the only bar in a small college town, a seedy little joint with cheap beer, dim lights, and for some reason, arcade games. It isn’t much, but all kinds of people come here since it’s the only option within a 30 mile radius. It is Friday, so naturally all of the college kids are streaming through the door.

FALL APART

I suppose these are technically my peers since I also go to the local college, but I’ have a different perspective. These kids pay tuition and drive BMWs, and I go on scholarship and walk to school because a dollar couldn’t find my wallet even if there was a big “MONEY HERE” sign on it.

They’re all wearing the same Artitza one shoulder top and Levi jeans, and they reek of YSL Black Opium. In their typical fashion, they snootily order espresso martinis and find a table to gossip about whichever frat boy they‘re obsessed with this week.

Skirt by Lillian Dent

Vest and pants by Lillian Dent

It’s like a formula, you can always tell who the customer is by what they’re wearing. If they have brand names like Prada, Gucci, Chanel on they’re probably older and they’ll order a French 75.

If they’re wearing a trendy top that may have come from Zara, Aritzia, or Shein they’re probably younger and will order a vodka cranberry or seltzer. If they’re wearing nameless jeans and an unidentifiable t-shirt, they’re probably a blue–collar worker coming in for a beer after a long shift. Everyone is always projecting who they are by the clothes they’re wearing, the bags they’re carrying, even the type of phone they’re using.

An older man approaches the bar wearing a suit covered in a series of interlocking G’s, which indicates that the suit most likely costs the same as my rent. He orders a scotch on the rocks and walks away to meet with a woman dressed equally as elaborate; another formula perfectly executed. I wipe down the bar and look up to see a character that intrigues me. He’s tall and stoic, but this isn’t what’s interesting. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with fitted jeans and over it, a vest. It’s covered with every logo you could imagine. A patch for Nike, a patch for Tommy Jeans, a patch for Champion, even a patch for different brands of gum. He doesn’t fit into any of my standard formula – and there’s no way to pinpoint what kind of person he is.

He carefully approaches the bar as I anticipate his order, anxious with the need to figure out who he is. He orders a club soda, neutral and unassuming, so I decide to be brave and ask more. I ask about his life and interests, and the buzz of conversation dissipates as he tells me his story. He’s a traveling musician raising money for his sick brother. He’s clever and lively, and we laugh and talk for a long time between orders. None of my carping presumptions lived to see the rest of the night.

Reflecting, I’m glad he wasn’t wearing his band’s t-shirt - I would have thought he was a tool. I would have treated him like he was just another man who makes music about breaking girls’ hearts to make him feel better about his lack of game. He’s none of that. He’s funny and charismatic and I only want to know more about him. My shift ends and on the drive home I think about our conversation; I think about how different he was from who I would have thought. My brain spirals as I realize that I never see people for who they truly are. I see people for who I assume they are, building a perception of them based on the logos on their shirts. I make a silent promise as I pull into my parking spot. A promise to give people a chance and to see beyond their outer shell. It all started with him,

THE MAN IN THE VEST.

By Alicia De Lise

Hanna Bradford

Edited by

Corset by Aisy Nix

It is a classic move to find the ugliest pieces in your closet, rip them off the hangers and leave them and your guilt for over-consumption at your nearest, bleakest donation site.

FINALLY, YOU CAN BREATHE

More space to be filled with newer, better items. Never mind that top from last season, or those shoes that have the separated sole. Donating has nothing to do with giving to someone else, and everything to do with giving more to yourself.

Here’s what happens; half of the items that you donate are shipped overseas. Most commonly they go to Europe and Africa with the purpose of the items being “reused” and sold at the markets. Our clothes are given to the vendors in bales, or “Mitumba”, the Kiswahili term for bundles. In Nairobi, the small urban capital of Kenya, out-skirted by desert and dust and small mud huts, there has been increasing disappointment when the vendors receive Mitumba bales full of broken straps, worn out garments with holes, grease stains, cigarette burns, and any signs of your past life. Half of the contents that are found in the bales are unusable. These items add on to the suffocating growth of our guilty pleasures, swallowing their environment whole.

Nairobi lacks the means to dispose of our disposables, making our once-loved pieces an inescapable nightmare.

Most nights, people are setting open fires of burning shoes that came in the bales to remove the waste, but this does nothing more than create polluted air for the community to breathe. Nairobi River, a vast and beautiful body of water flowing through the city of Kenya, has been invaded by this waste to the extent of overflow. Those jeans you once decided to let go of after they would no

longer squeeze around your thighs are left on the banks of the river, being trudged over by locals and drained of their blue color.

The Dandora dumpsite, also referred to as “textile mountain” is the biggest landfill in East Africa. Two thousand tons of waste is dumped there each day and about twenty–two thousand U.S

tons are dumped there per year. Children have to walk through this dumpsite on their way to school. Their pathways are outlined with mountains of waste towering over those who walk by. However, it does not stop at textile waste. At the Dandora dumpsite you’ll find all types of waste, from food to chemicals. Oftentimes, the children who take this path will stop and rummage through the mountain

to look for “valuables”. Residents who live near the site are prone to respiratory illness because of the fires set to burn the waste. Dandora is an overwhelming problem that has been wrongfully left to the people of Nairobi.

HAS BEEN

THE LUXURY OF IMPULSEHANDED TO US AT THE EXPENSE OF OTHER HUMAN BEINGS.

Products that are easily accessible to us have created generations of suffering and poverty for others. The unanswered question here is loud: what do we do? Consumers are out of touch with the fashion industry’s unethical production processes. Companies profit off our ignorance while masking its effects on the people of the Global South.

There is no direct solution to the issues surrounding overconsumption in the world of fashion; However, a serious shift needs to be made in what we consider to be progress. To take a step back and examine the rate of our intake is something that can be done to put change in motion. Although these issues will take lifetimes to solve, recognizing the problem is the first step in creating change.

Information cited

“About Textile Mountain.” TEXTILE MOUNTAIN - The Hidden Burden of Our Fashion Waste, Make Europe Sustainable for All, https://www.textilemountainfilm. com/about.

Vasquez, Richard. “Overconsumption in the Fashion Industry.” Overconsumption in the Fashion Industry : Fashion Revolution, Fashion Revolution Community Interest Company, Aug. 2022, https://www. fashionrevolution.org/overconsumption-inthe-fashion-industry/.

Wohlgemuth, Viola. “How Fast Fashion Is Using the Global South as a Dumping Ground for Textile Waste.” Greenpeace International, Greenpeace, 15 Mar. 2023, https://www.greenpeace.org/international/ story/53333/how-fast-fashion-is-usingglobal-south-as-dumping-ground-for-textilewaste/.

Image cited

Rogerson, Caitriona. “Dandora Dumpsite, Nairobi, Kenya.” Flickr, Yahoo!, 26 Aug. 2020, https://www.flickr.com/photos/21739313@ N04/50272542776/in/photostream/.

W hy

anyway? They offer little monetary benefit and subtract time from the two central periods of your day:

work (9AM to 5PM—when can I leave?)

Can’t swing an outside pastime as a side hustle or a significant resume builder?

not-work (5PM to 9AM—bone deep exhaustion. I don’t want to go back there).

And so the cycle continues. A day turns to a week turns to a year, and the only foreseeable escape is the vacation days for which you practically groveled. They come and go, so finite.

The year in the life becomes the lifetime, measured in career objectives and dollar signs, in exploitation and exhaustion and overwhelming dissatisfaction.

We are worth more. We deserve more.

In a culture that emphasizes material gain and values profit over people, it falls on us to value ourselves and one another as more than simply laborers rushing about in a busy world. We avoid falling prey to hustle culture and the monotonous cycle of materialism by taking the time to do things that we love for more than the monetary value they possess. We resist the cycle by viewing our fellow humans as more than just what task they can perform in the world and in our lives. We ever so slightly lessen the impact of the cyclical pace in the lives of strangers by practicing mindfulness when we consume material goods.

We are more than the sum of our careers, our degrees, and our bank accounts. We are more than cogs in a machine. Above all else, each and every one of us are human beings. That humanity is not something to overcome for the sake of productivity, but

The A

A merican Dream

By Marley Hillman

“Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness”

These are the three golden truths American citizens are born for, from the time of conception in our Statue of Liberty Torched, Uncle Samified, eagle screeching country’s womb.

We hold these truths in our hands, delicately placing them to the left side of our chest when we pledge allegiance. Each line recited in tiny voices, unified but staggered. When I stood alongside my peers every morning for 12 years, staring at our perfectly starred and striped flag, I can’t say I expected my instilled patriotism to support a lifetime of sheer pursuit.

I’m honored to live in liberty, doing as I please in the name of freedom. One could even argue I’m blessed, but pursuit – how do I come to justify? The big white-wigged men wisely closed their cute phrase with verbiage that signals action. Action towards whose happiness? Theirs or mine? Why am I chasing what should already live inside of me? They must’ve figured life and liberty were shining beacons of glory enough, that it made no difference how or when we attained true happiness, if we ever did at all.

Despite my skepticism, there are parts of me that forget pursuit. I inherently understand it, it’s primal wiring. I want things so I chase after them. I’m compliant. I’m numb. I’m hungry so I obey and I don’t think. So sure, put me in the race, I’ll dig for my shoes, lace them up real tight, and start running.

I’ll pace myself, and when I see someone panting in my peripheral, I’ll speed up. If there happens to be a hurdle, I’ll jump over it. I’ll keep going and stare onto the track, forever bridged to itself. I’ll keep running until I’m out of breath, and I won’t hear any cheers of encouragement parading from the bleachers, because there’s no choice to cheer when everyone who’s there is expected to compete.

When my body inevitably loses feeling, and my brain fails to signal, I’ll forget what I’m racing for I’ll fail to imagine that there was ever a medal to be won, and that maybe all the others lost feeling too. We use every ounce of energy we have to pursue – for who?

It’s all cynical, and I know deep within me the Declaration of Independence is a document that has given me the opportunity to critique it. However, greed has corrupted any good intention we’ve been graced with as a country, and shielded our ability to connect with our pure desires. Our inherent happiness is camouflaged by barcodes and torn receipts

Beads of sweat born from the edge of my hairline run down my eyelid, down my cheek, onto my chin.

They keep falling and falling until my chest is wet, as if they’re racing to see who will get there first, only to join one another in a wet reserve.

They’ll be washed away, into a new cycle of perspiration.

More form as my heartbeat picks up, and I can no longer identify where they’re coming from.

What’s the rush? There’s no winner, they just merge into one another, and in thirty minutes, when I take a shower, their speed wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

No medal, no reward. Only another cycle, another race.

INDUSTRIAL OBLIVION

INDUSTRIAL OBLIVION

By Paula Macena

Here’s the thing they won’t tell you about these types of things: We don’t care if the chicken or the egg came first. Yes, the lifelong mystery of how and when and why—it ultimately doesn’t matter. No, don’t look behind me, over there, in the midst. No, there’s nothing to see, just a crumbling infrastructure that houses billions of chickens and eggs, and no one asks the question of which came first.

I know you want that thing, that nondescript thing you have saved in your wishlist, or in your cart, on your knees begging to buy it from the clutches of Bezos. So, what are you willing to do to get it? Maybe you’ll pick up an extra shift, you’ll get another godforsaken side hustle that capitalist culture tells you you need, and whoever doesn’t have a side hustle is stupid and lazy and they deserve their poverty. So, you want that thing? Go fetch.

SLAUGHTERED

I AM THE MOTHER

By Rebecca Morgan

I am the mother. Your mothers are my arms. Although I am seemingly endless, we are all finite. My rocky core will one day explode, sooner or later.

My existence began with a bang. All the little lives file into line, lively and loud, waiting for their moment on the spherical stage.

Here is one now.

You can find her sporting a velvety red dress and an imported silken headscarf.

Walk with her.

The path is paved brown, a stark contrast from the bright colors on her shoes.

Her painful smile is the realest thing you have seen in months.

Of course though, she must be happy!

Admired for her esteemed credit score.

You are at a distance from my parasite, the tallest of its infestations is a gray slab looming in a jagged arc.

I grew as a rough realism, a bloody balance of nature that somehow worked perfectly.

But my heart has become heavy with the black smoke clinging.

My leafy ovaries watched a harmful spirit grow, one that fiends for material existence.

As huffing skyscrapers fed the baby, it became fierce and demanding.

The once bright excitement of a glowing relationship has fallen to a dark gray routine.

As offspring are born and replaced, the gentle reigns that hold my order are have been tugged away,

It is a slow pull at first, but then yanked away with a force that only a corrupt ruler could know.

And while the human’s violent hate towards each other has mellowed,

They sprint away from my grasp, creating a monster within.

My wooden limbs are growing thin with abuse.

I have felt the passing of my trees, their headstones marked with steel and grease.

Burial incense still rises around the buildings from the skeleton of the preexisting forest.

It was replaced by an outlet for the newest millionaire to make their big break!

My trees were an unfortunate inconvenience in the process.

The factories suckle my evil baby with possibilities of a growing net worth. The sky has become a blurry contrast of polluted reality. Gray smoke has accumulated and made a canopy, blocking the sun. It is replaced by a portrayed ideal, an impossible standard. The metal monsters are fed by a new, self-prescribed need in the hearts of many. The excrement is the source of worldly pleasures! From within the gaunt, rising giants, the muffled cries of dehumanized labor echo persistently, but are drowned out by the roaring hunger of a few rapid-growing bank accounts. The hands that labor over the products are raw with desperation. I can feel their pockets droop with expectancy for today’s check. The forgotten and unseen, suffering alongside someone’s shadowy morals.

And as collective purchasing habits grow in a corrupt system, so does the demand for new, invasive parasites. The benefactors do not suffer the process that births their pretty things, so it is an easy issue to ignore.

See, want, and buy, have.

WAKE UP I AM BY CONVENIENCES

CONSUMED

BEFORE CONSUMED YOUR

CONVENIENCES

My first look at Jenny Holzer was a telling of who she was, like a painting of someone you’ve never met and yet you feel intimate with them. The front of her website is coated in her black and white portrait. Soft eyes, faint wrinkles, thin-pressed lips. An artist, as well as a common victim of restless want. Holzer begs her audience, “Protect me from what I want.” A small, vulnerable creature standing against a wave of something much greater than themselves: inadequacy. Like Kruger, Jenny places her small but provocative works in busy metropolitans with the intent to invade.

Jenny is from Ohio, but moved to New York City post-grad to allow it to swallow her whole. Her first major series is titled Truisms, posted all around Manhattan for strangers to drink in. Jenny’s piece, “Protect me from what I want” is plastered in Times Square, the hub of blind desire and corporate ladder dreams.

Since doing some work on Jenny Holzer, and even Kruger, I frequently return to the fascination contradiction that is two women fighting this immense hunger for consumerism moving to the heartbeat of the world: New York City. The city that has every store front stacked between two stories, the city where humanity is choosing not to hit a pedestrian with your car or maybe turning back to acknowledge who you just shoulder checked on the sidewalk. And I have decided that these women had to move here. Of course they wanted to, because even in the midst of crowded skyscrapers and overpopulated streets and smoke, there is a certain magic. In the same way you will never be seen in New York, you can be seen in New York. Both women have their work screaming from tall buildings in the busiest parts of the city. They had to come into the place that is too busy for love or laughter or breath and they had to break into the passer-byers, making them stop and think and sympathize with the quaint, pointed words on the screen above.

“Protect me from what I want.”

“I think therefore I am.”

In these small words, there lies immense weight the bystander must suddenly withstand. Why is materialism bad? Is it not a help to the economy? Am I not doing my part as a citizen by constantly wanting? Perhaps the motivation for both Kruger and Holzer pieces lies in the questioning. The economy may have a pulse, but has been cold to the touch for a long time. Lifelong debt will never caress your tears away. To not have enough within yourself is a violation to your right not as a citizen, but as a human being. So, reader, find warmth and vibrations and song and do not let the weight of the world, specifically the portion that will always want something from someone, collapse in on you.

ISSUE 05 STAFF

Gus Gaston

Stu McGuire Dean Azzouz

Sarah SingletonRebecca Morgan

Aisy Nix Marley HillmanKateLynn Fronabarger

Abby Randolph

Olivia Leggett

Sophie Johnson Rook Tilley

Caroline Bowden Lillian Dent

Melisande CrossKnia Robinson Hannah Irwin

Camille GravesHanna BradfordAK AndersonMadison MeadowsKatherine Stegall

Emma Sofia GriffinPaula Macena Jane Dodge

Emaan Aziz

Ellie Sudderth

Amelia Madden

MK Kirksey

Kate Barnes Carli Todd

Alicia De Lise

Darcie Denton

Will Chen

Mila Bales

Erica Benton

Baylor Dublin

Rylee RidnerKortney SegravesEmily Redden

Caitlin Reeves

Will Gibson

Ella Laughmiller

Madison McKissackSydney Gibson

Livingston Photography

315 N Market Street Chattanooga, TN 423- 431-0990

Four Bridges Website

CREDITS

GROCERY STORE

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

STYLING

Knia Robinson

LAYOUT

Dean Azzouz

PRODUCTION

Ella Laughmiller

HAIR AND MAKEUP

KateLynn Fronabarger

PHOTOGRAPHY

KateLynn Fronabarger

UNTETHERED

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

STYLING

Melisande Cross

Camille Graves

Stuart McGuire

Aisy Nix

Marley Hillman

LAYOUT

Aisy Nix

Marley Hillman

PRODUCTION

Darcie Denton

HAIR AND MAKEUP

KateLynn Fronabarger

Erica Benton

Caroline Bowden

PHOTOGRAPHY

Olen Quinn Davis

CYCLICAL PACE

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

STYLING

Hannah Irwin

LAYOUT

Sophie Johnson

Marley Hillman

PRODUCTION

Will Chen

Dean Azzouz

MK Kirksey

HAIR AND MAKEUP

KateLynn Fronabarger

Caroline Bowden

PHOTOGRAPHY

KateLynn Fronabarger

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

INDUSTRIAL OBLIVION

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

STYLING

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

Will Chen

Hannah Irwin

KateLynn Fronabarger

BRANDALIZED

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

STYLING

Lillian Dent

Aisy Nix

LAYOUT

Gus Gaston

PRODUCTION

Mila Bales

Ella Laughmiller

Aisy Nix

HAIR AND MAKEUP

KateLynn Fronabarger

PHOTOGRAPHY

Mila Bales

LAYOUT

Rook Tilley

PRODUCTION

MK Kirksey

Dean Azzouz

HAIR AND MAKEUP

KateLynn Fronabarger

PHOTOGRAPHY

KateLynn Fronabarger

THE INTERRUPTER

CONCEPT

Marley Hillman

Aisy Nix

STYLING

Marley Hillman

LAYOUT

Aisy Nix

Marley Hillman

PRODUCTION

Gus Gaston

Stu McGuire

PHOTOGRAPHY

Aisy Nix

THANK YOU TO CHATTANOOGA