Strike Magazine Athens Issue 04

Caitlin

Jenna Cahill ASSISTANTS

Nastasia Rozenberg, Co Editor-in-Chief

Caitlin Downing, Co Editor-in-Chief

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

New beginnings are always a challenge, and taking over Strike this season was no easy feat. With big shoes to fill following the reign of our beloved co-founder, Nahdia Johsnon, we knew that Issue 04 had to be deeply personal— a reflection of ourselves and our journeys throughout life and how we have all been brought together to Strike by a shimmering thread of fate.

When we began planning for this issue, we asked ourselves, what brought us to this point? In exploring the duality of feeling and choice, brokenness and unbrokenness, we found the concept of synchronicity and the multifacetedness of human existence. Through Strike, so many of us have found love, friendship, and a sense of wholeness, but we’ve also found a chance to reflect on the inner child that lives within every creative soul. This inner child craves self-expression, self-discovery, and a sense of being understood, something that most of our beautiful staff members can connect to, as Strike provides that space of belonging for so many of us. It is a place where we can write our own stories and pave our own paths. It is a home when we struggle to feel accepted and loved. With that notion, we arrived at Synchronic, a concept that illuminates the binate experience of growth and healing.

Synchronic is an ode to the bravery, individuality, and strength that we see within all of our staff members. In such a vast universe, we feel so grateful to exist in the same time and place as all of the people we’ve met through Strike. We have crossed paths and intertwined pieces of our hearts with some of the most special souls on this earth, and we hope that this issue captures the magic and creativity that we get to experience firsthand every single day. With all of our love, Strike Out

Nastasia Rozenberg & Caitlin Downing

SYNCHRONIC ABOUT THE ISSUE

Caitlin Downing, External Director Sunny Hakemy, Creative Director Nastasia Rozenberg, Co Editor-in-Chief

Synchronic explores an artistic interpretation of an individual experiencing the duality of introspection: an illusion of imperfect symmetry of consequences. As we turn the page, we find that the character faces the choice to let their trauma consume them or end the cycle to heal their inner-self. A culmination of decisions that lead to the same destination in their dissonant realities.

This initiates a query of reflection, not only for the individual, but for each and every one of us regarding our choices. No matter what side of the story you begin with, the concept of synchronous realities of the character’s life— our lives— is full of deviating experiences of light, dark, restoration, and isolation and is one that resonates within.

XO, Sunny Hakemy

THANK YOU TO OUR SPONSORS

Judith Hoefer, Owner of Minuteman Press Marietta

Yousof Hakemy Amanda Gates Daniel Gelber Natalya & Vladimir Rozenberg

Amy Boyer

Marie Sellers

Delia Fernandez

Amy Ektesabi

Richard Burton

Halley George

Renee Wingate

Beyond Sports Medicine & Physical Therapy

Raj Shah

Mike & Sue Wadzinski

Cynthia Jenik

Don & Amy Fussell

Laura Ramos

Lady Sharon Judenberg

Lucky 15 Photography

Marlie Sherer

ACT I

In this parallel, the individual realizes the toxicity that lies within their life from an early age— forced to abandon the innocence they once possessed. As the character remains trapped in a reality of isolation, they choose to break free from the agony they endured. They begin to surround themselves with others who love and accept them unconditionally, opportunities that exude a sense of belonging, and come to the realization that they are more than the cards they had been dealt.

Content Assistant: Blakely Henn

Styling:

Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Reagan Cox

Beauty Contributor: Maliha Hasan

Photography: Grace Lang

Writing: Katherine Rhodes

Copy Editing: Sophie McLeod, Gianna Rodriguez

Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Madhu Ravi, Maddie Dalsimer

Models: Ana Valencia, Andrew Chong

Content Director: Kiana Shamsbafi

Bekah Brooks, Kayli McDaniel, Morgan Quinn

“Rate your pain on a scale from one to ten”

As time passes, the character remains misplaced in an everflowing stream of darkness, struggle, and isolation. Trapped in a narrative of conformity, they lack the freedom to discover their authentic self. The individual is forced to play a part, living solely to satisfy others’ expectations rather than living for themself. It forces intense self-reflection: The guilt, toxicity, and trauma they carried had prohibited them from experiencing life outside the darkness. Until this realization, a reality possessing a multitude of hues outside their world of black and white was merely a figment of their imagination.

She doesn’t see us. She doesn’t know. It doesn’t hurt anymore. What was once the harsh burn of ice on my unwilling joints is now nothing more than the pinprick of electricity one would feel while pulling on a sweater in the dry winter air. At most, a distant thrum trapped within my greatest depths. How could I possibly give it a number? I watch my fist open, fingers uncurling one by one from crooked pinky to thumb. My wrist hinges down, up. Down, up. Down, up.

Stop it. Was that a new one? Not explicitly painful, but just as haunting as any other movement they forced upon me. Or was a one when they strung themselves in tight knots all around me and made me the epitome of perfect obedience, tightening their hold with my every objection? The sharp tug at the top of my spine is a reminder.

“Rate your pain on a scale from one to ten.”

She doesn’t see us. She doesn’t know. It doesn’t hurt anymore. She doesn’t see us. She doesn’t know. It doesn’t hurt anymore. She doesn’t see us. She doesn’t know. It doesn’t hurt anymore. She doesn’t see us. She doesn’t know. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

No part of you is your own.

It wasn’t always like this. I remember the way it felt when they first wrapped themselves around me – it had been almost comforting at the time. There was once a lightness to the bows tied around me; a release in trusting their control.

It all started in the way these things typically tend to come about: by chance. A spilled coffee, a delayed meeting, a flash of amusement in a pair of silver eyes. I insisted that I make it up to you. I ruined your chances at your interview, your big break! How could I not? I hadn’t known how closely that flash resembled cruelty then. How it would shine every time you reminded me that this is my fault.

My shudder is subdued by the tautness of the strings. I feel my lips slowly curving into a pleasant expression and the relaxing of my brow.

Stop it.

Just for that thought, I feel their pulling of my fingers to stroke the inside of my arm. Up and down, up and down. An eerie calm flows through me. I float away. I survive.

The expressions on the chart across the room mock me. What do they know of pain? Those unseeing eyes haven’t been strangers to themselves in the mirror, dressed in the next outfit you so kindly provided for them. Was that a four? The feeling of blood slipping around my ankles as I walked the seemingly endless networking route at events with my high-class friends?

My legs dangle off the edge of the examination table while I feel my feet mirror the heeled steps I took that night. Clomp, clomp. Clomp, Clomp.

They repeat words you’ve said to me a thousand times. I’m weak. I’m a liar. No one will believe me. Was it a ten when you spit those words like venom at me after I forgot your boss’s name? When the strings slammed my knees to the ground to repent in front of you? Or is being an embarrassment only an eight?

Stop it. Stop it.

She will never believe you. We exist only in your mind. You are so weak and easy to control.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Shh. Keep quiet. We will help you.

It’s too much now. Those blank faces, the scale, thinking back has reignited the pain. The lock breaks inside of me and memories of you bubble up to the surface.

The pain explodes into my chest and erupts with powerful energy through my veins. It is too much. Too sharp and too hot and way more than a ten. I’m vibrating, humming with the hurt and the power it gives me to see clearly.

STOP IT.

STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT

STOP IT. STOP IT.

O F MIND

I have learned growing up leaves you in a constant state of missing something. Or someone. Or someplace. Some dream you’ve had that never managed to manifest itself into reality. Or maybe it did. It doesn’t really matter.

Missing is a continual state that manages to permeate itself into the nooks and crannies of our minds and causes us to want for more— despite the good things that may be staring us right in the face.

SETATS

We are not unique individuals in this sense. I know this not because I have had many a

meaningful conversation on the subject— that would be far too revealing. Instead, it illuminates itself in peoples’ eyes even when speaking on the most commonplace of subjects, for the feeling of missing does not isolate itself solely in the things we long for.

I am no exception to this rule.

I cannot help the fact that even though I try to tightly fill the space in hopes of occupying my brain 99% of the time— so much so that I cannot afford to think about what may have been or is or will be— the 1% persists.

Writing: Anna Albright

Copy Editing: Jordan Ross, Gianna Rodriguez

Layout: Madhu Ravi

It’s the dilemma of the feeler, the thinker, the empathizer.

I cannot help the fact that even though I am here, my heart is elsewhere. And if I were in the elsewhere, it would manage to make its way back here. There is no way to win, no way to remedy this feeling, no way to make yourself feel whole when you have been split in two equally tortured halves.

And I fear, dear reader, that these phenomena may be a plight of your heart as well, as yearning does not discriminate among those who feel as deeply as we do.

It makes sense. Why should you or I get special treatment from the universe? Our mundane lives are not rewarded for their lack of prominence.

But maybe that’s the point. The ability to feel seems to be taken for granted, but maybe the missing in itself is the reward.

It is such a privilege to have something to love. So divine is the provider of the deepest of cuts and most extreme exaltation. And yet to love is also the most ordinary thing in the world. It is our nature. Whether that is a gift or a curse, I am unsure. But I believe all the hoping and pining is evidence of the thing, a reminder that what you feel is tangible and stored along the shelves of the mind.

We hope that one day these feelings will be dusted off and used again. But they may not. Perhaps they will serve merely as another means of melding the two torn sides together again, so that all the hopes and dreams and feelings of the torn individual may come together to create something greater, more considerable than even the original whole.

The dilemma of the feeler also seems to be the source ofits greatest strength. For when the feeler is lost, they may turn inward and realize the home they so badly seek cannot be found in the outside world, but rather in themselves. That source is love. And I, in all my knowledge of the self— which is really none at all— believe that is a powerful thing worthy of appreciation.

So I will revel in it. And I think you should too.

BREAKING

A Conversation With a Photographic Artist

Sparks of color enter into a reality that had never deviated from its monochromatic scale. As the darkness that consumed them began to fade, the weight of the forces that once controlled them followed. The individual is able to realize that they are more than the life they were forced to livemaking the choice to break free from the burden, surrounding themself with people and opportunities that allow them to flourish. For the first time, they have chosen the path of individualism.

Content Director: Kiana Shamsbafi Content Assistant: Antonia Mason Styling: Morgan Quinn Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Juliana Hartley, Leah Nickerson Photography: Natalie Gillis

Photo Editing: Natalie Gillis, Nastasia Rozenberg Writing: Shelby Wingate

Copy Editing: Gianna Rodriguez, Anna Albright Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Sarah Orji, Madhu Ravi Models: Ana Valencia, Jimi Adedoyin, Saket Vadarevu, Morgan Quinn

The idea of escapism evokes excitement, and it fosters a sense of hope. Breaking away from influences that prevent progress is the first step toward selfactualization and achievement. As humans who value success, we strive to move forward, and with that, comes the idea of escaping unpleasant realities.

Photographic artist Devon Thoms is aware of the complexities that come with breaking away from toxic influences. Born in a small rural town outside of Philadelphia, Devon always found himself to be different from his peers, expressing himself in creative ways others around him weren’t familiar with. Devon was one of few gay people in his hometown, and he was a boy aspiring to be a makeup artist.

Devon’s work gained traction in 2017 and 2018 when he created makeup looks that were trending at the time. Potential and current clients were desperate to see his looks displayed through photography in the best way; however, the more photos he captured of his work, the more he recognized that makeup wasn’t his true passion.

“Makeup wasn’t what was inspiring me,” Devon said. “It was the way that the makeup was captured…things like lighting and camera angles and more photographic components were actually more interesting to me.” Recognizing his actual passion allowed Devon to find his voice and establish his craft.

Pursuing a photography degree from The University of the Arts, Devon wanted to take his camera work to the next level.

For almost two years, Devon has been incorporating aspects of threedimensional modeling into his photography, greatly contributing to his artistic growth. Adding depth to two-dimensional images, Devon brings his art to life, allowing the viewer to immerse themselves in the reality he creates.

“Where the 3D component comes in, I wanted something that could help set myself apart from the other things I was seeing,” said Devon. “I wanted something that grabbed people’s attention and made them think…make them look a little deeper into it as opposed to just gleaning over an image.”

However, as he has grown in his digital photography, Devon has encountered toxicities that hinder him from producing his best work. Particularly when it comes to gender identity in his work, Devon has experienced some resistance.

“When I show people examples of my art, the first thing they think is I’m doing drag photography,” Devon said. “What I sort of came to was that my art is a creation of a world that’s separate from our own and there’s really no limitations in this world. And that even goes to the extent of gender.”

People who uphold traditional gender values are quick to label some of Devon’s photography as “masculine” or “feminine.” Those judgments on his work are transferred even to his individual identity.

“The first thought they have is drag…so they think I’m transgender,” said Devon. “But that’s not how I identify either. So, I sort of came to the conclusion that there’s masculine and feminine, and even that is not how I want to go.”

Knowing that his vision for his photography falls outside of the societal norm, Devon has to reluctantly work within this reality, specifically when dealing with traditional clients. Not only must he work within the traditional limits of “masculinity” and “femininity,” but he has to ensure that his work doesn’t lead to potential clients incorrectly labeling his gender identity.

This past summer, Devon interned with Urban Outfitters, producing art that was focused more on business and productivity and less on imagination and emotion. Being in this environment forced Devon to make a shift in his photography. Despite his strong desire to make art depicting a limitless world, working for an established fashion corporation causes him to stay within the realms of reality because that’s what leads to profit.

“With the internship at Urban Outfitters, I’m talking to executives and people in the corporate world,” Devon said. “At that point, my portraits were more focused on product and clothing and its effect on the business and its profit.”

Despite this corporate reality, Devon finds solace in knowing that his personal projects allow him to venture toward the escapism he wants to capture in his digital photography.

“Over the past year, I’ve been trying to balance that exposure between the limitless gray area and the strict black and white area,” said Devon.

Whether Devon works in a strict or limitless environment, there is another toxic influence he must attempt to break away from: a lack of inspiration and insecurity in his work.

Currently, Devon’s work revolves around compositing 3D modeling into photography, a relatively new field of work for him. Because he was recently introduced to this art form, Devon finds himself feeling insecure in his abilities.

“If I see something I’m inspired by, there can come a point where I’m jealous that I’m not doing as good as that, or I’m not making something that’s as well received as that,” said Devon. “And surrounding myself can bring me down sometimes.”

The hint of jealousy results in an unhealthy effort to consistently “one up” his work. Even as he adjusts to a new type of photography, he compares himself to people in completely different circumstances than himself.

“There are people who have larger budgets and a larger team to work on things,” Devon said. “And of course, the more people you have putting energy into one product, the better the product is going to be. Me being one person, I feel like it’s harder to reach a similar level of polished depth and finalization.

As someone aspiring to create expert level work, he views professional 3D productions as something he should have done and ponders over the resources he wishes he had. Devon fully recognizes this toxicity, which is why he reassures himself of his progress and accomplishments.

“I don’t need to surround myself with [negativity],” Devon said. “I just need to stay in my lane and keep doing what I’m doing and what I can do.”

Another way Devon breaks away from these influences is by finding inspiration outside of his respective field.

“I have K-pop albums, and all these albums come with photo books,” Devon said. “Sure, it’s still photos, but I feel like those books separate the work in a different realm. I’m able to see that through a different lens, take those inspirations, and apply it to my own work in a more efficient way.”

Along with that, Devon finds satisfaction in broadcasting his work. He loves introducing people to 3D photography and how he adds his personal touch to a piece of art. Even just posting on his Instagram (@devonthomsart) gives him satisfaction as people can simply view and appreciate his work.

“Even if the reception isn’t amazing, the fact that I’m showing my work to other people and getting it out there is satisfying to me,” Devon said. “It’s always like a little pat on the back because you feel like what you’re doing is on the right path.”

Now a recent college graduate in the corporate world, Devon has more time to commit to his artistic and professional growth. He’s able to experiment with the art he loves as well as excelling in a corporate setting.

Now that he devotes more time to his work, Devon recognizes there’s more of a risk for those toxic influences to hinder his performance — but he doesn’t let that fear control how he approaches his craft.

“I’m doing the best I can with what I have and what I’ve learned,” Devon said. “I try to remember that and incorporate myself in my work to individualize and define my art.”

"I try to remember that and incorporate myself in my work to individualize and define my art."

In Colonial America, very few daughters received a formal education. While some girls were taught how to read and write, it was widely believed that women didn’t need an education because they were expected to work in the home. In the home, they were taught etiquette and hosting as well as how to cook, sew, and keep the house in order. Colonial daughters were expected to obey their fathers and brothers— the men of the house. At this time, daughters were expected to marry by age twenty.

Especially in the south, both Black and white daughters were expected to help the war effort. They were often employed in ammunition factories as well as government offices. They also scraped lint together to make bandages and gathered supplies for the soldiers. Girls feared home invasions, violence, and separation from their families.

Writing: Gabriela Lefkovits Copy Editing: Shelby Wingate Layout: Sydney Burton, Nastasia Rozenberg

During the Industrial Revolution, young girls were expected to work full-time jobs in order to help support their families. The jobs included domestic workers for the wealthy, and worked in factories and even coal mines. Girls as young as four years old worked long hours with few breaks. In most cases, girls would earn only ten to twenty percent of what an adult would earn.

While immigrants and older American generations maintained their gendered beliefs and traditions, their young American daughters often shed those expectations. The influence of young girls can be seen most prevalently in immigrant families and small towns: running their families’ errands and generating their own economic and social resources. Girls also challenged the traditional ideas of ‘work’ to include activism. Independent daughters sought to change social values and sex standards.

1929 - 1945

Millions of families lived in poverty and struggled to feed their children, let alone have money to spare for entertainment. Girls would use whatever was laying around to make their own toys, such as rag dolls and jump rope. School was considered a luxury for many low and middle-class girls. Sometimes, daughters were expected to help maintain their houses while also working jobs.

1945 - 1968

The civil rights and antiwar movements paved way for contradictory views regarding the expectations of mothers and daughters at this time. Most daughters yearned for a life beyond child-bearing and housework and challenged the norms of their parents’ generation. In 1960, the federal government approved the birth control pill that gave women more freedom in their personal lives.

1968 - 1990

In the following decades, women continued to liberate themselves in various ways. Households began to see a gradual shift in power dynamics as the second wave in feminism set in. Many mothers and daughters alike found identity and stability through their independence during this time, and in 1975, TIME Magazine awarded its “Man of The Year” to “American Women.”

2000s - Today

As we move into the 2000s, womens’ roles continue to shift. Young girls take a larger role in politics, the workplace, and their own education. However, women are still pressured to conform to societal beauty standards and traditional feminine ideals.

ONS

ACT II

The convergence of two sides of the same coin; their parallel realities meet. The individual finds themself, in alternate parallels, at the precipice of their paths with a harrowing realization that their previous actions have beget new circumstances. It’s a release of the first versions you meet in the story; not a loss, but rather a shift of identity. A snowball effect of changes that awakens an awareness that neither individual was canny prior to the start of this journey: we’re the same, yet so different. It sparks a deep-rooted question: If I made your choice, would I look like you?

It’s found: the self. The individual experiences a triumphant metamorphosis by breaking free of the turmoil, isolation, conditional love that hindered them from experiencing themselves as they are. The world feels so much lighter and softer, the air feels colorful and bright. This newfound energy frees them. They’re finally free to breathe and just be without constraint, external or self-inflicted.

Content Director: Riley Keuroglian

Content Assistant: Leynie Hester

Styling: Will Sellers

Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Juliana Hartley, Maliha Hasan

Photography: Ashley Moore

Writing: Chanel Gaynor

Copy Editing: Shelby Wingate, Anna Albright

Layout: Maddie Dalsimer, Sydney Burton

FREE, BUT NOT REALLY

Models: Ana Valencia, Analiese Herrin, Andrew Chong

Dear Diary,

I finally left the house. I finally left my parents. I am finally free.

I’m experiencing this overwhelming feeling of independence. I can do whatever I want without the disappointed glare of my mother or the stern reprimands of my father. I am freed from the oppressive shackles that prevented my own self development.

I started going out with my roommates more. I drink almost every night. My mom never let me drink at home. She used to say alcohol leads to nothing good, which made me want to try it even more. As soon as she closed the door of my college dorm, my lips found the nearest Svedka bottle, and I drank. It didn’t taste good, but the rush of doing something my mother condemned was enough to encourage me to continue. I spent the whole night over the toilet throwing up. As I laid over the cold linoleum, I heard my mom. Her voice was so clear, I thought she was kneeling right next to me. She said five words that caused me to burst into tears: “I am disappointed in you.”

My dad used to criticize my outfits. Your shorts are too short. Your top shows too much. I hated him for it. I love fashion. It’s how I illustrate my creativity, and he always limited my expression. I know it was just him being protective, but it wasn’t fair. He doesn’t get to sexualize me. Now, I wear what I want without covering it with an oversized sweatshirt or heavy jacket. I constantly get compliments on my outfits, and it makes me feel good. The clothes I wear reflect who I am. What’s interesting is every time I stare into a mirror to evaluate my outfit, I hear a whisper in my ear that mimics my father. The whisper is quick and fleeting, but somehow always makes me consider changing.

The whole independence thing is scary. I am starting to realize life is filled with constant decisions, and I keep making the wrong ones. My parents used to make all the choices for me, and now I’m expected to just know what to do. Their advice and cautionary tales ring in my head, but I always ignore them. I want to be able to say I figured it out without them. I don’t need them. I am my own person.

Now why did I decide to pick up this diary and write to you? I haven’t opened these pages since highschool.

TW: Sexual Assault

Athens, Georgia is a landmark of moral degeneracy and spiritual clarity from businessmen to homeless people and from political debate to civil discontent. A place where the free and the damned and the willing congregate to let loose and let live, his city offers a very clear life path for those who were born at the right starting point, at the right time. Point A leads to point B without any obstructions in between.

While the city offers a structured life filled with predictability and an industrial safety net for those who choose it, there is a unique dichotomy in that chaos exists around these carefully placed societal structures. Chasing these two life philosophies in the same isolated location leads to a very direct line between the sacred and the profane. While some are rehearsing a future life in insurance sales, others are experimenting with art, music, drugs and life itself. These experiences exist in the crevices of what is commonplace. A sidewalk lined with bars and boutiques holds decades-old graffiti or a street performer with a story to tell. Searching for these hidden gems around Athens offers a means of

displaying our interconnectedness and our unique individuality at the same time. Art is deeply personal and individual, yet it holds value in a collective sense as it makes an impact on the community. A shining example of this phenomenon is Athens legend, Brett Hoop. A man with five fingers that play six strings, Hoop is a musician who can be found on any given night on one of the many busy street corners in Athens. He sings for the duration of his time, smiling and nodding knowingly at the people who call themselves his fans and welcoming strangers with a unique on-the-spot song about their lives. He found himself in Athens on a whim and has put down his roots here because of the flow of energy that exists below the surface.

“You know, most people want something. A lot of people care about survival, but beyond that, human emotions flux so much throughout the day that no matter how steady or stable someone may seem, they’re not. It’s all an act to some degree…that’s why I don’t care if people love it or hate it when I play my music. I do it to be happy,” said Hoop.

Writing: Sophie McCleod Copy Editing: Anna Albright, Shelby Wingate Layout: Aidan Williams

Treasure troves such as these make Athens unique; it gives things meaning and a storyline that otherwise wouldn’t exist. The millions of individual paths that cross in a single day is astounding, but the stories and the genuine interaction that is derived from these constant exchanges are what leave people with interesting stories and new perspectives— they are the building blocks that create personal narrative and one’s life story.

The duality between one’s awareness that we are all one and our separateness that we use to define who we are is the crux of the human condition. For this reason, no person will ever truly be known by another. Forms of expression allow us to have moments of freedom from the chains of the human condition.

The infamous Redneck Beach in Athens exemplifies the beautiful self-expression that lies beneath a heavily advertised area. The beach, adorned with broken glass and the waterfall from the movie The Spectacular Now, is a popular spot for people to crack

open a cold beer and relax. If you dig a bit deeper into the area, you will find a hidden pathway that leads to a bridge underpass filled with graffiti. The bridge has an empty space for everyone from professional artists who pour their soul into a single piece to young couples who solidify their love with initials surrounded by a heart. The energy surrounding the underpass is filled with humanity; each piece has its own story and a significance that cannot be replicated.

Niche culture is created from our sense of togetherness as people and is perceived on a solitary level. The things that make us emotional in life are specific; that which is generic fits a single mold and yet holds no independence. Cozy Bar in downtown Athens is a hole-in-the-wall spot, commonly known as the final destination after a night out. The walls are lined with photos of loyal customers from years past, with framed photos of those who broke the record for the most sake bombs consumed in a single night. There are two (rarely operational) microphones that

connect to a karaoke machine where people sing their hearts out to “their song,” even if nobody can hear them. The plates of pretzels sitting on the bar top have become an iconic staple of the establishment, evoking a sense of nostalgia for those who frequent Cozy.

Although Cozy does not have the largest space for dancing or the most advanced lighting system, it makes up for what it lacks in riches with substance. Each corner of the bar holds a unique story with regular customers sitting just feet away, ready to relay them. There are only two employees, who are loved as deeply as they are known. Covered in signatures and homemade stickers and photos of the good old days, Cozy has a unique story to tell by merely existing.

This life is not defined by that which you cannot control. This life is certainly not built on the opinions and paths of others; this life is built on who you are, what you saw, how you felt, how sweaty your palms were, how quickly your heart was racing, and how big the smile on your face was. Joy is never found in external approval, but from within. Societal acceptance provides a fleeting happiness that floats away into oblivion the second the next seemingly unattainable goal rolls around the corner.

Your presence in the world is grounded in the intentions of your heart, rather than the external appearance you build around yourself as a feeble attempt to impress those who aren’t really watching. If you allow societal rules and institutions to dictate your existence, your life will be an endless cycle of insatiable cravings for the next “lifechanging” milestone, followed by a deep drop from the cliffs of a hollow euphoria.

This world is so beautiful and serendipitous, yet so incredibly transient; please do not forget to take a look around once in a while and realize that you only have the moment you are currently in. So many people in this world become approval junkies— society knowingly gives you the first taste free of charge, knowing that you will come crawling back for more once you realize that the first fix just wasn’t enough. Each time you make the trek back to what is now your promised land of empty formalities, the price becomes exponentially higher until you find yourself army crawling up a never-ending mountain in search of a meaningless pat on the back.

You live on a planet that has oceans and valleys and mountains and true love and unadulterated joy, so please do not trade long-lasting happiness in exchange for a sensible salary and a reasonably priced townhouse with a picket fence and a homeowner’s association contract because this world offers so much more than a capsule of perceived safety. It is all yours for the taking if you are willing to take the leap.

If you do not utilize this moment to set the intentions for your life, you will spend your time on Earth checking all of the required boxes on the form, staying well within the red tape and mindlessly following vacuous protocol, rather than searching for the tranquil equanimity that is waiting to be found in your soul.

I am your perfect daughter You tend to see the world In black and white

But you have always viewed me With kaleidoscopic vision Since there’s more to life than just What’s wrong and what’s right You say seeing is believing, And I guess that is true So I rise when I must and step into my light

I am your perfect daughter You call me your little bee Sweet words that drip So I can live my life carefree It’s time for me to leave And make my own way, Just remember All bees go back to their queen That I can guarantee

I AM YOUR PERFECT DAUGHTER

I am your perfect daughter So we walk together to the ocean, Taste salty air and feel the sand It’s time for me to understand These mixed emotions The waves move me, They make me feel powerful Maybe that is the only way I can understand my idyllic notion of you

Writing: Gabriela Lefkovits

Copy Editing: Jordan Ross, Sophie McLeod

Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg

You have reached the end of her journey Where uncertainty lies; It wonders and waits

And hopes for a chance to become fate. She lives a life where choice splits in two, Where part meets her and part meets you. Do you wonder what could have been On the path she didn’t choose, In the place she didn’t go?

Flip the magazine around to know.

Flip the magazine around to know.

On the path she didn’t choose, In the place she didn’t go?

She lives a life where choice splits in two, Where part meets her and part meets you. Do you wonder what could have been

It wonders and waits And hopes for a chance to become fate.

Where uncertainty lies;

You have reached the end of her journey

Your world is a world where every time you take one step forward, you find yourself two steps back.

You have plenty of good days. You are productive. You are social. You are glowing from the inside out. The good days feel light like maybe your world is not actually on fire. On your good days, you reach out to people you love. You sit in gratitude for the life you have, and you smell the roses.

Other days when you try to smell the roses, all you can focus on are the tough thorns that surround them.

You remember the way it used to be. You remember that they are gone. You question why it all had to change. You focus on the dark in your life that you cannot ignore: regretfully and painfully.

You sit in the flames and allow your mind to burn.

You think about how 1,000 good days could never make up for one bad day, but you realize that they can and that they do. You realize that bad days are a necessary evil. You cannot escape them, and you always know they are hiding around the corner. But if you ever want to smell the roses again, you will have to face some thorns.

You are constantly growing, always reflecting, but you are never blissfully unaware of the hurt and imperfections that surround you.

One step forward and another one back.

It is a paradox of your world.

You love while you hate, you are confident while afraid, you grow while you hurt, and you experience a million more emotions that turn another on its head. You wonder how it is possible. To feel so many different ways at once; to feel the contrast between your heart and your mind.

Your world is not a perfect world. Your world is contradictory. It is a world that adds an unexplainable depth to life, a world that gives you the privilege to soak in all of the highs and wander in all of the lows. Your world is one that lets you live and lets you learn for your whole life until the very end.

Your world is not a perfect world, but it is fascinating, dynamic and beautiful.

Your world is a paradox.

I am not your perfect daughter

You tend to see the world In black and white

I view life with kaleidoscopic vision Like there is no wrong And there is no right You say you only believe What you can see If that is true, Why can’t you find my light?

I am not your perfect daughter You call me your little bee But hardened honey Shatters like glass There is only so long I can remain carefree You cut my sweet words, But what you do not know I’ll sting when I get my chance— That I can guarantee

I AM NOT YOUR PERFECT DAUGHTER

I am not your perfect daughter You have always loved the ocean, Its smell and its sounds You love to play With my emotions, It’s funny— deep down, I’ve always known its risk Maybe that is the only way I can understand My endless devotion for you

Writing: Gabriela Lefkovits

Copy Editing: Jordan Ross, Sophie McLeod

Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg

THE paRadox OF LIFE

Writing: Caroline Kostuch Copy Editing: Shelby Wingate, Sophie McLeod Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg

In a perfect world, you would know how to move forward in every situation. Right and wrong would be clear, and decisions would be easy to make. You would not have to fight with your own mind, and you would be confident in your feelings.

But perfect worlds only exist in daydreams and novels, and those worlds are not yours.

Your world is reality, full of chaos and peace, joy and anger, love and hate. You are capable of thinking, feeling and acting in three completely different ways all at the same time. Sometimes it feels overwhelming, and sometimes it feels messy, but your world is not perfect.

Your world is not one-dimensional, and your world is, inevitably, consumed by paradoxes.

Your world is a world where you can love someone with all of your heart and hate them with all of your head.

Maybe they betrayed you or left you behind. Maybe they did not reciprocate the life that you poured into them. Maybe they did not cherish your memories together in the same way that you did. Maybe they hurt someone you loved. Maybe you will never be able to look at them the same way again.

But maybe you still love them.

Actually, you love them more than words can describe. You would not know how to do life without them, and you would not know who you would be without their influence on you. You care about them in a way that you only wish they would care about you.

You love them, and you hate it--a paradox of your world.

Your world is a world where you are confident in your life, your decisions and your future; however, you cannot shake the irrational fears and crippling anxiety you face.

You are doing everything you have ever wanted. You got the job that makes you excited to get out of bed in the morning. You spend your evenings with the one person you find the most comfort in. You have memorable nights out with friends that feel like home. It is everything you have worked for.

You feel good, you feel right. Right? During your alone time, you question if this life is what is right for you: “Is this really the path I am meant to be on? In a world with so many options, how am I supposed to know this is the right one for me?” You have never really felt content with your decisions, always spending time pondering over everything else that is out there in the world.

Life seems good now, but how do you know it will last forever? Something must change. Something feels off. Everything is wrong. Everything is wrong…

Until you wake up the next morning. You go about your day as usual: happy and content. Until the next time you let your mind wander a little bit too much.

You are confident this life was meant for you, yet fearful that you have made the wrong choices. You’re terrified of your future. Your soul is fulfilled, but your head manages to make you feel empty.

It is a paradox of your world.

Everyone faces this question in life. It’s up to that individual to choose happiness for themselves or for the people around them. In an ideal situation, I can have both. But for now, I have to choose who I want to be, and I am starting to learn that the only person I should satisfy is me. I choose me.

As I’m getting older, I want to feel lighter–discovering some of my differences that can be used to my advantage. I am caring. Kicking out the habit of self-comparison does not mean I have to stop caring for others. I want to turn my envy into inspiration. It’s a beautiful thing to share ideas and goals, and I need to be more open-minded. I want to embrace the guilt I carry and build confidence within myself.

Could I mean more to the world than I know? It always goes back to my mom’s belief that I was meant to make an impact. Maybe I will, just in a more intimate way. There is a reason why I have always been the reserved and quiet one: I was meant to tell others’ stories, and there is beauty in the way I choose to share them. That is the beauty I know I can offer to the world.

I think I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I’m in a place where I can pursue something meaningful and create my own life. I’ve been vulnerable putting myself out there for little acknowledgment, but time will come to my rescue if I remain patient. Whatever I decide may not make sense to anyone else, but I create the map of my own life. I just have to embrace change and heal from there.

My mom told me once when I was young that she knew I would grow up to be the one that does something to make a change for the better in the world. She knew that whatever I ended up doing was going to mean something. I believed her until I saw others with my own dream, only theirs were better.

It’s possible that is the source of my constant feeling of dissatisfaction. Every day I’m not offered someone else’s dream life, I think back to my mom’s bold statement. I am in a dark place now because I have spent my life focusing on everyone around me, never on myself. It feels like my time was taken away.

My mom was sick for half of my life, and I grew resentful of the joy that surrounded me. I want to heal, but I’m not ready to welcome change. I was so excited to face the reality of my life where I am now, but it doesn’t feel right. Maybe it’s my fault, maybe I haven’t tried hard enough to expand my social circle or embrace my family’s Dominican and Puerto Rican culture. No one prepared me for the feelings I’m experiencing in this overglamourized era, and I admit I’m scared.

I confess to my distaste for the decisions I must make. I don’t want to let anyone down— but I know I can’t be in the dark alone, right?

WHEN WILL I SEE THE LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL?

The true self, nowhere to be found. The past self holds onto them, never letting them go. Their eyes blinded to the world, subject to disillusionment. Their voice cracked and stripped with each alarming demand, opinion, or cry for a sense of self worth. The doll is finally ready to be delivered into the world to do everyone’s bidding but their own. Existing, but not living.

Content Director: Riley Keuroglian

Content Assistant: Cayce Sherer

Styling: Skyli Alvarez

Styling Contributor: Morgan Quinn

Beauty: Carly Judenberg

Beauty Contributor: Reagan Cox Photography: Ashley Moore

Photo Editing: Sydney Burton Writing: Gianna Rodriguez

Copy Editing: Anna Albright, Jordan Ross

Layout: Sydney Burton, Aidan Williams, Nastasia Rozenberg

Models: Morgan Quinn, Nile Ziegler, Saket Vadarevu

The convergence of two sides of the same coin; their parallel realities meet. The individual finds themself, in alternate parallels, at the precipice of their paths with a harrowing realization that their previous actions have beget new circumstances. It’s a release of the first versions you meet in the story; not a loss, but rather a shift of identity. A snowball effect of changes that awakens an awareness that neither individual was canny prior to the start of this journey: we’re the same, yet so different. It sparks a deep-rooted question: If I made your choice, would I look like you?

Aug. 1, 2021– Part of Lily Parker passed with the changing of the tides. As the sun peeked through the cracks of her blinds, she laid awake— hot, with heavy breaths. Her bones slowly shook from her worn out feet to her clenching jaw. A great pressure sat on her shoulders, as if she had sunk below sea level; ears popping, swimming curiously and dreadfully, through the black abyss that now inundated her mind. Her spine burned. A fire sat deep inside, collecting memories like dust, slowly erasing what she once knew. How you once looked, laughed, and smiled— a smudge, as though she now looks through a cracked lens.

Lily Parker was a loving daughter, friend, sister and cherished granddaughter. Normally she played music in the car. She would sing along, drum her feet, let the windows down. But on August 1, Lily Parker’s windows stayed shut— the silence possessed her and the cool air stung her cheeks. Lily’s fingers sat tapping, but not to a familiar tune.

OnAugust 1, Lily ’ sheart , once whole, sliced;splintered into tiny shardssh e wept — apiece of her once solidpuzzle

now missing.

Lily was numb. An endless loop of white noise. She never knew how to process her emotions, and so she sat with chapped lips and stinging cries. A hollow shell of a once abundant soul. Dumped. Melted. Burned. Left with nothing but the memory of your sweet cigars.

Lily never believed in the afterlife. But on August 1, crossing her fingers, she kissed on a pinky promise.

Lily Parker accepted that you had sailed away, but still clung to the thought that one day, your waves would crash on her again. Meeting together in spitting breakers and dashing into a crisp white foam on the shore. She pictured you’d see her again but perhaps in another form. Sweeping down as an alabaster seagull, you’d lift her from the riptides.

Lily Parker never feared death. That is until August 1, where she then stood paralyzed underneath its very hand. Becoming a solemn goose that flies north, Lily packed her bags only a few short days after the clouds wept their silent cries. The long ride gave in to the abundance of regret. A sick pit in her stomach, bundled up like black fruit seeds, she felt the weight of her loss consume her.

In the sorrow of death, on August 1, Lily sat beneath the crooked stars. Drowning her grief, she spilled her mother’s wine. Counting the constellations, she searched for evidence of your name. Your smile hung low above the dazzling stars, cutting across the gaping black sky. Touching your name to the roof of her mouth, Lily called out: an echo making no return.

Lily Parker is not one to enjoy the heat of an August twilight. But on the first, she remained stationed to her porch chair, swatting the slew of mosquitoes that slowly gnawed at her bare legs. Listening intently, Lily immersed herself in your memory. Each story, unveiling new sentiments. Her once crumpled narrative unfolded. The sweat on her brow glistened, as the blood once drained slowly flushed her cheeks again.

With a creeping smile, Lily let out an uncomfortable laugh. Overwhelmed with relief, she drew in more sticky air, held it in her lungs and shut her eyes. Listening, Lily envisioned the way your smile lines used to crinkle. Exhaling, startled, she let the laughter fill her once hollow shell. Like a warm blanket, it wrapped her up and placed her in a world in which you still inhabited.

Feeling the weight of her grief, Lily’s eyes shut.

On August 1, Lily Parker put herself to sleep with her pillow damp.

On August 2, when the sun first peeked through the corners of her blinds, Lily forgot you had ever left.

Writing: Amelia Sturkie

Copy Editing: Gianna Rodriguez, Anna Albright

Layout: Maddie Dalsimer

LETTER #4

MY CHILD,

It may be hard to see right now, but everything I ever said to you was for a reason. Even though we may not speak now, it is all worth it seeing you as the beautiful, thin, sought-after woman I always wanted you to be.

Doesn’t it feel good?

You may not have grown up as petite as I was at your age, but over time you got there and you should be so proud of that. I might almost say you are prettier than me now. You are such a polite, lovely young woman and you only have me to thank for that.

In high school, I was a little worried about your size,

but I’m happy to see that those issues have resolved themselves. Hopefully, you finally took my advice about only eating one meal a day. Regardless, it’s paying off.

I may not always agree with the outfits you’re in on social media, but the comments I see make me understand that maybe it’s okay. I want you to get the attention your body deserves.

Boys will be boys, and they seem to like you a lot.

but I guess that is where we differ. Maybe one day you will finally see that I always had your best interest at heart. Keep up whatever you’re doing and don’t stop— I wouldn’t want to see you let yourself go as you get older.

Always looking out for you, Mom

To the people who gave me my namesake:

You had sex.

That is an objective fact, otherwise, I wouldn’t be here writing this letter today. Everyone has sex which is why I never understood why you placed such a weight on the topic. We never spoke of it, thought of it, or even breathed any words relating to intimacy. If I even tried to breach the subject I was immediately shut down, given no semblance to how that might affect me in the future. Even if there was no direct talk of sex, it was implied that I was not to have it in how you made commentary on my clothing. I was never trying to attract attention from guys. I was never trying to defy God.

I was never trying to impress anyone, but myself.

And yet, when I got to college and finally moved out of your house suddenly that was all I desired. My selfworth lay in the hands of the people who called me pretty; or less attractively: hot, sexy, and any other word you can think of. The self-confidence I once had was watered down to the words of my peers, and if they deemed me desirable enough. You took the thoughts I had surrounding myself, my sexuality, and the way I looked and diminished them to the point where I cannot look in the mirror and call myself beautiful without the confirmation of someone else around me.

Sex does not mean anything to me anymore because of you.

I worked so hard to get away from the thoughts you instilled in me, that I cannot fathom the idea of being a virgin anymore. If you thought I was defying God before, I don’t even want to know what you would think of me now. I used to live to make you proud, but now I live for the attention of others.

I hope this is what you wanted because…

LETTER #2

No matter how many times I write this, I’m not sure it will ever make it into your hands.

Sometimes I think about what it could’ve been like had we had a more simple relationship. You’d pick me up from school and offer to make me a snack. We’d sit at the table and talk about our days before I started my homework. I’d help you prepare dinner and we’d wait for Dad to get home, and then we’d sit together and enjoy our meal while laughing about some cheesy, sentimental memory that popped into our heads.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

No constant fighting, snide comments or slammed doors. No harsh remarks, rolled eyes, or teary nights.

I used to think that my relationship with food was normal. I used to think that every person my age struggled with this incessant desire to stay thin, reach a goal weight, or just make their mothers happy by looking a certain way. I did not know that every person my age did not feel the need to sneak snacks while their parent was not looking, or only eat one portion because if you even reach for a second there will be some comment accompanying it. For some reason, I thought one day a magic switch would flip and there would no longer be a stigma tied to food,

but unfortunately, that day never came.

Instead, I sit here now, writing this letter still struggling with the same things I felt so desperate to control when I was sixteen. Regardless of how much I try, it seems

I can never truly escape the hold you have over my self-worth.

I sometimes wish I could just pick up the phone and give you a call, but I always find myself in the same place.

And what would that really do anyways?

LETTER #1

Whether it was a comparison to you at my age or just something you didn’t like, you never failed to point it out. I can still hear your voice in my head every time I wear something that wouldn’t be up to your standards - even when you aren’t there. “Pull that top down” “Quit talking so loud” “When I was your age I was wearing a size 2” and the list goes on. Even after living on my own for so many years, it feels exactly the same.

Part of me thought that moving out of the house would make the incessant worry about what you might think of me dull, but here it still is. Taunting me. In the beginning, I thought that if I just tweaked what I was wearing or doing just a little bit maybe you’d love me more, but as I get older I’m starting to realize that nothing could have made you treat me differently.

No matter how I contorted myself to fit your standards, I would never be good enough.

I remember when I was 11, I had just gotten hot pink high-top Converse, and I couldn’t wait to wear them with my matching pink polo dress. I was so excited to show you the outfit I had put together. I ran downstairs and all you had to say was “it’s tacky to wear an outfit that is all one color, and that shade washes you out.” From that point on, I sheltered myself

just to make sure I could get even an ounce of your approval, but it still never came.

I will say you did teach me one thing: exactly how I do not want to raise my kids, so thank you for that. Here’s to the years of therapy you pushed me to.

YOU ALWAYS HAD A HABIT OF MAKING ME FEEL LESSER THAN YOU.

Content Director: Trinity Gates Content Assistant: Chiamaka Uwagerikpe

Styling: Ana Ramos

Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Hannah George Photography: Arantxa Villa

Photo Editing: Sydney Burton, Nastasia Rozenberg

Writing: Haley Wolf Copy Editing: Jordan Ross, Sophie McLeod

Layout: Nastasia Rozenberg, Sarah Orji, Maddie Dalsimer Models: Nile Ziegler, Carter Peace

The puppet strings are gone, only to be replaced by a leash. Invisible to the naked eye, but felt deeply on the neck of this individual. Something happened. The front is gone. It’s becoming darker. They feel it in their chest; the weight of their indecision, the weight of their struggle, the weight of the incidents that led them here. It anchors them and as hard they try, breaking free feels like a failing option.

The following content contains discussions regarding sex, eating disorders, self-hate, and familial struggles that could be upsetting to some readers: please proceed with caution.

It’s highschool now, what a sight! This internal self hatred may be less of a fight. She makes new friends, and they seem popular. But all too soon, they’re bound to drop her. She bought the latest trends, came back to all her old habits, but it would not be enough to keep a hold of the crowd She finds a new hobby, and with that, some new people. She moves on to eleventh, and with that, a first boyfriend. She likes him a lot, even though he tends to feed her unanswered questions yet again.

Was she pretty enough for him? Was he into someone else? But the phenomenon of that first puppy love overshadows the above, making the suffering seem worth it. She thinks it’s normal, this is just how it is. Until one day she finally reaches her wits end. It’s senior year now, she is faced with a choice of where to go next and who she will be.

Her early twenties are here. She looks back on her years and wishes to tell to her younger self so many things she thought were wrong were not, were normal, she was doing so well. Those jeans that were in are unspeakable now, the girls that made fun of her are staying in their hometown.While she has made dreams and built up resilience, she can’t believe she was warped by so much ridiculousness. There is still a struggle of what’s right or wrong but she has her own self now,

created by her. There is only so much that can be done in such a short time of life. But now she knows better, then to waste it. For people she will never see again that caused so much affliction, She’ll no longer be a part of their feminine fiction.

It’s seventh grade now, school is a challenge. She plays an instrument, Takes harder classes And meets new friends. The questions that she thought Had reached their end Would only be the beginning, And this time, they stung. Do you shave your legs? Have you kissed a boy? Did you get the new brand names On your jeans and shoes? She looks in the mirror wondering too. Should she wear makeup? Curl her hair-do? Talk to more boys? She is lost, It is all so new. There is a solution to this! She goes down a rabbit hole. Video after video.

She sees flawless skin, An airbrushed allure.

No acne, no hair, a perfect mua. She takes her mother to the store And begs with tears in her eyes, For products and things She knew they could not afford, Despite never having used them before. Her mother had never seen her so distraught, And went over budget without a thought. She scrubbed her face with powder, Put color on her lid. Maybe this would help her— She’s just a kid. She gets a few more compliments. Approval comes in waves. What else can she change? How long until she caves? She stays up at night, Not knowing what to do. How long will it take until she’s just like you? Tears fall down as she tried to cover it up, With the grades, clubs, and new friends— Will they see she cannot get enough? Surely she will have this figured out by ninth.

She walks into class for her first day of school, Fifth grade better watch out.

She picked out a new outfit and braided her hair, She is ready, no doubt.

She will get all A’s and join the chorus. Perhaps she will be a girl scout, an athlete, a musician, too. She will be a pleasure to teach, she will raise her hand high To answer every question, academics alike.

But there’s a different kind of question, One she will not know how to answer, One of mockery and misunderstanding.

Why did a little boy point out hairs between her eyebrows? Why did the teacher tell her she was being too bossy?

Why isn’t she getting the highest score?

Why don’t they want to play with her anymore?

She thought she looked her prettiest. She thought she knew the answers. She brushes it off and trudges through. Onto art class, there are more things to do.

A puppet with invisible strings. This individual recognizes the pull, but doesn’t say anything because it feels safe. There’s an unspoken rule: play the part, no punishment. Don’t try too hard. Don’t rebel. Don’t try to stand out. Don’t fail. Just blend in. Keep your head down. Shut your mouth and smile. It’s fun to play along. Now, each time this individual comes home to their bedroom, nostalgia fills their heart: When the role was easy to play, friends were easy to fool, parents easy to please.

Content Director: Trinity Gates

Content Assistant: Claire Wadzinski

Styling: Kelsey Jenik

Beauty: Carly Judenberg, Maliha Hasan Beauty Contributor: Hannah George Hair: Carly Judenberg, Jillian Meharg

Photography: Grace Lang

Photo Editing: Sydney Burton Writing: Jordan Ross

Copy Editing: Gianna Rodriguez, Shelby Wingate Layout: Sydney Burton, Nastasia Rozenberg, Aidan Williams Models: Nile Ziegler, Rodriques Giles, Eros Alejandro Ayala, Žemyna Mikalčiūté

In this parallel, the individual is protected at all costs from the dangers of the world: the bubble from beyond. A parent’s prized possession, their child. Their love turned conditional, which proved detrimental to the growth of the child. A child with no wings to fly away from the nest. A child with no voice to speak up and speak out. A child with no rest from the demands and expectations of the parents. A child with a forced self serving the idea of who they should be, not who they truly are. A gigantic set up for failure: a person that never learned to use their voice. A person that never learned to be courageous in the face of conflict. A person that prefers the safety of conditional love because it’s all they’ve ever known. This journey follows the kidnapping of the inner child and the hope lost at ever finding them again.