Strike Magazine WashU Issue 01 by Strike Magazines

issue 01

games THIS LAUNCHING ISSUE REPRESENTS THE GAMIFICATION OF LIFE AND LOVE. WE EXPLORE HOW COMPETITION, SPEED, AND RIVALRY CONTRIBUTE TO OUR LIVED EXPERIENCES. OUR LIVES ARE SEEMINGLY STRUCTURED AS GAMES- WITH TACIT RULES AND LEARNED STRATEGIES. IN OUR RELATIONSHIPS, OUR HOUSEHOLDS, OUR CAREERS... ARE WE THE WINNER OR ARE WE THE LOSER? THIS ISSUE EXAMINES THE FORCES THAT GENERATE THIS COMPETITIVENESS AS WELL AS THEIR MANIFESTATION IN OUR LIVES.

issue 01

founders

external

editor-in-chief JAMES LANDMAN

marketing director ANNIE LEVITT

creative director JENNA PEARLSTEIN

public relations director TARYN GURBACH

art director LILIA JIMÉNEZ

public relations assistant SAM AUDITORE

director of external affairs NOA DIAMOND

finance directors JASMINE PETERSON OLIVER MASS

creative

social media coordinator BIDDI SOLOMON

production director RAY MCINTYRE

casting director CJ BENN

photographers ANJALI REDDY ETHAN TSAI ISA ZISMAN

merchandise + booking directors KATE WARD CAROLINE WEINSTEIN

beauty director DYLAN BELL art coordinators ALLIE SASSA COURTNEY HUANG

writing

graphic design team AMEE ROTHMAN MAYA SIMON MIA HARRIS

content editors RACHEL MCCARTHY TALIA CHAIRMAN

writing director ORLI HELLERSTEIN

staff writers ALI KOENIG AMANDA KRAVITZ ELLIE EPPERSON HANNAH BASH JASON LYONS ORIANA CHRIST

strike staff

music director LILA DICKSTEIN stylists ALIYA HOLLUB ALEX LUTZ ANJALI REDDY ELINA MALAMED GRACE LI JEBRON PERKINS KRISHNA VAIDYANATHAN MADDIE SAVITCH NATALIE RUBENSTEIN OLIVIA BABA TENI TORIOLA

trike Magazine is built on the construct that we are all Striking in our own way. We crafted Issue 01 with an evergreen commitment to creativity in all its forms. A magazine is an undertaking - more than just ink on paper. It is a gathering of writers, stylists, photographers, planners, thinkers, shakers, and movers. Strike, at its nucleus, is a coterie of students with immeasurable talent and drive. These pages are a reflection of us and our passion for the zeitgeist. The original Strike Magazine was founded in Tallahassee, Florida in 2017. Since then, Strike has expanded to 13 publications across the country and we are beyond honored to become a part of that legacy. We joined the family in January 2020 with the intention of offering students a creative and professional space to grow. We want to give an overwhelming and collective thank you to each of the chapters for their guidance and support during our first issue. Having such a brilliant community to rely on has ripened our publication in ways that we could not have anticipated. We would also like to give a special thanks to our founder Hannah Kealy for not only starting this extraordinary organization, but also for her trust in us to build upon her vision. Four months ago we brought this publication to St. Louis and recruited a staff of 43 students to join us on this exploration. We knew that when these minds came together- and struck that match - the subsequent combustion would be beautiful. The Strike team created a publication that represents life through a unique, bold, and intimate lens. Just five months ago, Strike magazine had its genesis over the failing wifi of a four-way Facetime call. Just five months ago, Strike was a seedling of a thought. And now, you are perusing our first edition. Looking back at where we started, we could not be more thankful for our amazing staff. Each member has worked extensively in ensuring that Issue 01 is everything we ideated at our first pitch party. We are beyond amazed at how Strike Magazine St. Louis has come together, especially during Covid-19. We cannot wait to continue expanding on what it means to be striking. Strike out, James, Jenna, Lilia, and Noa

table of

CONTENTS 08

editorial

sample

editorial

sample

TWISTER

RED, YELLOW, GREEN, AND SHIT ALL ORANGE

HIGH ROLLER

FRIDAY NIGHT'S FIGHTER

scan this code for the GAMES playlist:

THIS PLAYLIST IS CURATED TO MATCH THE CADENCE OF THE MAGAZINE. ALTHOUGH STRIKE IS A VISUAL EXPERIENCE, WE WANTED TO FIND A WAY TO ACTIVATE AS MANY SENSES AS POSSIBLE. WE ENCOURAGE ALL READERS TO LISTEN ALONG, IF POSSIBLE, FOR A HEIGHTENED READING EXPERIENCE.

editorial

sample

PLAY

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THE QUADRUPLE E; CLEANSE TEA FOR THE NEW YOU

TW I S T R

TWIS TER THE DOTS AND SPECKLES OF EACH OTHER

photography

ANJALI REDDY

words

ELLIE EPPERSON

stylists

GRACE LI KRISHNA VAIDYANATHAN JEBRON PERKINS

models

ABBIE LEONARD CATHERINE HERLIHY ELIZA FEFFER SHREYA GUNUKULA

beauty

DYLAN BELL

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

We start as blank canvases. We start free; free from expectations, free from fear, from pressure. Naive, but hopeful. Our experiences, our families, our backgrounds, have shaped us. They become the foundation of our identity. Primary colors for firsts, blue, yellow, red. They give us a semblance of self. Maybe blue, calm and serene. Maybe yellow, happy, cheerful. Maybe red. Feisty, but prefers the word passionate. Around that time, the time that parents dread because their babies stop being babies, the colors begin to mix. Two meet. Blue meets red. Tentative and slow, exploring the uncharted territory together. The first kiss. Sloppy, far more tongue than you imagined. Stolen glances, awkward fumbling. The first relationship doesn’t last long. It’s a big world, full of colors, why would you want to limit yourself to just one. But walking away, you’re not just blue, just red anymore. The colors mix and mold and it's scary and exciting and you want to try all of the colors, but just wait there’s no rush.

Fast forward and you’re no longer just one color. As we dare to connect, we begin to color each other in. We pick up traits, habits, words. You’re splatter painted, red to start, a hint of orange, a touch of purple. You meet green. Green is new and different and soft where they were hard and warm where they were cold. You’ve never felt this way about green, never knew you could feel this way about green. Maybe it’s not romantic. Maybe it’s romantic but you’re not ready just quite yet to admit it to yourself. That’s okay. Sometimes those relationships, those colors mark deeper than the rest combined. The colors aren’t always pretty. Sometimes they don’t mix. Blue, yellow, and red make brown. The dark color mars the otherwise pristine display. It doesn’t mean you’re broken. It doesn’t mean you’re no longer worthy of the bright colors. But we are left alone with a new color that we have to incorporate into ourselves. You falter. Hesitate because how do you show the new color. What if they think it's ugly. It doesn’t mean the color is not beautiful, but more complex. If anything, the dark makes the light stand out even more. A new part to love. But no one can convince us of that, we have to learn to love that part of us that makes us different.

It’s scary to be vulnerable. Terrifying even. To open up enough to allow someone to see us with no filter, bare. To allow ourselves to connect with someone enough that we share a bit of color with them, them with us. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t, and we’re left trying to make sense of where it went wrong, left with the constant reminders of their color. With time, the color fades. You notice it sometimes, but it doesn’t hurt to remember where you picked up each color. After all, each combination is unique. Cliche right, everyone is unique. But in this case, it’s true. Not one other person has your same experiences, your same colors.

"THE DARK MAKES THE LIGHT STAND OUT EVEN MORE. A NEW PART TO LOVE. BUT NO ONE CAN CONVINCE US OF THAT, WE HAVE TO LEARN TO LOVE THE PARTS OF US THAT MAKES US DIFFERENT."

Red, Yellow, Green and Shit All Orange words

ORLI HELLERSTEIN

illustration

MIA HARRIS

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

red is running into you at the grocery store with three rolls of tape and a tube of hemorrhoid cream in my basket is reminiscing in the toilet paper aisle about the yacht trip summer ‘09 you cling to such a yellow nostalgia and my recall is so curdled green. red is the space under my eyebrows from the plucking i did this morning the dots on my chin where i couldn’t leave imperfection well enough alone. the shine on my forehead under fluorescent white lights because you use roche posay and i’m lucky to remember to dab on aloe vera from the big tub my mom keeps under the kitchen sink during summer. red is the lining of my stomach when you ask about my sister because how dare you ask about the people who cleaned my canvas when you spattered me blue. but i sketched on a smile because there are other people walking in these grey aisles because we’re at a CVS and i’ve got nothing to hide my purple bruised heart. and if i let white hot blind hot run its course i’ll have to deal with all those brown brown empty brown eyes on me and you have painted me all the wrong ways enough times for one school year. so. instead i hide. the walls of the employee bathroom in CVS are orange. orange is i’ve never been orange before. it’s not a pretty color

or a vivid color or even a remarkable color. it looks like what happens when you stain something red and rub it off to save face like a mistake like a regret like it could use a white-out pen. i got one of those here once. aisle 13. it’s not right or wrong or good or bad or wanted or hated or this or that. not evocative in any way. in fact it’s not even ugly. it’s just … unnecessary. an unnecessary color. and maybe that’s why, when i get off the floor of the employee bathroom the middle aged man with a mint green mango madness vape waved me in the direction of i grab the orange pokemon card deck at the checkout. you say goodbye and i go to buy my three rolls of tape and hemorrhoid cream and a pack of pokemon cards that cost 3.79 which is green i probably shouldn’t be spending. but orange doesn’t mean shit to me. and maybe i’m always a little orange. or maybe i’m overthinking again. but i get a legendary. and if that isn’t a sign from the nintendo gods. and when you wave to me on my way out the door i’m just white canvas who shopped at CVS for three rolls of tape and hemorrhoid cream. just a set of orange orange pokemon cards.

High Roller photography

ISA ZISMAN

words

HANNAH BASH

stylists

OLIVIA BABA TENI TORIOLA

models

CHARLOTTE OHANA ETHAN BLOCK G HAO LEE ISABELLA FAIFE MAI-HAN NGUYEN-THANH

beauty

DYLAN BELL

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

Imagine being eight years old and your life is turned

upside down. You find out your dad, the only parent you live with, is going to prison. Just yesterday you were playing in the backyard with him and listening to your favorite music in the car, and now he is gone. You don’t understand what drove your dad to rob a bank that day. The innocent life you lived has been ripped from under you. This is the story of Michael and his little girl Jessica, a family I had known since I was eight years old myself.

This story is in stark contrast to the glamorized versions

of bank robbing that so deeply intrigue viewers in movies and tv shows. Let’s take for example, Money Heist. I’ll be the first to admit that I was, and still am, obsessed with this show. The characters are badass and they each have their own unique backstory. When they pulled off the heist, I was excited for them. I felt a part of their journey. While viewers love the thrill, we must come to understand the why behind robberies, both in shows and real life. Why are people so desperate for money that they are willing to go to such great lengths and risk their lives? In Jessica’s case, she discovers many years later the true reason for her father’s bank robbery: a crippling gambling addiction. The worst part is that this story isn’t unique. I’m certain there are many other broken families with stories similar to this one.

I think all too often society creates this fantasized world

of gambling where it’s all fun and games with no consequences. We never stop to think about the harsh realities that accompany gambling, but we should. Gambling can deeply affect people’s lives and a gambling addiction should be treated as a disease just like any other form of addiction.

In Michael’s case, he was extremely blind to his

debilitating addiction. As with many other gamblers, Michael didn’t know when to walk away from the table. Once potential earnings amass to a large sum, gamblers are unable to avoid the temptation to keep playing. Instead of taking a small amount of winnings, they put the money right back into the table and end up in debt.

On a few occasions Michael requested small amounts

of money from my parents. He always had an excuse for why he needed money, such as to pay for Jessica’s soccer lessons. After two or three times, my parents suspected something wasn’t right.

We can only assume that if Michael was borrowing

money from us, he was also borrowing money from multiple other sources. Unfortunately, “other sources” may not have been forgiving and we believed he was in great debt. We can only assume that this is what drove him to rob a bank.

Lucky You

If such harsh realities result from gambling, why does

society not only feed into gambling and adrenaline addiction, but encourage it? Gambling has clearly evolved in terms of both the motivations to participate and the games themselves. The elite class used to engage in gambling on special occasions. People would come dressed in fancy clothes and play a few hands. The activity was more about the social scene than actually betting money. Even though some still enjoy gambling as an event to do with friends every once in a while, for the true gamblers, it is all about turning a profit. There is no pleasure in playing because they are too preoccupied with money. Although there are still the typical card games such as poker and blackjack, slot machines have also been introduced to the sport. Slot machines provide the chance to win money with just the pull of a lever or the touch of a button.

They have completely taken away any thought

processes involved in gambling because the machines are based purely off of luck. What happened to actually engaging one’s brain in gambling? Gambling used to be a social activity played for enjoyment, but now is it just about money?

Slot machines also make it extremely easy to sit there

for hours on end in one spot feeding large sums of money into the machine. I can attest to this as I recently became able to spend time and money in a casino. I’ll admit that I found playing slot machines quite fascinating.

K 32

Q 33

As soon as I won once I was hooked on the machines.

I was even angered by frequent gamblers who hogged the Wheel of Fortune slot machine I so desperately wanted to play. For me, it was all fun and games because I was spending free money that the hotel gave on a scratch card each day. However, I know for the real gamblers in the room that was not the case. They were wasting the beautiful day away sitting in the casino resembling robots pulling a lever every second. When they lost their money there wasn’t even a reaction or reflex.

After winning $1000 I initially felt empowered, and then

immediately disgusted. I recalled the horrible story of Michael and couldn’t believe I had let myself be hypnotized by gambling. The casino wanted hotel guests to engage in gambling in hopes that people would spend their own money after using the free money from the scratch card. As they say, the house always wins, so is it all about money and profit?

The answer, I believe, is yes. The casino even has

separate tables for the high rollers, the people who bet an extremely large quantity of money on a single hand. It seems like an exclusive club that people yearn to be a part of, but perhaps for the wrong reasons. Additionally, the casino rewards players who bet a lot of money, regardless of winning or losing, with free nights at the hotel or free drinks. Clearly, feed the addiction through promoting players to return with free gifts and the promise of a grander gift the next time they gamble.

Not only do casinos play a hand in gambling addictions,

but Hollywood as well. Productions glamorize gambling and mostly avoid its negative consequences. Movies love to fit this narrative and viewers, I’ll admit even myself, are intrigued by the activity. Sometimes, I’m even left wondering if I could make that much money gambling. Let’s look at the scene in The Hangover, where Alan counts cards at the casino. The music is cheerful as the chips pile up around Alan for each hand he wins. It’s unbelievable watching him, and after that scene I was secretly curious about how one learns to count cards. In total, for just one sitting at a blackjack table, Alan made $82,400. I can’t help but wonder how many people tried their luck with gambling after that scene in hopes of earning a lot of money.

The movie 21, based on the book Bringing Down the

House, is another example of Hollywood’s depiction of gambling. Ben, the main character, has just been accepted to Harvard Medical School, but knows he can’t afford it. A teacher, Micky, invites Ben to his blackjack team, which uses card counting to win more money. The luxurious lifestyle of high rollers is shown and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wish to be treated like that. Although this movie also shows various betrayals, it doesn’t stop viewers from being enthralled by the art of gambling. 21 is based on a true story of the MIT blackjack team. We see how easy it is to fall into addiction even with an innocent goal in mind. People go in with the mentality that they will just earn the money they need to pay for X, yet are unprepared to become addicted. There are many other stories out there, and so we’ve made it back to Michael’s story.

From an outsider’s perspective, gambling truly does

appear to be all fun with little work or ramifications. However, once you know a personal account of the destruction gambling can cause, perhaps you’ll begin to think differently.*

* 37

This story is inspired by true events and uses fake names to preserve privacy

friday night's

FIGHTER words

JASON LYONS

illustration

ALLIE SASSA

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ The heat outside never penetrated the casino. It’s airconditioned interior refused entry to Nevada’s brutal desert warmth. But behind the closed doors, Jack couldn’t keep himself out of his own head. It remained that way until the woman in the green dress, all the way across the cardroom, doubled her pot in a game of blackjack. Jack’s vision was precise, scientific almost. He tracked the movement of bodies around him in careful calculation, noticing the steps and breaths of each individual.When he focused, he picked up on the subtle bluffs and folds of each better at the table. Jack wasn’t a gambler, however. He only enjoyed watching because he knew what it was like to be on display. When he didn’t focus in on each peculiarity, the ticks and patterns surrounding him swelled the space between his brain and his skull. It made him feel as though a middle school soccer coach had slipped a pin into his head and pumped it full of air. The pressure was unbearable. The pressure. Jack had forgotten for a moment. Trapped and caught on a hook by the flashing sequins of the woman’s emerald gown, Jack had let slip the reason he was sitting at the bar in the first place. He was waiting for a call about tomorrow night’s fight. Not all boxers in Vegas were patient, but Jack knew when he had to be. The air of the gambling hall was tinted yellow and red. The lights flashed, circulated, and then perched on his periphery. The room was clouded in smoke from cigarettes, cigars,

and the occasionally smuggled joint. The room looked bigger than it was but still hundreds of people occupied the inner sanctum of this Las Vegas institution. Surprisingly low numbers for a Friday night. There was something unusual about tonight, something unsettling.Perhaps it was anticipation, or perhaps something more sinister than a biological response. He checked his watch, nine, and looked up again. There she was, still sitting at the table surrounded by her winnings. Usually, the night before a fight, Jack wouldn’t come down to the casino. He wouldn’t have a drink or people watch or listen to the sound of wagers being placed. Tonight was different. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. The shimmer of her dress hypnotized him and held him captive until the phone rang and ripped him out of her colorful mirage. Turning away, Jack fumbled to pick up the call. He nervously pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket and brought it up to his ear. As he answered, a terrifying voice echoed on the other line. It was Manny, a high level crime boss in the city’s subculture. He was brief; which he often was during these Friday night conversations. It boiled down to a simple command: yes or no. Would tomorrow night be Jack’s night? No. So be it. Jack had given up on fame and power and pleasure. Or, rather, Jack lost fame and power and pleasure.

Like quicksand, the city took his adventurous, naive spirit and threw it down into the suffocating depths of sorrow. Jack was not a victim, but a veteran. A tired soldier, indoctrinated into the cause and chained behind enemy lines. At least he was still breathing, he thought to himself. Years earlier, that hadn’t been the case. The same as any kid, Jack thrived under the guise of recklessness. Just outside of Chicago, Jack had sat, idle, in the confines of suburbia. His mother and father, reporters for the Chicago Tribune, had trapped themselves in the mundane mediocrity of middle age. Life was tasteless and beige. Out of concern for Jack, they endured their displeasure; but restless delusions kept them occupied and out, leaving Jack isolated in the small colonial house on Burton Street. Lonely isn’t the right word, but alone is the truth. Something began to grow inside him. A craving for the world to know him and love him and see him. Jack’s agenda led him to the stage. A place in the story and in front of an audience brought Jack the satisfaction and acclaim he craved. Having graduated, he was determined to accumulate a limitless following and made his way to Los Angeles. Unoriginal. Uninspired. Still, it was his plan. There were three of them; Jack, Dylan, and Diego. They took off in a beaten down four-seater and set their sights on the pacific. With a little money in their pockets saved up from summer jobs at ice cream shops, boardwalks, and restaurants, they had enough to get where they were going. It was enough, they thought, to stop and have a little fun in the city of sin. Jack never left. He found an apartment off the strip and moved in with a bellhop. The apartment was small. A kitchen to the left of the entrance looked out into a small

living room where a yellow couch, scraped coffee table and small tv filled the space to the brim. Down a small hallway were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bellhop, Ernie, on the right. Jack on the left. Ernie was framed by broad shoulders, with a thick neck and square body. His face met too close in the middle and looked like a child’s, despite the masculine appearance of the rest of his figure. Ernie was quiet. He came and went. Jack had seen a few women and men come over every once in a while, but no one stayed around long enough to get to know. Ernie was barely around long enough to know. It was a Saturday in September when Ernie came crashing in through the front door, covered in blood and barely dressed. Jack, who had just finally fallen asleep, was jerked out of his dreamworld and into the nightmare in his living room. Sleep still in his eyes, Jack rushed over to Ernie who had collapsed onto the couch. A gash on Ernie’s lip dripped blood from his mouth onto the khakicolored carpet below. Jack shook the large man awake. Ernie, defensive, shoved Jack, knocking him to the ground. Suddenly realizing what he had done, Ernie rushed to help the boy up from the floor. They exchanged a quick apology. Ernie shut the open door and proceeded to his room. Silence. Jack followed. Sleep. The following morning Ernie told Jack about his involvement with a ‘collective of well-connected individuals.’ He was talking about the growing mob culture thriving in the city. A culture that, apparently, Ernie was embroiled in.

Nothing changed until a few months later when Jack finally realized the limits of his pocket change. Not working, living leisurely from gig to gig, Jack hadn’t spun himself an income since he arrived. One night, Jack was complaining about his situation when Ernie told him to get dressed. They drove down the strip in silent anticipation and partial uncertainty. Ernie pulled in front of a hotel and got out of the car. He threw his keys to a young man in a maroon vest. The exchange was familiar and funny to the two men. Jack followed in close pursuit. He watched Ernie walk through the hotel with the confidence of a regular. He could predict the flow of the guests, the steps from one place to another, even the timing of the elevators. Was this where he worked? In the elevator, Ernie pressed ‘11.’ Jack could feel the sweat under his armpits drip and his face turn hot and red. Where was he going? What was happening? Why hadn’t he asked any questions before he got here? The elevator stopped at their floor. At the end of the hall, room 1101, the door opened on five frightful figures. Two to each side of him, the man he would come to know as Manny sat, relaxed, in the center. Messianic, with the sunlight bursting from behind him and two apostles to each side, the heavyset man raised his head as Ernie and Jack entered the suite. He waved Ernie over. “Is this him?” asked Manny. “Yes, sir” rushed Ernie. Jack had never seen Ernie so unsettled. Manny turned to Jack. He looked at his face, his

shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his crotch, his legs and toes and back at his head.

sinking feeling in his stomach. A bare mattress and dresser remained. On the mattress, a letter:

“How long?”

“I don’t know give me about, uh, five months, and he’ll be good.” “Do it in three, I’m not a patient man … Got it?” “Three months, don’t let me down!” Shouted Manny, who had somehow become larger even in the distance. They were free, for a moment. Jack wasn’t sure when to say no. So, he never did. Ernie began training Jack to box, to fight. Manny’s old lightweight fighter had come into an ‘unfortunate accident,’ as Ernie said, and he wasn’t the kind of man who liked to wait for a replacement. Enter Jack. Ernie was confused by how quick Jack picked up the sport. Boxing wasn’t just a fight; it was a dance. Jack knew this instinctively. Even more, it was a performance, a spectacle. A way to keep each person at the edge of their seat waiting for the final blow, the final bow. Every day they trained. And in three months, as promised, Jack started. He won. And he won again. And then a third time. Manny didn’t rig matches when his fighters were starting out. It was a method, he said, to get them to care about his project. The more they want, the more he can take. And take he did. The first call crushed Jack. Jack wasn’t a man of honor or a code or any of that bullshit but he still liked to win, even just for himself. People want to see the hero win, he thought. No one wants to lose, even if you’re winning the cash. Sadly, Jack didn’t have much of a choice. Over the months, he saw what happened when you stepped out of line or spoke out of turn or touched what wasn’t yours. Ernie’s bloody lips multiplied, soon followed by broken bones. Jack couldn’t stand it. The two boys were bonded, now, in a way that didn’t require conversation. It hurt Jack to watch Ernie’s body crumble. It all brought him to this past week. Jack came home from a late night out. The apartment was clean; unusual, he thought. As he reached the end of the hall, he discovered that the room across from his, Ernie’s, was empty. He felt a

Gone home for now. Need to clear head. Talk soon. -E

Jack found himself alone again. He was filled with fear, stress, and guilt. With nothing to do, he wandered down the strip and into the bar of the casino on this Friday evening. With his phone now back in his pocket, his mind felt in sync with the rhythm of the cards. The sound of a shuffling deck reverberated through his head. Then, mysteriously, the woman in green gathered her chips, stood, grabbed the young man in a tuxedo to her right and began to walk towards the exit. Jack stood up quickly and upon feeling his feet against the ground sat back down. He paid his bill. He left. The following afternoon, Jack woke and found himself covered in sweat. The hours ticked by slowly. He changed and ate dinner and headed to the arena. Manny and his entourage were waiting for him when he arrived. Cheerful, the beast of a man shook Jack’s hand and spit incoherent rhetoric into his ears. Affirmatively nodding, Jack let the fear wash over him and dissipate. Last night had tumbled over into the next day. Something unusual was happening inside him. The lights flickered differently than usual. Manny’s breath smelt of beef and wine rather than garlic and gin. The smoky air cooled his skin. The men left. Jack warmed up with his coach and headed out to the ring. Rising from his corner, the crowd cheered, and the flash of photographs exploded like fireworks around him. He bumped fists with his opponent. The ref spoke to the two fighters—who cares—and clarified the rules. The sweat trickled down the side of his face. He took a breath. The bell rang.

PL aY photography

ETHAN TSAI RAY MCINTYRE

words

AMANDA KRAVITZ

stylists

ALIYAH HOLLUB ALEX LUTZ NATALIE RUBENSTEIN

models

ADLER BOWMAN ELLIE EPPERSON OLIVIA BABA

beauty

DYLAN BELL

lobes

LAUREN NEFF

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

games are a critical part of our childhood

development. When we think back to games that we played when we were younger, they actually represent crucial stages of our social knowledge. The beauty that is hidden underneath the simplicity of these games, represent how children live their lives. When children are young, they will play with anyone and anything as long as it occupies them and satisfies their boredom. These “younger” games represent what our mindset should be within that specific context. Children ignore the norms of society; they are optimistic, happy, and accepting. Along our journey through life (and into adulthood), we somehow lose this feeling. We start to create judgments about other people and we are more selective about our playmates. When we are young, we play tag, oftentimes on the playground, during recess, or while on a playdate with our best friend. This game involves nothing but at least three people who have enough energy to run around. The mindset here is nothing but having fun. These children have all the time in the world and no stressors on their mind but running away from the tagger.

As we get older, we start to reach for games that involve critical thinking and prizes. Monopoly is a classic board game that we all know and love. I have memories of playing this for hours on vacations with my family until my parents forced me to go to bed. The beauty of this game is that you are playing to win. This really brings out the competitive side of children (and even adults). The banker tends to be the fairest, given that they are responsible for handling the currency. My family is addicted to this game because you can never get bored playing it. This part is because the game unconsciously teaches you business strategies, as well as quickens your thinking and analyzing abilities. However, as we transition from tag to monopoly in our stages of development, we are also learning ways to deal with competition, make smart choices on the game board and save enough money to buy property. Now we have entered into the teenage years: truth or dare and spin the bottle. The first thing that comes to my mind is overnight summer camp. Obviously, these are played all over the world and do not just apply to camp, but it’s indisputably a camp classic. You are old enough to want to have more fun, in a different way you

are now. Our mentality is more rebellious and far less care-free than playing tag or monopoly. These games cause nervous and anxious feelings to arise when we are put on the spot and or made uncomfortable. I think this transition from Monopolytype board games to games like truth or dare and spin the bottle signifies us maturing. We are no longer satisfied with games that we played when we were younger. Spin the bottle is a game that we know is for “older kids,” and we want to glean that experience. The last type of game we play as we enter adulthood is beer pong: the ultimate party game. You know you’ve reached an older time in your life when beer pong is the main type of game you play with friends. Beer pong to most people seems as simple as just a few red solo cups, ping-pong balls, and some alcohol, right? Not so fast. In reality, these red solo cups can actually tell you a lot about a person, and companies are starting to facilitate group bonding beer pong nights- pre pandemic of course. If a company has a beer

pong table, it is likely a sign of their organizational skills. For starters, playing a game like this in the company allows for colleagues to get to know each other better in a more relaxed, casual setting. In addition, it allows employees to also unwind after a long day. Furthermore, it demonstrates that the company values building relationships separate from the workplace. One common thing you’ll hear college aged students saying about the game is that “pong is more than a game- it’s a way of life.” There is not one reason as to why kids love this game other than the fact that it is purely for fun. It is competitive in a bonding way. It is also a good way to get to know people better in a social setting. There is more to the game than just getting drunk, and we know that because there are easier ways to become drunk other than playing beer pong. So instead, people thrive off of the comradery that the game inevitably engenders. Adrenaline is released when a ball lands in a cup, and people are addicted to that feeling. The game is also appealing to all kinds of people because it is easy to pick up. It might not be considered an essential life skill, but it can sure be a helpful social skill.

These are just a few examples of the various games we play throughout the different stages in our lives. Why do we love games so much? Well, for starters, we are addicted to the feeling of winning. More than that, however, we are social animals, and games make memorable faceto-face experiences. We desire interaction with others, and games are just one of the many ways we can satisfy our desire for social experiences.

Special thanks to Lauren Neff and her small business Lobes.

photography

RAY MCINTYRE

words

ALI KOENIG

stylists

ALEX LUTZ ELINA MALAMED MADDIE SAVITCH

models

NITAN SHALON TENI TORIOLA

visuals

COURTNEY HUANG

beauty

DYLAN BELL

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

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There is a place that can be light and dark, vibrant and monochromatic, city and farmland. It can be a store, or a party, or an office meeting. In this place, people wander aimlessly, caring more about replicating how others walk than watching where they themselves are headed. Inhabitants shape-shift, and no one knows what they truly look like, who they truly are. This place is the digital landscape, and despite being two-dimensional, it is as real a place as your office, your library, your childhood bedroom. And as we live in our bedrooms, our libraries, and our offices, we live in the digital landscape, and we grow up.

The opportunity to grow up on the Internet is something so unique and so alien to previous generations. Teenagers and young adults today have matured with our lives on display for the whole world to see— for the whole world to analyze, to critique, to judge. And under the scrutinous eyes of peers, it’s easiest to figure out what people want to see, and to show them that. Living our digitized lives started out innocuously. We bought stuffed animals with the purpose of activating the codes on the tag and bringing our new fluffy friends to pixelated life in our online worlds. We turned ourselves into brightly hued penguins, and met our virtual friends in igloos created by computer code. Through online games like Webkinz and Club Penguin, young Internet users learned to view the digital world as a game in itself; creating your identity was an exercise in creative fiction, in building a character. Who could come up with the funniest name? Who could design the most eye-catching avatar? Though many of these practices are rooted in protecting one’s identity from predators on the Internet, they likely influenced our inclinations to warp, fabricate, and even falsify aspects of our lives online. Growing into teenagers, we soon fell into the far less wholesome games of social media. With many young children lying to bypass the minimum age of thirteen years, we joined social networking apps like Instagram and evolved from posting blurry images sheathed in the Clarendon and Gingham filters to building new and more sinister avatars reminiscent of our childhood online games. What changes on social media, however, is that the character we build is a warped form of ourselves. She looks like you, but her waist has been altered digitally and her eyebrows have been filled in using FaceTune. He looks like you, but his skin has been tanned with a filter and his photo has been cropped to appear taller. Our profile pictures are us, but distorted through a twisted, Kardashian-esque funhouse mirror.

The problem is not, as some people (adults usually) may tell us, that we’re insecure. The problem is that it is a game. It’s entertaining to masquerade as some heightened version of yourself. It’s amusing to see what you would look like if your eyes were just a shade greener, if your nose was just a millimeter thinner. It’s fun to find what aspect of your personality or your appearance that you like the best and present it as the whole picture, rather than just one piece. The masquerade doesn’t stop as the teenage years conclude. Though many of those who have grown up through the lens of the Internet are still teens, others are now full-fledged adults, faced with the responsibilities of finding love, finding a job, or just finding your footing between the two conflicting, glitching worlds of online and real life. And growing out of some of one’s more childish habits does not, unfortunately, mean growing out of the game of fragmented identities online. Instead, we may play into the game even further, finding ever-more complicated aspects of our personality to simplify into a profile. The flat, dull world online encourages us to find what we think is, or what we think others will find, most attractive about ourselves and shoehorn our entire identity into a trait or two. It’s why people will put nothing but their height in their Tinder bio, or why job applicants center their entire LinkedIn profile around a single internship several summers ago. They try to filter themselves down into a very narrow type of person. They construct their virtual existence around a trait that they believe others would like to see, rather than attempt to reflect their own unique nature through their screens. Though it shows color, and light, and personality, the screen of a phone or a computer is ultimately flat and lifeless. Living on the internet forces users, therefore, to flatten their personalities, their complex identities, into two-dimensional avatars. We become characters whose backstories are not yet fully developed. People are multifaceted, and yet the internet allows — and perhaps even encourages — us to take one fragment of our identity, magnify it, and present it as if it is the entire picture, though in reality it is far from it.

The avatars we hide behind are not always outright lies. They are mere misdirections, euphemisms, embellishments of the person we are into the person we think we would like to be seen as. They are parts of us, rather than the whole. No one’s life is as professional as it looks on LinkedIn, or as fun as it appears on Instagram, or as wholesome as it looks on Facebook.

No one is as pretty as they look in their Tinder photos, or as funny as they sound in their tweets, or as productive as they present in their day-in-the-life vlogs on TikTok. No one is one thing, though it feels that way as we scroll through infinite, never-ending feeds. In this semi-dystopian world of the digital landscape, the world of shape-shifting inhabitants and ever-changing backgrounds, people may be professional, or pretty, or productive, but ultimately, they fall flat. As edited and curated and glossy as our online personas may be, there’s nothing like social interaction in person, without a screen in the way of human connection. And, as cliche, overused, and middle-aged-mom-on-Facebook as it sounds, no avatar or doctored photo can compare to just being yourself, authentic and unashamed.

It starts how everything starts. Alarm goes off, I snooze it twice. Twenty minutes later I’m kicking the covers to my feet and rolling my shoulders back until the blades grate against each other. I walk barefoot to the bathroom where the mirror is coated black. I painted it in the darkness last night during The Masking, three thick layers from edge to edge so that not a single tiny reflection pushed through. I can’t look in the mirror today because that’s where I really am, and I don’t want to be me anymore. I wash my face and pat it dry with a clean towel, something everyone who has typed “how to get rid of acne” into google knows to do, but then I go and ruin it when I use both my hands to smear CVS brand lotion on in circles. I saw this for the first time on Instagram, which I realize is ironic. Everyone’s doing it now; people will put up one final post, a picture of a blacked out mirror left uncaptioned or a cryptic goodbye, and the next day my follower count will drop. The process, outlined in their tag line, is relatively simple: eliminate (delete all social media-it is much easier to become the best version of yourself

The Quadruple E; Cleanse Tea For THe New You words

ORIANA CHRIST

illustration

MAYA SIMON

design

LILIA JIMÉNEZ

when you are the only version of yourself), envision (who do you really want to be?), evolve (become that), exist. They have a website now, professional and easy to navigate, where you pay a small fee and they send you a little treatment box. In it comes black paint, a metal spatula, instructions, and their Secret Cleanse Tea. The new me eats breakfast. I pour myself a bowl of cereal as the water heats and fold my legs up on the couch. I unlock my phone for the first time—my notifications are turned off, so it hasn’t been very difficult to resist. I check Twitter first. Last night’s tweet, “tomorrow is The Purge”, has racked up double digit likes, but this isn’t something the new me cares about. Twitter is where I am funny. Depressed, deprived, and desperate, so desperate—but funny. There are people there whose real names I don’t know but who I talk to every day. I deactivate my account and delete the app. Instagram is where I am beautiful. I’ve posted hundreds of times, but only a fraction of them remain on my page, most of them archived or even deleted as time passes and

playlist, artist, song. My “friends” can see me listening to my summer accumulations, my psychedelic selections, my carefully curated compilations for boys I’ve had fleeting crushes on. I don’t listen to any of these very often. Usually I’m on private listening to Bon Iver. I switch modes for the last time. On every different platform there exists a different me. This is the way things were, but it will be different from now on. The kettle whistles and I set my phone facedown on the couch. The tea bag comes in a cushioned box, smooth and white. It pops open and where a ring should be is a mesh square with stitching around the edges and a layer of green and grey dirt inside. The room smells suddenly like peppermint; old, muddy peppermint, as if trying to overwhelm some underlying unpleasant smell in the tea. I pick it up by the string and drop it in the mug I painted in middle school at a friend’s birthday party. The water steams from the mouth of the kettle and hisses a little when it hits the teabag. I’d been skeptical at first—they claim the tea will “strip you down” to who you really are. It was legal, I’d checked, so it couldn’t be drugs, at least not real ones. It reminded me of that FitTea craze except you’re I decide they no longer look like me. It occurs to me then that I don’t have a lot of these photos saved anymore because of the toilet incident. I delete them from my profile one by one, starting with the oldest, watching my stomach deflate like a punctured balloon as I scroll forward in time. When I’m back to current day—or last Sunday, to be exact—I delete the app and erase my account online. Snapchat is where I am nothing. This is an easy removal. TikTok is where I am embarrassing. This elimination is even easier. Facebook is where I am the family version of me. I expunge this one with some guilt. Maybe the new me will reach out to my family more. LinkedIn is where I am someone I don’t recognize. I am categorized and labeled under words that feel alien and incongruous. The new me wants nothing to do with this profile, this person who is no version of me. I remove the app from my home screen. This is all I do because I can’t afford to delete it altogether. On Spotify I am only sometimes someone. I toggle Private Session on and off depending on mood,

pen. I have three hours to construct the new me. I start to feel funny almost as soon as I begin, and as the pages fill the feeling grows. My head spins and words change shape as I etch them into the paper. I am building myself from scratch, compiling inked adjectives like building blocks, and they’re all coming so easily. Everything I have desired or envied or admired, even things I never knew how to describe. Time and sight and noise contort into nothing as I write, assemble, create, compose, formulate, forge, until suddenly it all stops. The envisioning period ends. I stop the timer on my phone and head to the bathroom. The metal spatula is by the sink where I left it. The end of it is thin and sharp. I’m supposed to use it to scrape the paint off the mirror, which I hadn’t really thought about logistically. It’s a big mirror—there had barely been enough paint—and I can’t reach the top of it. I clamber onto the counter and balance, one foot on either side of the sink. Legs shaking slightly, I squat down slowly to retrieve the spatula. While I’m down there, I flick off the light. I’m not ready to see. I stand back up, suck in, wrap both hands around the handle, and begin to strip the glass of its paint.

remaking your personality, not your body. Now the same influencers who promoted FitTea on their stories are condemning Cleanse Tea because it makes them obsolete. Unnecessary. It undermines the only thing that makes them important. A Cleanse Tea consumer is a lost follower. The instructions say to wait an hour and avoid reflective surfaces at all costs. I follow this, but loosely, because I want to play games on my phone and when the ads are loading the screen goes black and I can see the hair in my nostrils. The envisioning is the most important part. Apparently this is where it always goes wrong—the people who it doesn’t work for are the people who don’t know what they want, who can’t produce a specific, thorough image of who they want to be. They come out of the UnMasking half baked with holes in them. This won’t happen to me because I know exactly what I want to be and I want it badly. It’s not something I’ve always wanted, I didn’t want it last year or even last semester, but I want it now. When the first hour is up I begin to take it seriously. They recommend writing and drawing it out, so I do this, making lists on a notepad with a thin-tipped