Strike Magazine Gainesville Issue 07

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Strike Staff Editorial Assistant Editor-in-Chief Hannah Shelton Blog Directors AJ Bafer Jacob McLean Copy Editors Madison Chestang Charlotte Dwyer Writers Valeriya Antonshchuk Grace Benneyworth Alexandra del Cañal Sophie Collongette Daniella Conde Kate Corcoran Sara Fajardo Quinn Healy Lauren Lytle Hope Nguyen Kaicha Noel Sofia Ramos Laura Tamayo Juliana Tarcson Anna Sophia Ward

Editor-in-Chief Erin Hu Creative Director Matt Hamburg External Affairs Director Brynn Fantuzzi

creative Assistant Creative Director Nicole Poplewko Design Director Kate McNamara Art Director Dina Coletti Art Assistants ​​Larissa Aguiar Alexis Lagana Adrian Regalado Madison Wright Beauty Director Tamar Abrahami Beauty Assistants Alyssa Bretan Julia Chaplin Jamie Crompton Olivia Gallagher Katie Geremia Lital Nahmias Hair Stylists Mackenzie Potts Aaron Sarner

Bookings Directors Katherine Ovadia Alexi Stoupas Bookings Assistants Tess Foels Gabriele Gedvilaite Emma Mack Gal Malik Heather Parrish Castings Directors Tara Gaines Skylar Sabol Castings Assistants Mia Alvarez Ryan Bermudez Silvana Hanrahan Sabrina Rivera Isabella Teke

Content Team Orange Directors Gabriela Donati Jacob Wall Content Assistants Clayton Bush Sophie Collongette Ella Kulak Kaicha Noel Ashley Rickman Content Team Blue Directors Tanner Crews Jordan Witt Content Assistants Bailey Berhannan Chloe Mazloum Harper Tindell Nicole Torres

Styling Team Directors Tajay Coote Karis Perusek Liv Vitale Styling Assistants Bianca Boor Eva Duran Eva Kamp Shrinidhi Kumar Gabi Purcell Huntleigh Zhang Photography Director Johann Vazquez Photographers Patrick Amistoso Brieanna Andrews Samy Asfoor Paige Davis Allison Epstein Stephanie Garcia Jared Neikirk Malyna Reed Ryan Rivas Brooke Ross Film Directors Samy Asfoor Ryan Rivas Film Assistants Taylor Long Angel Silva Kyle Totzke Lorenzo Vasquez

EXTERNAL Assistant External Affairs Director Sarah Sheerer Finance Directors Jessica Kennedy Syuzanna Kocharyan Finance Assistants Johanna Bruk Myanh Nguyen Nihar Soman Marketing Directors Alexis Lagana Alyssa Velez Marketing Assistants Jaileth Acosta Preslie Brown Samantha Levine Amanda Lopez Kelly Henning Lexi Horowitz Debbie Siegel Caroline Webb Merchandise Directors Ekaterina Ivanova Gia Simonetti Merchandise Assistants Sophia Lia Cochran Chloe Mazloum Renni Korniloff Madeline Wise Public Relations Directors Lauren Casole Andrea Guillen Public Relations Assistants Sammy Dratch Gabrielle Gangler Valeria Ledo Theodora Oatmeyer Finley Wells Anna Kate Womack Mia Zaldivar

Sales Directors Natalia Lipcon Paris Vanacore Sales Assistants Isabella De Miguel Mackenzie Logue Gaby Sumkin Emily Talalaevsky Social Media Directors Alyssa Rives Kassandra Rodriguez Social Media Assistants Katy Curran Emma Donato Tayler Ford Brittany Grice Bri Guldin Ilana Hill Lindsey Robison Katherine Signori

Brand Ambassador Director Emily Ellingsen Brand Ambassador Director Assistants Isabella Marzban Isabelle Soto Brand Ambassadors Kushi Alluri Ben Apple Carolynn Arias Lauren Avellanet Kate Bansmer Ana Cardenas Farah Contractor Emily Cude Eden DePekary Katalina Enriquez Mackenzie Kean Samantha Larson Caroline Lewis Isabella Libby Camryn Locascio Addison Meek Katerina Rettino Joanna Salvat Madison Suter Gaby Tryzmel Zachary Venezia Evan Zimmer

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About Strike Magazine Strike Magazine embodies the idea that we all are striking. Gainesville is formed by a student body of individuals who are immensely striking in their own ways, and Strike Magazine highlights these unique qualities. Through our diversity, varied life experiences and interests, we each bring refreshing perspectives and visions to the world and to each other. Strike Magazine values the human experience, and we aim to create a magazine that embodies the defining attributes of all people and yields a deep appreciation for fashion, art and pop culture.

Strike Magazine in Gainesville, FL, was founded in March 2018 as the first extension of the Tallahassee publication. Since then, here in Gainesville, we have grown to a staff of over 160 students. Strike Magazine has also expanded to 10 additional campuses in the United States. Strike serves as a creative outlet and source of professional experience for our driven, ambitious staff. We take pride in striking Gainesville as the first student-led publication of our kind.

We, the editors, would like to thank our team for their consistent passion, creativity and support. We are endlessly inspired by the distinct beauty of each member of the Strike and Gainesville community. Strike Magazine looks forward to continuing to empower our readers to think beyond the norm.

Strike Out, Matt Hamburg, Erin Hu & Brynn Fantuzzi About strike editor pic

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About the Issue The question “Who do you think you are?” is a powerful inquiry. It lingers over humanity as we make our way through the world, embracing experiences that shape our character and enduring challenges that alter our perspective. Its ambiguity fuels us to the future where a definitive response awaits, yet its clarity centers us in the promise of the present.

At first, it’s difficult, perhaps even impossible, to answer. We know who we are until we don’t — until seasons change, values shift and people evolve. To establish an identity with confidence in the current, yet with an openness to the opportunities ahead, is a feat our founding staff members seized with strength and skill. In Issue 01, the first Strike Magazine UF team forged a community of creatives who sought to inspire, create and cultivate an experience through the creative process.

Seven issues later, we continue to magnify our founders’ precedent of the striking persona that will forever be professed in our work. Seven issues later, we illuminate the lessons learned, the common ground found, the art created and the accomplishments achieved that have made our brand what it is today. Seven issues later, we leave our audience with a complete understanding of what Strike Magazine UF is and who we are.

In Issue 07, we answer this question through six concepts. They serve as a reflection of our community, each embodying our brand’s character, artistry and values.

We are proud of who we have been and to have evolved into the vanguards we are. Strike Magazine UF is grateful to share the evolution of our identity with our readers in Issue 07: Who Do You Think You Are?

Erin Hu Editor-in-Chief

THESE CHAINS DO NOT BIND ME, I WEAR THEM HEAVILY 11 ACTING ACTIVIST 14

COMMON GROUND THE REVOLUTIONARY FATE OF FASHION 22 EXILE 26 CULTIVATING AN ABUNDANT GARDEN 30

VANGUARD DEATH TO THE PERFECTIONIST 36 FINDING FREEDOM IN FLUIDITY 40

HOW TO LIVE FOREVER 44 THE MUSE’S RIDDLE 48 PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER 51

community through artistry WHEN INSPIRATION STRIKES 54 THE POWER OF FASHION 60

Contents

CREATIVE PROCESS

MAGNIFYING OUR MINDS SAVORING THE SONDER 69 IN VINO VERITAS: A TRUTH FROM A FRIEND 72 WE’RE MORE THAN WHAT WE CAN’T CONTROL 77

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ILLUMINATION OPENER

Bright. Bold. Striking. Nurturing a fervent flame means never settling for the conventional — we wouldn’t dare.

Photographed by Patrick Amistoso, Brieanna Andrews, Allison Epstein, Stephanie Garcia, Jared Neikirk and Malyna Reed

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ILLUMINATION OPENER

FULL PAGE

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BY ANNA SOPHIA WARD

FULL PAGE

dversity, particularly intrapersonal hardship, can be paralyzing. It can feel foolish to discuss and give weight to personal problems when others face extreme external forces without much respite. Personal struggles believed to be unworthy of acknowledging can extend for years: an underestimation yielding vulnerability to a parasitic relationship with your own adversity. In steady succession, this relationship with pain forms a two-way bridge to the shadowed parts of selfhood; it is something that did not exist before and cannot be taken down. This is a bridge that can always be crossed.

This relationship has a dialogue, something that feels good to be in and have that itching part of the brain scratched, until realizing this conversation was a diversion while time was stolen.

Even if one keeps moving forward, the unaddressed can cast a shadow over the past and its memories. When time is lost, years can become an opaque block, tombstoned by a negative space inside the chest. This loss can be painful and, if stuck in that cycle, continuing. Escape that cycle and its temptations to stay with the damage caused already.

It is known that the best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago, the second-best time today. The best life is one with no time wasted; the second-best decides to not waste any more.

It is a challenge to trek forward, bogged down by gnawing memories, their bite marks. This challenge is not one to be erased in defeat; to think of overcoming adversity as a singular event is an astonishing feat of naivete. Overcoming personal adversity is continuous. Every day, a new management strategy, a new choice between an opportunity to shatter limitations and a temptation to regress. To surpass comes with feelings of good and emptiness, for negative feelings cannot be rid of — only negative actions.

Breaking bad habits and taking responsibility is a nonlinear active intervention; it breaks a sweat.

When committed to this process, one can replace their first behavioral nature; looking over from this other side is a moment of gratefulness, but it also entails grief and pity for oneself. It is a transformational act to bring a freer, fuller version of yourself to the world — though, with this feat, there will be grief for what was lost and guilt for not addressing adversity sooner. You have changed, and part of life is accepting the non-self: how you are not the same as you were a year, a month or a minute ago — impermanence being your only constant.

Resolve to overcome adversity for the legacy of yourself and others. Though the weight can be large, heavy baggage means stronger arms.

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BY CHARLOTTE DWYER

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ACTING ACTIVIST

was 5 when I believed I was indestructible; Mom and Dad were always prepared to patch me up with a Barbie Band-Aid whenever I would fall. Through my big blue eyes, they were my ultimate protectors. With them by my side, I was invincible.

Each year, I grew out of my favorite clothes and my naivety with them. I soon learned the villains of my story could easily creep up, and my Barbie Band-Aid would be unable to cover the wounds they left.

I was 12 when I became captivated by news of the Sandy Hook shooting. It was my first memory of witnessing firsthand just how evil people could be, even to those who never wronged them. I longed to help the survivors, but I was only a helpless adolescent with a limited comprehension of trauma. I was sad that people were killed while going to school. “The adults will help them,” I thought in a desperate attempt to comfort myself. To me, the adults were still the heroes. We — the youth — were the ones who needed to be saved.

I was 17 when I hid on the auditorium floor of my high school as a gunman took the lives of 17 of my peers in the building next to me. As I hopelessly tried to contact my sister, who was in the building, news of the shooting flooded my social media timelines.

I felt transported into the bodies of the Sandy Hook students: alone, afraid, waiting for my parents to save me. Unlike the other times I had fallen, a kiss on the forehead and an “it’s going to be okay” could not reverse the damage.

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Immediately after the tragedy, grief and anger consumed In their minds, it meant parading 100 traumatized me. News broke that the adults, those hired to protect us, high school students around Tallahassee to lobby for had failed us. The police were afraid to put themselves gun control and school safety because no one else in the line of fire while the administration scrambled to would. The representatives offered minimal words hide the fact Immediately that they after could have prevented it from of encouragement, only the tragedy, grief and anger At hapnight, I would wipe away my smudged, tear- making time to extend their me. News adults,meant those to stained mascara and the confident smile had pening. In consumed an instant, my broke faiththat inthe those shield usual “thoughts and Iprayers. ” It was a useless mission, hired to protect us, had failed us. The police were donned for the day. I felt an innate responsibility us from danger disappeared. It was time to step up and but one I was on board for. afraid to put themselves in the line of fire while to stand up and protect the students who would advocate for myself. the administration scrambled to hide the fact that come after me; I refused to let them suffer the they could have prevented it from happening. In same fate as my school.the However, I dissected Over next as few months, my schedule was flooded an instant, my faith in those meant to shield us this mindset, I realized how wrong it was. I was The role offrom “gun control activist” was not one I desired with TV interviews, rallies and town halls. I was their danger disappeared. It was time to step up being forced to combat people in power because nor soughtand out, rather it was something that was survivor.

I became the punching bag for people advocate for myself. no forced one wantedstar to work to protect us.

The role of “gun control activist” was not one My entire school was put on display as the chilupon me. News crews sat idly by the memorial in front obsessed with preventing gun control, while those I desired nor sought out, rather, it was something dren who would “save the future.” We were lined of the school, ready to feed off of the grieving students. who held the power to change the narrative hid bethat was forced upon me. News crews sat idly by up as activists, coerced into battle with those who I let them. the They devoured every word I had to say about hindchange. theirWhen congressional memorial in front of the school, ready to feed would never enact we attempt- doors. offcontrol of the grieving I letI them. change, gun and students. the pain felt. They de- ed to mourn, our principal pushed us harder. voured every word I had to say about change, gun Our time to grieve had quickly wilted away, and At night, I would wipe away my smudged, tear-stained control and the pain I felt. we became a vision of strength and change for With my eyes still fromfrom tears and the funerals mascara and With myswollen eyes still swollen tearsshed shed and nation. Simply because we the wereconfident survivors smile I had donned for the funerals left to attend, I boarded a busfor headed the worst high in American left to attend, I boarded a bus headed theforstateof capitol day.school I feltshooting an innate responsibility to stand up and prothe state capitol a mere seven days after the trage- history, we had to assume the role of reformers. a mere seven days after the tragedy. Our school encourtect the students who would come after me; I refused dy. Our school encouraged us to go out and make In my heart, I did want to be someone who aged us to go out and make a “change. ” to leta powerful them suffer a “change.” could bring about change.the Butsame af- fate as my school. HowevCHAINS In their minds, it meant parading 100 trauma- ter laying my friends rest and attempting to er, as to I dissected this mindset, I realized how wrong it tized high school students around Tallahassee to come to the reality of that day, my energy was was. I was being forced to combat people in power lobby for gun control and school safety because expended. I had to relinquish myself from the because one wanted to protect no one else would. The representatives offered frontlines. It was time forno someone else to doto work minimal words of encouragement, only making the fighting for us; we had done enough.

Alus. time to extend their usual “thoughts and prayers.”

It was a useless mission, but one I was on board for.

Over the next few months, my schedule was flooded with TV interviews, rallies and town halls. I was their star survivor. I became the punching bag for people obsessed with preventing gun control, while those who held the power to change the narrative hid behind their congressional doors.

though it may not have been in the instant after the shooting, or even a year after it, I knew that someday I would muster up the strength to reemerge as a voice for my 17 fallen angels.

I am 20, and I have slowly entered the activism realm once again. No obligation, no responsibility, just a desire to do good in the names of those we lost. Hopefully, I can become more than a Barbie Band-Aid to my community..

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In my heart, I did want to be someone who could bring about a powerful change. But after laying my friends to rest and attempting to come to the reality of that day, my energy was expended. I had to relinquish myself from the frontlines. It was time for someone else to do the fighting for us; we had done enough. Although it may not have been in the instant after the shooting, or even a year after it, I knew that someday I would muster up the strength to reemerge as a voice for my 17 fallen angels.

I am 20, and I have slowly entered the activism realm once again. No obligation, no responsibility, just a desire to do good in the names of those we lost. Hopefully, I can become more than a Barbie Band-Aid to my community.

CHAINS

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Common Ground Breaking relational barriers in a maze of differing journeys is a journey unmapped. When exploring where our paths intersect, we strive to find Common Ground.

Photographed by Patrick Amistoso, Brieanna Andrews, Samy Asfoor, Jared Neikirk, Brooke Ross and Johann Vazquez

The Revolutionary

BY SOPHIE COLLONGETTE

AS LEADERS, IT IS THEIR RESPONSIBILITY TO CENTER INCLUSION, REPRESENTATION AND DIVERSITY IN THEIR BRANDS.

W

hen Marie Antoinette said let them eat cake, she enraged the French peasantry, whereby she not only lost her throne but also her head. She was canceled — permanently. From royal extravagance to public revolutions, monarchical downfalls have often unraveled, reflecting the power of communal bravery over materialism. In a similar upturning of structure, the fashion world rages revolution against industry leaders who have imposed an unattainable goal of perfection, challenging authority and raising questions about the values that shape our culture.

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Fate of Fashion

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The fashion sphere has experienced many revolutions within itself. The 2000s have ushered in sustainability, LGBTQ inclusion, the fashion and race database, fashion-based television and more.

These expanded the role and influence of underrepresented communities, reflecting fashion’s thirst for change. The post-pandemic e-commerce escalation left many contemplating the fate of fashion in 2021 and beyond. This controversial speculation of the unknown grasped the attention of millions worldwide, evoking critical conversations about fashion standards, societal pressures and institutionalized art affecting our societal well-being. With technological platforms dominating the entertainment and fashion industries, high-end designers and small-business owners have quickly adapted to meet the demands of modern media.

With the future’s uncertainty, one can only help but ponder the following: Who has the power to influence trends and leverage authority in the fashion industry after an unprecedented year like 2020? The answer: high-profile “royals,” better known today as celebrities and influencers with immense social media followings.

Fashion hit an inflection point in 2020. The McKinsey & Company’s “The State of Fashion 2021” report revealed the industry experienced a record low in profits, forcing businesses to create more efficient brand platforms, and alter strategies to maintain relevance and market share, hence a rise in influencer marketing.

When you need outfit inspiration, where do you turn? Pinterest. Instagram. TikTok. Who are the trendsetters on these apps? Bella Hadid. Luka Sabbat. Kylie Jenner. What are they wearing? Who are they wearing? Take Marc Jacobs, who debuted a Y2K-inspired clothing collaboration with Devon Lee Carlson showcasing her funky style abundant with staples from the 2000s and sentimental treasures. On the other hand, Dua Lipa, a singer, not a high-fashion model, opened and closed Donatella Versace’s Spring-Summer 2022 Campaign for Milan Fashion Week. Influencer culture has merged celebrity worlds, generating immediate audience attraction, both garnering support and criticism from the public.

Controversies consistently circle influencers invited to the Met Gala, a traditionally exclusive event for opinion leaders in the fashion industry, not upcoming influencers who Gen Z praise for their saucy dance moves and “trendy” fashion sense.

How is this symbolic of a shift in the business?

Their roles in a prestigious event like the Met Gala could be a ploy to attract more viewers and generate buzz among younger generations. Yet, there is also a notable element of ease and inclusion when inviting such influencers to high-fashion soirees. Their appearances open a door for more diversity among Met Gala attendees, attracting more youth to fashion than previous years.

Evidently, the dynamics and values of the fashion industry have evolved from an artistic to a more “business-like” operation. Younger generations catalyzed this new approach as cancel culture struck

fashion brands in the bull’s-eye. Their passionate discussions of ethical issues in the industry draw extensive attention and support toward smaller creatives with mission-based businesses and lifestyles.

In light of social unrest, Gen Z has advocated for supporting small businesses and purchasing sustainable goods over fast-fashion brands. Social media accounts like Diet Prada garnered a following for outwardly criticizing and exposing large fashion companies’ exploitation methods against small-scale creators and their unique fashion concepts. Many notable designers faced backlash against collection pieces they claimed were “inspired” by said creators, yet they looked identical, distinguishable only by their stitched brand logos. Public outrage challenged large companies to reevaluate how their misuse of power negatively affects microenterprises and minimizes their profits and recognition.

Authenticity has never been more valuable and respectable than it is now in the digital age when images are manipulated, and false personas are portrayed with ease. The growing emphasis on social justice and mental wellness has inspired consumers to hold designers and business owners accountable. As leaders, it is their responsibility to center inclusion, representation and diversity in their brands.

Transposing her talents from the studio to the workroom, Rihanna rewrote fashion and beauty guidelines to uphold these principles. Rihanna’s Savage X Fenty lingerie collections and runway shows are a revolt against exclusive beauty standards.

Her collection launched in 2018, and she continued to break boundaries through her beauty and fashion lines in the following years — specifically throughout 2020, an unconventional year for fashion designers.

The 33-year-old superstar has taken the opportunity to spread impactful messages of inclusivity, community, political activism, self-love and freedom of expression through her brands. The lingerie label represents a glimpse into what many believe the fashion industry should have been doing for years now and what it ought to embody going forward.

With this in mind, the question remains: Is fashion becoming a fusion of our authenticity rather than an industry controlled by a few gatekeepers?

It’s difficult to answer definitively, but it’s fair to say major designers will always uphold their aura of power and exclusivity. In previous years, their sole existence revolved around the “unattainable factor” and mystery behind being on the “inside” of this glamorous world — a facade. However, reflecting on the past decade, society has started infiltrating the realm of fashion, instituting a more progressive and inclusive environment where meaningful representation is celebrated.

The future of high fashion is a puzzle waiting to be solved by its players. Who will be the next person to lead a revolt against industry standards? Will influencers soon be too attainable or generic for the next fashion fads? Will their “royal” status be stripped away because of scandal and exposure? Their “let them eat cake” moment may transpire sooner than expected.

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Exile Desperation quickly builds to rekindle the bond I once felt to this place, these people, the culture, but it’s sluggish in comparison to the pace of time’s arrow as it ceaselessly moves forward.

BY LAURA TAMAYO

I’

ve been here before. It’s a hazy, remote memory in my mind, but it’s there.

The lingering song of a raunchy salsa band wafting through the streets. The wandering stray dogs with matted fur. The white cross of the stone cathedral. Each direction births a new recollection, unwieldy and uncertain yet unmistakably there.

The beckon of a marketeer turns my head.

He’s expecting me — he is warm, welcoming.

There are bananas, papayas, fruits I’d never seen and fruits I overwhelmingly remember.

The sweet mangoes, bruised and browned from tumbling off the carts; their familiar, saccharine flavor dots my tastebuds. Almost involuntarily, I reach for one.

“How much?”

The vendor stiffens, eyes rigid with skepticism. “Cinco,” he counters. Behind him, a sign reads their price: dos bolivares. The trace of remembrance falters. I complacently hand him a five and move on. The fruit’s dulcet taste isn’t enough to subdue the judgment of watching eyes that carry through the air. I’m a stranger to these townspeople, yet their voices are fleeting morsels of nostalgia to me.

The dirt roads empty as I walk along them, people repelled by an alien presence. Only oblivious schoolchildren approach me to ask to play, but they retreat at the first glimpse of my stuttering response. We may share a skin tone, a hair color, a facial structure, but nothing else. No amount of physical similarities can overcome this bubble of separation — I am alone.

A lost sense of reminiscence leads me down an endless path of houses with chipped, senescent paint and graffiti-covered walls.

Hours pass. Or is it days? My feet carry me onward, only stopping at the mercy of a small, cement home. An ache of longing surfaces.

The wooden door groans as it hangs off the latch, and I enter without asking. I recognize the briny scent of arepa dough that meanders

through the house. The voice humming a melancholic canticle. The sound of feet quietly scuffling across stained, laminate floors, careful to avoid the cockroaches that nestle into the crook of the walls. This feels like it may have once been home.

In the garden, I see faces I know, their heads bobbing in harmony with the hymn and their grins spreading ear to ear. They’re faces I haven’t seen in years, almost decades.

Their features are blurred by faded memories, withered with age. My grandmother is the only one to see me, her eyebrows furrowing in surprise. I expect a smile, an embrace, a welcome back. Yet she steps away, fear tainting her expression. There is no recognition. This isn’t a reunion. “¿Quién eres?” Who are you? She’s still stepping away. The alarm rippling across her face intensifies.

Air catches in my lungs, releasing as a hollow absence of words. I’m frantic to tell her, to build a single sentence she’ll understand. “Abuela” doesn’t dare leave my mouth, much less “familia.” I’m racking my mind for the language I grew up on, grasping for anything to connect me to this foreign land, to connect me to my own family.

Nothing but vacancy awaits, and my lips are left ajar as they persist in hoping to find the words. My grandmother’s eyes settle faintly, black with disappointment. Or maybe they’re black with indifference. She doesn’t know me. Has she ever? I am not her family; I haven’t been for years. I am a distant voice on a muffled, unreliable phone line. I am a three-word response to her pressing questions as I struggle to string together full sentences in my native language. I am an outsider. I am “la gringa” — the American.

I scour the dingy garden for a pen and paper, a phone to translate, any medium to indicate my regret, my guilt, my hope that we can fix this. There’s still time. I can restore the years lost to assimilation, lost to a society

I will never feel welcome in. Desperation quickly builds to rekindle the bond I once felt to this place, these people, the culture, but it’s sluggish in comparison to the pace of time’s arrow as it ceaselessly moves forward.

I’m climbing out of the stygian void that had swallowed me before, with the weight of Western expectations calling my name as I slip out of its deceptive hold.

But the light is dimming, flickering, gone. My grandmother’s expectant face is dissipating into nothingness. The ground is shifting beneath me, laminate floors mutating to wood panels. The solemn gray of the walls grows into a muted brown. The flowers around me begin to die, losing their color as they wilt away. The warm aroma of arepas becomes the neat smell of an empty house.

The familial hum turns into the buzz of a news anchor’s voice from a television below.

Have I been here all along? In my hands appears a ratty photograph of a garden, alive with foliage and conversation. It’s a distant memory, one I have to will my mind to remember. But I do. I am home, perched in a rusted wooden chair with scars of use across it. Tomorrow’s homework is sprawled on my floor. I am home, yet the isolation strengthens.

The years spent here feel just as far away as the lands I originated from.

My grandmother’s panicked, “Who are you?” echoes in my ear. In this setting, I grasp at any vestige of my identity. Am I defined by the posters hung on my wall? The records in my drawer? The books cluttered on the floor?

No, it’s none of these. The photograph of the garden trembles in my fingers. I’ve already lost the biggest part of who I am.

I pick up the phone and dial a number, quickly — frantically. It rings for what feels like years until the startling notification of my grandmother’s voicemail plays. “Déjame un mensaje y te llamaré más tarde,” she says.

Leave me a message, and I’ll call you later.

I leave a message. It begins with “Abuela.”

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Cultivating an Abundant Garden WHERE VOLTAIRE WENT WRONG

BY GRACE BENNEYWORTH

“Candide,” a French novella teeming with satire, subverted ideals of the institutions of the Enlightenment era when François-Marie Arouet published the piece in 1759. Arouet, also known by his nom de plume Voltaire, was a famous critic of the French monarchy’s infamously enforced nobility and religious dogma. Voltaire rejected these ideals and delivered a message of personal preservation through his novel.

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The story’s protagonist, Candide, has a naivety to his nature. Throughout the novel, he finds himself living among the “best of all possible worlds.” This idea parallels Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz’s philosophy.

Leibniz, a prominent German philosopher and mathematician, believed that because things cannot be other than they are, they must be inherently for the best. His idea was one of shameless optimism.

In writing “Candide,” Voltaire debases Leibniz by defending the senseless violence in the piece with the justification of a benevolent, omniscient god. The characters pursue a perfect world, and though still unhappy, they reveal to the reader that we must keep a clear-eyed detachment between ourselves and the world.

Voltaire concludes the novella with an invitation: “Let us go and cultivate our garden.”

Voltaire underwrites that we are not in the best of all possible worlds. All the same; we are here. Voltaire could not justify or overlook the evil inherent to political, philosophical and scientific improvements that birthed the institutions of modern democracies. Thus, he urges us not to intertwine ourselves too tightly with liberty, progress or the moral intent of any other. We should not ground ourselves too closely to structuralist thought. Undiluted optimism is a dead end in the face of a search for total harmony.

Instead, let us cultivate our own garden: the individual self.

Personal fulfillment is the focal point of Voltaire’s message. To take care of ourselves, we must find the enzymes that ferment us as individuals. Political and social discourse is not excluded from this, which is where Voltaire’s critique falls short. If we find ourselves passionate about social affairs, why should we hesitate to make this a part of how we devote ourselves?

be unearthed and people we have yet to touch.

To Voltaire, cultivation is but a mere beckon to live quietly: to take care of one’s own. Devote your energy to refining your own mental cavity. But for the modern reader, this line may take a number of translations. We must enrich our lives to make another breath that is much easier to take in. Being an active participant in your life does not exclude pursuing passions that go beyond the self. Expanding our existence entails caring for others. Those dearest to us deepen our roots.

There’s a particular passage in “Candide” that indicates a subtle turning point to Voltaire’s individualist mindset. In the novel, an old woman speaks of her tribulations and advises the protagonist to divert himself, to indulge in the lives and stories of those around him. The old woman characterizes the perseverance through life’s sufferings as holding onto a ravenous snake. The longer we hold out and the more we hold on, the more it tears our flesh. She bets her life on a shared yearning, encompassing all of humanity, for suffering to cease. We recognize our tribulations in others and garner a deep sympathy for existence.

Even if the sentiment we share as people is suffering, are we still not describing unity? The question becomes one of responsibility in aiding in others’ lives — their gardens.

The affinity over suffering in the same realm creates a greater agency amongst living beings than if we were to live only pertaining to ourselves. We should not let ourselves be swept up in extreme optimism, as Voltaire points out, to let valuable time and relationships be wiped away. There is an overwhelming quality to life, and we won’t conquer all evils or be the best of all possible people. But if we come to find our grounding point, and nurture our needs, we gain a perspective of how diverse we want our garden to be. We get to decide where we want growth.

There is middle ground; we can foster our lives while also aiding in others. Improvement in civility and community gives meaning to human preservation. Adopting this perspective for your own backyard also alters your worldview. A communal garden blooms beautifully if it sprouts from healthy roots. To cultivate one’s garden is to understand that we may not be in the best of all possible worlds, but we may try to flourish what we do have.

Instead, let us cultivate our own garden: the individual self.

Promoting equity can prescribe a most sincere sense of belonging. Perhaps, it is more important to nurture ourselves in relation to the world rather than ignoring it altogether.

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, a German poet, wrote, “Let everyone sweep in front of his own door, and the whole world will be clean.” Sweeping our own front door implies stained hands. It’s up to us to resolve what we won’t let be wiped away.

This can be taxing, mucky work, but this reveals an open field. There is ground yet to be uncovered, new passions waiting to

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VANGUARD OPENER

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VANGUARD OPENER

Exposure to our imaginative collective tears us free from the constraints of self-inflicted restriction. The grand blossoming that ensues, previously unforeseen, allows anyone to step with fearless elegance and reach their peak.

Photographed by Paige Davis, Allison Epstein, Brooke Ross and Johann Vazquez

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DEATH TO THE

PE RF EC

TI ON IST VALERIYA ANTONSHCHUK BY

“I

felt it. It was perfect.”

Wine-red blood spreads across the body of the “Black Swan” lead’s ivory regalia, the blooming stain a stark contrast to the perfection grasped in her final performance. Moments before she falls to her climactic death, the idyllic Swan Queen dances her best White Swan yet, surrendering to her faultless character in full.

The company huddles over her dying body, but she remains exuberant in her final pursuit of perfection — her last words a submission of accomplishment.

Death becomes a small price to pay for the idealism that consumes her life.

I wondered why I felt so compelled by the psychological thriller and its main character who embodies the tragedies of perfectionistism. On a personal level, I connected to the stress and anxiety of yearning to reach a goal that felt unattainable, whether in the form of grades, jobs or other individual standards.

A lifelong lover of ballet, I may be partial to the “Black Swan” story, but the cinematic trope at the center of this film can be seen throughout our history, media and culture.

It’s a classic tale: A character commits themselves to the pursuit of perfection, perhaps driven by a yearning for approval from themselves and others, only to realize true “perfection” is a myth. For many, the pressure of these self-imposed, unreachable standards becomes unbearable, fostering a deterioration of sanity and self. As seen in “Black Swan,” the struggle between ambition and well-being is particularly prominent in artists, stoking the flames of the romanticized “tortured artist” trope present in everything from classic films and literature to modern popular culture. Does creative success require some fundamental degree of personal struggle?

In “Black Swan,” artistic success appears ultimately dependent upon personal struggle and sacrifice. Ballet is an art dedicated to the illusion of perfection — to create an ethereal appearance beyond ordinary human movement. As the film’s lead dancer steps into the “Swan Lake,” ballet’s coveted lead role, we see her struggle with perfection intensify as her stability slips away. She religiously eats her prerehearsal breakfast of one hard-boiled egg and half a grapefruit each morning;

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If we’re abl yet we aren reflect on o point of it a

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no more, no less. After hours of rehearsals each day, she continues practicing her ballet variations at home until her bruised, bloody feet can no longer support her.

As the lead Swan Queen, she performs the roles of both White Swan Odette and Black Swan Odile. The poised, controlled White Swan comes naturally to her, but the untamed, bold and beguiling Black Swan is the role she strains to embody — her exploration of this character leads to her fundamental demise. The Black Swan then embodies a vessel through which the protagonist spirals into a dark tunnel of hallucinations and psychotic episodes, dramatizing the lengths we can go to in the pursuit of passion and perfection.

The Black Swan, as a fictitious character and literal bird, takes on several meanings and associations in history. Before the late 17th century, black swan birds were presumed to be nonexistent — impossible, even. That sense of doubt withered away when Europeans discovered the bird in Australia in 1697. For centuries to come, the discovery came to symbolize a “black swan event,” an occurrence previously deemed impossible. Beyond the history of the black swan’s discovery, the birds symbolize rarity, fueling a further association with independence and personal power.

In the film, however, the Black Swan does not leave its dancer empowered. It leaves her dead — an ode to the unsustainable nature of perfection. While the film’s plot line is unique, its message is universal. The dancer’s commitment to self-restraint,

excessive work, and her disregard for any exhaustion or selfendangerment are not specific to ballet, or even to art. In academia and life, many relate to sacrificing mental health in their pursuit of these constructed ideals. The perfectionist problem is amplified in the digital age, whereby social media makes comparisons and unrealistic standards more prominent than ever, and young people are enduring increasing rates of its associated anxiety, depression and burnout.

If we’re able to reach our loftiest ambitions, yet we aren’t in a healthy space to enjoy and reflect on our accomplishments, what’s the point of it all?

Rather than pursuing an impossible sense of perfection, beauty or talent, we can place value on the personal power of self-preservation. Whether that takes the form of taking a social media detox, seeking help, making time for personal care and fulfillment, or taking a step back from overwhelming commitments, prioritizing our well-being can help us maintain our mental and physical health so we can truly be our best, most creative selves.

Normalizing this priority can help shift how we view the necessity of struggle in achievement.

Striking a balance between perfectionism and self-preservation then becomes a true “black swan event” — an ode to the ability to reach the impossible while maintaining self and sanity. This is the meaning of the Black Swan: the courage to be imperfect and bold in your power.

le to reach our loftiest ambitions, n’t in a healthy space to enjoy and our accomplishments, what’s the all?

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FREE

DOM

IN FLUIDITY FINDING FREEDOM

WE CHOOSE TO LIVE BY DIFFERENT STANDARDS: FINDING FREEDOM IN FLUIDITY, PARTAKING IN THE VANGUARD, RELINQUISHED FROM YOUR REINS OF CAPTIVITY. BY KAICHA NOEL

B

y your standards, I am a disappointment, a stain on the legacy you treasure so fondly.

Why is it me you resent?

Perhaps, it’s my refusal to let mankind steer me.

Voyaging on my own accord is shameful.

Why for man’s approval should I be grateful?

By your standards, he lacks masculinity.

His wardrobe and vulnerability provoke you.

Sheer femininity contests his virility, as tact and taste become taboo.

Heterosexuality and queerness cannot coexist in your world without your cherished customs becoming disturbed.

Your acceptance is riddled with conditions, only extended with compliance to your constraints.

Boxes and labels preserve ideological traditions, suffocating us without an outstretch of grace.

We choose to live by different standards: finding freedom in fluidity, partaking in the vanguard, relinquished from your reins of captivity.

Disgust surrounds all things effeminate, reinforcing the stigma of manliness being prominent.

For what you fail to acknowledge rings true in our minds, that conformity inhibits self-expression.

By your standards, their love is a disgrace. sexual orientation is inflexible, allowing no room for one to deviate beyond what you’ve deemed acceptable.

As happiness blooms when showered with authenticity, and beauty arises from individuality.

Be grand on this path of life, fawning for no one.

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FINDING FREEDOM

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CREATIVE PROCESS

Our ideas are a product of the pieces we’ve picked up along the way. In harnessing their own individuality, anyone can become a virtuoso. Assembling our abilities in the Creative Process, though, yields a product all the more masterful.

Photographed by Brieanna Andrews, Stephanie Garcia, Malyna Reed and Johann Vazquez

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HOWTOLIVE FOREVER 44 | STRIKE MAGA ZINE | ISSUE 07

If you think about it — really think about it — what are we but compilations of the people we have known and loved?

BY ALEXANDRA

W

DEL CAÑAL

hen I was 18, I discovered the secret to immortality.

My secret is by no means an original thought.

The notion of living forever has been toyed with by countless others, from Plato to Shakespeare to the Buddha himself. I, however, think we are already in the process of creating our own eternities.

My enlightenment took place on a balmy Miami evening in a little slice of paradise. I was at the beach with some friends at the beginning of summertime, drunk off the receding sunset and blissfully conscious of the limitless possibilities ahead. We luxuriated in the moment, sparsely speaking, each lost in our heads. I had a book of poems.

“You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop,” writes Rumi, a best-selling poet and theologian.

I dismissed the lines as a mere pretty thought.

But later, when the beachgoers cleared and the sky’s immeasurable blackness enveloped the sand, I found myself turning the lines over in my head.

The entire ocean in a drop.

At some point in our lives, we must each confront our own mortality. If you’re like me, you’ve already begun to think about it. The awareness of

the inevitability of the end is possibly the most profound experience shared by all human beings.

We live, and we die.

Or so I believed.

The thing about life, I’ve come to realize, is that it never truly ends. If you think about it — really think about it — what are we but compilations of the people we have known and loved? I am a pianist because my grandmother had a dream that I one day would be. I am a writer because of my eighth-grade English teacher. I like to dance salsa because my father once let me stay up late on a school night to learn the box step. I wear my childhood best friend’s shirt to bed at night because she never took it home, I order my steak medium-rare because my ex-boyfriend did, and I smile at strangers to honor the ones who have smiled at me. I have my mother’s ferocity and my sister’s empathy, my roommate’s humor and my childhood crush’s taste in films.

Everyone who unwittingly crafted the person I am today has also had their lives molded by others, and those people were also shaped by their own relationships and experiences. The impacts we make — and those made onto us — extend far beyond our perception. Within our conscious and uncon-

scious minds lie fragments of our ancestors, friends and even mere acquaintances.

We are, quite literally, the entire ocean in a drop.

Through others, we live on. We become infinite.

Once I recognized my own infinitude, every waking moment was revolutionized. Each encounter transformed into a chance to memorialize myself, to make a tiny home in a foreign heart.

Now, I am desperate to expand my eternity. Even if I become no more than a sentence in somebody’s story, I strive to leave an impression on everyone I meet. After that summer, I gave more compliments, reached out to old friends, shared secrets with strangers, took greater risks, loved with heightened fervor and welcomed unknown realities. I embraced the ocean within me.

I won’t pretend to know all the answers. The truth is, I am still figuring out what to do with my infinity — and I probably will be for as long as I am aware of it. The key is knowing it exists. Once you accept that you are both the drop and the ocean, your life ceases to be solely your own.

So, just as I am everything and everyone I have held dear in this life, I pose the question…

Who are you?

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MUSES RIDDLE

KATE CORCORAN

he first time you saw that painting, heard that song, gazed at those mountains, you encountered something you always loved yet never knew existed.

In these moments, you felt moved.

That transcendence is the feeling of beauty. Beauty is radiant and explosive; it’s a re-imagination of what is familiar and comforting. It’s a deep curiosity vaguely reminiscent of regular regard but rooted in something much deeper than common wonder.

This feeling is attached to something that was always there — a sort of nostalgia. Nostalgia is a profoundly personal yet universal experience. Everyone knows it, although few share the source. This logic flows into discovering your muse.

It’s your own. We share a feeling, but what that feeling is grounded in flippantly changes from person to person.

This feeling is almost romantic. A love you spend your life running to replicate in your own creations, dragging the personal to the universal.

Because that’s really all we can ask for, isn’t it? That one day, someone reads our stories, admires our photographs, revels in our art, listens to our music and feels beauty.

Meanwhile, I run to my muse, and you run to yours. In our endless pursuit, they stoop with an effortless grace and murmur to us about time and pretty little nonentities. But, like the garrulous gossips we are, we steal their secret stories of elusive beauty and proudly parade them to those who do not hear their lilting language.

For those who can’t solve their muse’s riddle, stop seeking the sources of others and grasp what first gave you the wonder and awe of inspiration.

T

BY

THE MUSE’S RIDDLE

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make horizontol article spread

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MUSES RIDDLE

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PUTTING THE PIECES TOGETHER

QUINN HEALY

W

here has the time gone? I have spent far too much of it reaching for something that may not even exist. As soon as I developed a sense of self, my identity was put up for debate. It was the one thing on which my mind could ever focus. I spent countless minutes, hours and days searching for answers to the question of all questions for many people, but especially for any of those who consider themselves queer: “Who am I?” This question has followed me to today, where I have moved markedly toward a point where I can provide an answer. Piece by piece, I have crafted a vibrant and one-of-a-kind mosaic through navigating aspects of my identity that may not hit so close to home with those unfamiliar with the experience of queerness. This piecing together was a long and winding road.

The first piece of the mosaic the majority of queer people, including myself, experience manifests as a slow realization and an ensuing search for a concise yet multilayered label. This task plagued my mind the most, as I addressed a part of myself I could never have conceptualized only months prior. It demanded a concrete self-assuredness that I, nor any other pubescent tween, could only have dreamed of possessing.

The next layer took place within the realm of “coming out.” Questions overwhelm and circulate the mind, forcing queer people into thought processes that cease to exist outside of queerness. Some question who they should come out to first, who deserves the “honor” of helping them carry their burden.

Many question if they should come out at all; after all, why should we?

We are forced to consider if our public declaration — something strongly encouraged at some point, especially in the West — of such a basic trait will end in net benefit. Others, including myself at this stage, have no control. Instead, others share our “secret” before we can, forcing us to surrender our identities to the minds of people around us we may have never wished to share ourselves with.

As my inner war waged, I sat back and watched.

Silently and helplessly, I watched as more and more of my peers were allowed access to my internal struggle without my permission.

However, it is not as this turbulence came to an end that my confused inner dialogue turned to clarity as I had hoped. With each milestone, every aspect within my mosaic seemed to lead to a new set of challenges. This part of my life is no exception. I believed that after finding an open and supportive circle of family and friends, my confusion and angst would begin to dissipate.

Instead, it was as if I had ended up right back where I started. Instead of simply reaching for a concrete label, I shifted my focus to discovering where my newfound queerness fit within other aspects of my life: gender roles, spirituality and self-expression. It was at this time, too, where my conception of self-questioning began to evolve.

As I found myself in an era of self-acceptance, furthering my understanding of my identity did not stay a mind-numbingly petrifying feat; it evolved into a purposeful and rewarding process. My loathing toward addressing my inner struggle became a celebration of the opportunity to come closer to full self-understanding, even if complete clarity was unattainable.

Today, I no longer reach for an end to self-questioning. I have come full circle with a new alternative perspective. I have arrived back to the question that has always spun at the axis of my being, the question that is centered in so many other confused and queer minds: “Who am I?” The truth is, no queer person owes anyone else or themselves a perfect and timely answer to that question, especially those who have been forced into more difficult environments than my own. Piece by piece, however, I do come closer to that answer, and day by day, I become more comfortable with the prospect of never arriving at one.

A Queer Coming of Age

BY

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community

a r ti

In a coterie of creativity, we’re even further inspired by the visionaries around us. We grow together by reaping the bounty of traded ideas.

Photographed by Paige Davis, Stephanie Garcia, Malyna Reed and Johann Vazquez

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through

s tr y

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when

strikes

a talk with creative director matt hamburg BY

MADISON CHESTANG

The story of Strike UF begins in March 2018. After weeks of communicating with the original Tallahassee publication, founders Hanna Gibson, Ashley West and Annie Ortega created the first branch location of Strike Magazine.

Seven issues later, Strike UF has bloomed into a garden of creativity, with 160 members working behind the scenes to produce and perfect the extraordinary content flourishing across digital and print spaces.

Still, even as we sail forward through Strike’s creative odyssey, we find ourselves at a crossroad. With most of the founding members gone, who is Strike UF’s next generation? As we explore our expanding identity, we want to honor the original team who worked to establish Strike as an endeavor of artistry and individuality.

Before he graduates this December, we sat down with Creative Director Matt Hamburg to talk about his experiences as the last founding member of Strike UF.

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“When I think about college, I think about Strike. I’ve met so many of my close friends here. I will be lifelong friends with these people, and I have thoroughly enjoyed being able to have these experiences with them and my experiences with Strike intertwined.”

MADISON CHESTANG Can you describe your current role at Strike?

MATT HAMBURG “I am the creative director for this fall semester.

After coming up with the theme for Issue 07, the content teams went straight into brainstorming the photoshoot concepts for the issue. I get to oversee all things creative, working with such talented teams that all take part in making the concepts come to life at the photoshoots.”

MC How did you first get involved with Strike? What was the interview process like?

MH “I went through the interview process my spring semester of freshman year, so I’ve been with Strike for seven issues. It was pretty interesting. The interview process used to be in person, and every applicant had to sit down with the editors.

Because I was a freshman, I didn’t really know anybody.

I wanted to be a part of something, and I liked the idea of having a creative outlet in college to pursue fashion. I remember I was insanely nervous. I made it through questions they asked and ended up chatting with them for a bit. I received my acceptance email and was ecstatic to return in the fall and begin working on Issue 01 as a content assistant. [I] definitely feel old with how long I’ve been with Strike, but at the same time, it feels so good to have a firsthand account of the growth Strike has had throughout the issues.”

MC How has it felt to see Strike grow over the years?

MH “We are the second chapter of Strike, so it was like we were extending the brand while also making it UF’s own project. It’s interesting to look back and think about what we did differently compared to how we operate as a magazine now, with each team expanding. Strike has become so multifaceted and a creative powerhouse. It has been a privilege to witness the growth of this brand.”

MC How has being on Strike impacted your time at UF? Do you feel like it’s changed your college experience for the better?

MH “I definitely do. When I think about college, I think about Strike. I’ve met so many of my close friends here. I will be lifelong friends with these people, and I have thoroughly enjoyed being able to have these experiences with them and my experiences with Strike intertwined. Strike has given me a lot. It’s nice to share the same passion with people.”

MC What was your thought process behind the theme for this issue?

MH “I was thinking about myself, my role that I have in Strike and how I can contribute to the magazine with only having one

semester left. I was thinking how Strike has shaped me. I considered the growth we’ve experienced, and the values we hold true to the brand, and I came up with the idea of ‘who we are.’ If someone asks us who we are, we can answer that with confidence. We have a personality. We’re not questioning who we are, we have an understanding of that. Reflecting back on Issue 01, it was just the beginning of a long journey, one where we set forth to turn dreams into accomplishments.”

MC As Creative Director, you’ve done a lot of brainstorming and artistic exploration over the years. What’s your process for coming up with ideas for photoshoots?

MH “When taking the theme into account we think, ‘How can this be represented? Is this a separate story we’re telling? How are we able to depict these values, ideas, experiences?’ Any outfit we choose always has an explanation for it, every article of clothing, every accessory — there should always be a reason the model is wearing it. Every element of the photoshoot has a theme that’s tied to a thought, emotion and experience. [There’s] a lot of brainstorming that occurs on the Creative Team, with each member being allhands-on-deck. That’s the unique part about so many individuals being on the Creative Team. After hearing each other’s ideas, the team shapes and refines the concepts, giving input for anything proposed.”

MC What’s your biggest source of inspiration?

MH “Honestly it sounds cliche, but life. I’m inspired by human experience and everything that comes along with it. Channeling these emotions through a photoshoot is an incomparable experience.”

MC We call ourselves Strike because we’re celebrating the things that make us unique. What makes you “striking?”

MH “My curiosity. I always strive to take an idea and reach further, finding its own direction. My motto at photoshoots is always ‘We don’t know until we try.’ Curiosity can be dangerous, but it can also be striking and beautiful.”

MC What does Strike mean to you?

MH “Strike means family. Strike has given me so much, and I wouldn’t trade my memories I’ve had with this magazine for the world. I get to work alongside people who are talented beyond belief. At the end of the day, it’s just so rewarding to be a part of something where not everyone on it is the same, and not everyone comes from the same background.”

MC What’s the biggest thing you’ve learned from your time on Strike?

MH “Don’t be afraid. It can be scary at times, sharing your ideas.

It’s easy to beat yourself up and be upset about whether they get used or not, but being fearless and maintaining confidence in your work helps shape your time as a creative individual and lets your voice be heard.”

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three gainesville designers sweeping the city BY

SARA FAJARDO

Designers today are met with consumers who follow trends at lightning speed. However, these trends fall out of favor as fast as they arrive. The endless ways in which designers can market their brands to the world, particularly through social media platforms, have opened the door and ushered in the limelight, as everyone can create a space with the potential to reach millions.

Therein lies the catch: A designer today has infinite ways of attracting a diverse group of consumers, but they must have their finger on the pulse of what’s trending to find success for their brand.

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Lastcall

“I haven’t been normal in a while.” This is a sentiment inscribed on pieces from Lastcall’s recent drops and the words Mr. X left to linger after his interview. Lastcall is a fashion brand like no other, resonant with consumers for being elusive.

It was created by Mr. X around five years ago.

As a recent high school graduate, he had finally found his people, whom he affectionately calls his “homies.” They are a group of creatives who live together, plan events, make music, design clothes and create art.

X wears blinders, creating only what flows out of the river of his imagination. He is inspired by knowledge, learning and the communities formed through his work. The creative can often be found watching YouTube videos, teaching himself new skills or learning about different concepts, which helps him generate ideas. Mr. X hosts pop-ups around the country, and he is soon to take his talents to California, Canada and New York City to continue fostering community and selling his work.

Lastcall’s pieces include oversized shirts and pants with custom words sewn onto the sleeves or leg panels. Flames stitched across the front of a shirt or dollar bills painted on pant pockets are commonplace. There is a blend between popular culture and the brand’s signatures; the front of the tote bags are embroidered with Pokémon cards while the bag is spray-painted with flames, and his latest jacket features a collage of spray-painted Yankees logos in fluorescent pink. X recognizes “the grind” as his motivator, unearthing his new ideas.

Frayed Label

One word, two syllables, perpetual meaning: SZA. It was during the height of the COVID-19 pandemic when Sean Childers, desperate to escape the clouds of boredom, took up sewing and posted his first project on Instagram: a crew neck with SZA’s “Ctrl’’ album cover hand-sewn across the front. The style was auspicious, as loungewear would soon be remembered as the pinnacle of 2020 quarantine fashion. Every detail was stitched to the perfect color, cut and size. The design was propitious, and it served as Childers’s golden ticket to creating his brand, Frayed Label. SZA saw the design on his Instagram, and she reached out with praise and a request for her own. Childers described this moment as his biggest success with the brand so far.

“Getting to network with SZA and make stuff for her family has been amazing,” he said. After SZA reposted his design, Childers woke up to 3,000 more followers and started Frayed Label to market to his new following. Each crew neck, which often features popular album covers, takes two to three hours to produce. Childers has also expanded into accessories with tote bags and pillows, which illustrate beloved album covers like “Positions’’ and “After Hours’’ through slightly textured stitching. He includes these pieces in a monthly raffle and donates the money to Asian Americans Advancing Justice, a nonprofit civil rights organization. When envisioning the future of Frayed Label, Childers sees infinite possibilities, as he aspires to one day transform his online market into a physical store.

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Livvy’s Threads

Something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue. While traditionally separate entities, Liv Vitale’s custom pieces fuse these concepts into one within her fashion brand, Livvy’s Threads. Livvy’s Threads is the 20-year-old’s passion project turned Instagram fashion brand.

Vitale began thrifting about 2 ½ years ago with a focus on repurposing items rather than discovering them.

The young designer describes her brand today as “vintage, reworked clothing, accessories and art.” All pieces are crafted to fit current trends, yet they retain a vintage flair. They’re timeless compared to commercial brands, more sustainable than fast-fashion companies and more unique than untouched thrift store finds. From painted sneakers to redesigned lingerie and crowd-pleasing graphic T-shirts, buyers gush over Livvy’s Threads.

Many pieces are also a nod to designer brands, as Vitale originally sought to recreate expensive pieces she adored. However, the surge in thrifting has inspired Vitale to create one-of-a-kind pieces to shine among the herd.

“The biggest challenge today is probably the oversaturation of vintage clothing companies, as thrifting is so popular now,” she explained. “You can’t find my pieces anywhere else.” As an aspiring fashion designer, the collegiate entrepreneur sees Livvy’s Threads as only the first step to a prosperous career. “Seeing people wear my clothes is super exciting and rewarding and pushed me to continue,” she said. “I hope to grow bigger, expand and do more of what I love.”

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AS OUR MINDS CAN BECOME WARPED BENEATH THE PERCEPTION OF OUR PAST AND THE PROMISE OF OUR FUTURE, WE FIND SOLACE IN A SIMPLE TRUTH: WE’RE JUST GETTING STARTED. Photographed by Allison Epstein, Jared Neikirk, Brooke Ross and Johann Vazquez

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THE TRUTH THAT CONNECTS US

SAVORING THE SONDER BY

DANIELLA CONDE

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S

onder: The realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own.

On the subway ride home from work, I roll my eyes and shut off my phone as my senses are flooded with digital inspiration on how to be the “main character.”

At the risk of sounding cynical, it’s foolish for us to believe we have scored a leading role in life.

The more I relentlessly search for moments that make me feel like the protagonist, the more disappointed I am with reality as an extra.

As I look up from my device and scan the subway car, my eyes land on unfamiliar faces. We don’t know each other, but we are tied together with a common thread: humanity.

An obscure but poignant feeling tugs at the corners of my heart when I accept that each individual around me is not merely a background character in my existence. I am the star at the center of my own unfolding narrative, but I do not play the leading role in anyone else’s. Each person sitting around me has their own friends, their own desires, their own baggage they lug around with them.

That realization, while marred by the constant societal pressure to grasp at scraps of originality, is at the forefront of understanding what it means to be alive.

While it is easy for us to lose ourselves in the intensity of our existentialism, the idea that everyone else has a story should alleviate our misplaced sense of solitude.

We look out our apartment windows and see others in the distance, each giving us glimpses into their worlds. Even when the unsettling feeling that we are eavesdropping sinks in, we can’t seem to peel our eyes away. Emotionally estranged couples erratically yell at each other, fighting to keep sinking relationships afloat.

Aspiring self-taught chefs follow convoluted recipes, frantically stirring and hoping they keep their delicacies from burning. Children create crayon masterpieces while sitting cross-legged on couches. Students spend hours hunched over their textbooks and laptops, and bibliophiles let the world slip away as fiction absorbs them. Sometimes we peer in on individuals sitting in solitude, and we may even miss the tears silently streaming down their faces.

Others gaze out their windows and see us, pondering what our worlds might be like. In the films of our lives, there are no directors to yell cut. When our curtains are drawn, none of our neighbors can perceive how our tape keeps rolling, creating outtakes of our at-home vulnerability. At times, we forget to draw our curtains, giving strangers a behind-the-scenes look. Those who are on the outside looking in notice us as we mindlessly flip through channels on our televisions, or as we scramble to grab our keys and get out the door. When we are lost in endless productivity at coffee shops or scurrying down busy streets with our headphones in, an audience of passersby also acknowledges us. We may never appear in their lives again, but our existence permeates their own human experience.

We may spend our existence trying, but we’re not always going to feel like the main character. There are times in which we take a supporting role, and more often than not, we are the extras in the cameos and subplots woven into the complexities of life. Instead of becoming resentful about having to share the spotlight, we can choose to embrace our scripts and revel in our time on set.

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usic rumbles the wood of the black door, and gold gleams through its cracks. I lean against the surrounding red brick, arms folded under my long leather coat to block out the bitter New England cold. I raise a gloved hand to my mouth and pull away the cigarette kissing my lips. Warmth fills my chest, and a rich earthy taste still lingers in my mouth after the smoke escapes it. I drop my arm and flick the remnants to the floor, stepping on them with black boots as I approach Billy’s.

The door opens to a dim room of scattered spotlights and a sea of chatter. I dig around in my coat pockets as I make my way past the piano man, dropping the residual coins from today’s shift in the jar sitting atop his piano case. He nods his head in gratitude and continues to play his tune.

Sinking myself into a seat at the bar at the rear end of the restaurant, I wave down the bartender. We exchange words as I order, but I barely acknowledge what she says — ­ my head is full. Not because of the woman yelling at her boyfriend over the table in the corner, or the radio broadcasting live updates on the violent LA riots in the kitchen; I’m full of a week’s worth of thoughts.

I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I feel stuck. I need a drink.

M

BY SOFIA RAMOS

IN VINO VERITAS: A TRUTH FROM A FRIEND

The bartender slides an amber whiskey glass across the bar. An orange slice sinks to the bottom as ice floats to the top, and a garnish of maraschino cherries finishes it neatly. My mind starts to feel devoid of any worries in just looking at the drink.

As I nibble the skewered fruit, a delicate figure walks up behind me and takes the empty seat to my left. To my surprise, it’s a woman’s voice who chimes at the bartender.

I glance over at the long-legged, platinum blonde, and she looks perfect; flawless skin and a beautiful demeanor, she oozes self-confidence. I take a sip of my drink and eye the crimson stain my lips leave on the rim. She peels off her brown coat, exposing a black turtleneck and blue jeans, and peers over at me.

“So, how’s your night going?”

“It's been fine,” I answer as I spin my glass. “Same old, nothing new.” That’s the problem.

She looks back at me, eyebrow raised, exposing a bright smile as she brings a green olive to her lips, prompting me to explain further. I tell her my story from the start; that of the typical, washed-up artist working a nine-to-five at a diner. I had told myself it would be until I had enough money to get started, but it became steady income to get me by, and one year soon turned into three. I’ve had my fun, I’ve grown to love the people I’ve surrounded myself with, and I’m content with life, but that’s it.

I’m just content.

“I’m too late,” I lament as I allow the thoughts plaguing my mind to pour out. “I’ve missed my window in life. I came here setting out to do one thing but got sidetracked. Now, I have no idea why I’m here or where I’m going — if anywhere, at that.

How would I even get out? Is it even my purpose to get out?”

She watches me and lets out a sigh as she plays with the olives in her martini.

“You've always been good at doubting yourself,” she shoots. I look up at her in confusion, studying her face, and when she continues, I realize who she is, and she knows it.

“I wasn’t sure if it was you. Your hair’s gotten darker since I last saw you,” she takes a sip of her apéritif, chewing on the fruit. “This self-doubt you have has always been inside you. But it’s not a matter of whether you missed your window or if you can do it — it’s the question of whether you’re gonna work to realize your passion or make peace with where you’re at.”

She’s right, and we both know it.

“I remember when your parents were out of town this one time, and you asked me to come over for the weekend,” she reminisces. “You were maybe nine at the time?” She throws her head back and laughs, shaking her short golden hair. “You told me how you wanted to become a sculptor, but your dad said you’d be struggling for the rest of your life.”

The memory of the night resurfaces, and I look down, cracking a smile. “And I told him that I’d rather be a broke artist living in a cardboard box than a sad broker working in a cubicle like him,” I shake my head, burying my face in my hands with embarrassment.

“You know how I finally realized it was you sitting here tonight?” she asks as I tilt my head in wonder. “It was the way you spoke of your dreams. When you were younger, every time your mom would call me in to babysit, you’d talk my ear off about your new passion of the week. You’ve always been a dreamer.”

She inches closer, her voice the only sound in the room.

“You know, you can change a million times over in this life, but there’s always gonna be that one thing about you that sticks. You say you don’t know what your purpose is, but you know what you’d like for it to be. Follow that because, deep down, you already know what you want. The real question is: just how bad do you want it?”

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B Y J U L I A N A TA R C S O N

WE’RE MORE THAN WHAT WE CAN’T CONTROL

S

unlight seeps through your window and peers into your eyes to welcome a habitual day full of lackluster possibilities.

Its scheduled tasks bear some stress, but not to the extent of which you know is possible. You haven’t huddled in your comforter for more than five minutes before dark clouds run through your subconscious.

You know a panic attack could overthrow you at any instant. But, as your toes touch the floor, you generally feel alright. Not perfect, not dreadful — just alright.

Dismissing your demons at a club tonight doesn’t seem so far fetched as dusk hits the city. You arrive at your destination, and it begins.

The idea of waiting in line warrants signals of unwanted anticipation, but the feeling isn’t overbearing. Not yet, at least. For now, you still have an edge over your emotions. After slipping past skeptical bouncers and into the hotspot for student nightlife, intoxicated mutuals throw themselves into their hellos, but the herd is more than you can handle.

Strobe lights, bass beats and the taste of tequila overload your senses, obstructing any calm thought in your brain. Without any prior signs of physical sickness in your body, your stomach starts to concave as a warning that nausea is about to take the wheel. Bright lights are all you can see past what feels like a million people in a shoebox-sized room.

The techno tapping that once filled your ears has been replaced with the thumping of your heart. With sweat in your palms and heat radiating from your face, you bolt to the bathroom to escape the bar at which your friends still seamlessly dance.

After pacing in circles in a lonesome stall while tears stream down your face, it hits you: you’re having a panic attack.

Not one consoling person in sight; it’s just you, a toilet and a mirror taunting you with your pale reflection. You’re lucid and fully aware of what's happening, but that mentality only works as a placebo when you think you’re about to die in a musty bathroom stall. After an eternity of practicing the breathing exercises your mom taught you when you were 12, the walls stop closing in, and your bodily apocalypse sets back the doomsday clock.

A panic attack never truly ends when the body returns to moderate homeostasis; anxiety is a parasite that lingers as long as it wants to.

You’re exhausted from your mind’s torturous control, so the question is asked: How does one magnify their mind if they spend most of their life trying to escape it?

These episodes come and go with no real explanation; they’ve definitely gotten better, and you’re proud this attack felt far less severe than the typical all-consuming incidents, but the burden remains.

You wipe away tears and beads of sweat with tiles of cardboard-ish toilet paper. You conjure up a brave face as you march back into the madness. You find your friends, and they ask where you have been. You could say you were flirting at the bar for a free drink, or you could tell the tale of what you just experienced.

They probably wouldn’t understand the trauma you just endured, and you don’t want to burden them with your problems. You tell them you needed to fix your mascara, though the angst still lingers in your body.

Eventually, you find yourself lost in the sound of your favorite song.

It’s almost like it never happened, but you know that it wasn’t the last time. Though this fact may reign true for as long as you live, it’s your duty to pursue a life of abundance through existing beyond your fears.

These attacks may feel like they last an eternity, but they always leave you to see another day. To fulfill your hope of having an electric life, you know you need to start magnifying who you are outside of what you can’t control.

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HOW DOES MAGNIFY TH IF THEY S OF THEIR

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S ONE HEIR MIND SPEND MOST R LIFE TRYING

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Letter From an Editor

Dear Strike Staff, When I interviewed for Strike during my freshman year, I could not have anticipated how this magazine would give me my outlet, my people and infinitely more. It has given me family. It has become a segment of myself that has gifted me growth, memories, challenges and new experiences. In being a part of Strike since the founding issue, my passion and enthusiasm for our work and vision has never diminished, and I am a better version of myself because of this — because of our team. As we publish our seventh issue, and my time with our publication comes to an end, I reflect on what this magazine has taught me and how it will continue to inspire me long after I graduate. It has transformed my college experience, and for that, and our staff, I am so grateful. Thank you to Strike’s Creative Team for sharing your artistry, excitement and talent with me. Thank you, Hanna Gibson, Ashley West and Annie Ortega for recognizing my passion years ago during my first interview. Thank you, Ashley West for being my friend and role model, as I got to fulfill my dream of being the Creative Director for Issue 07. Thank you, Erin Hu and Brynn Fantuzzi for standing alongside me and investing your all during this unforgettable semester. It was a remarkable time, Strike, I’m a lucky one.

Strike Out,

Matt Hamburg Creative Director

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THANK YOUV

Thank you to our models and businesses for your support in us and our creative endeavors.

VANGUARD

Valentina Camargo Alexa Fannon Kadir Sala Noah Weichert

Abdullah Afridi Andrea Ely Christina Klassen Mackenzie Logue Apoorva Thapa

COMMON GROUND

CREATIVE PROCESS

Megan Brown Isabella Camargo Veronique Deverson Tania Garcia-Solis Garrett Gruttadauria MAGNIFYING OUR MINDS Jazzmyn Falloon Joanne Kim

Ben Robinson Lucianna Valle De La Rocha Kate Wiggins

Amanda Jimenez

community through artistry Jake Adcock Frankie DeCesare Debbie Haryono

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STRIKEOUT

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STRIKE OUT

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