Issue # 2 by The Collective X Liberation

The Collective Liberation Fashion With Perspective

Warning: May contain representation not often portrayed in modern media. Confront perceptions before reading.

No. 2 Cultural Identity

LETTER TO THE EDITOR For us as a collective to sit down and decide on a topic to guide our magazine’s initiative, we must understand that there is no piece that will singlehandedly solve the eurocentric- male dominated media. And, even if there were, it wouldn’t be our duty to find it. Instead, we search for a theme that can induce conversations addressing frustrations that arise as being a part of an underrepresented group in our country. So, after a great deal of conversation, we found that the topic “Cultural Identity” would enable us to unpack this experience.

Like any publication, a large sum of people deserve to be thanked for their contributions in making things come together for our second issue. Firstly, let’s thank those kind folks of the State Diner who allowed us to occupy their space for the Asian Meld Shoot. Similar gratitude goes to the owner of the Northside Laundromat. Thank you for deciding on that particular lighting, it made shooting our cover quite easy. As always, we must thank every model that put up with our rather impromptu photoshoots and our consistent detail changes. As you flip through the pages of the Collective X, we hope you understand our mission is to provide those perspectives not often heard, with a platform. You are reading the stories of individuals who identify with a group, however, no perspective can be generalized to encompass an entire group. These perspectives are individual and real, deserving to be considered with the appreciation that their cultures warrant. As always, thank you for reading, and we hope you encounter a point of view you haven’t previously considered. Rebekah Jones Co-president The Collective Liberation

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CONTENT

It is essential to preface this with the truth that there is no one expression of a “cultural identity”. What compels an individual to identify with a particular culture, and how do we portray those cultures realistically and positively? Well, like always, we sit back and let our writers, photographers, and models express themselves in the way that self-empowers, though fashion . Our responsibility is to form our collective through mutual respect and positive representation. Only then can we truly be liberated.

CONNIE NAPPIER IV DELMAR FEARS DANIEL LEE KEMBA COOPER OLIVIA CHAUDHURY NICK NATHANSON SOFYA CALVIN LEENA MORIS CLARIE NG SOFIA VILLACRESE TOYOSI ELMO AMY GONZALEZ JOSELIS CRUCETA TYLER DIXON FOREST AMBER-BOREALIS LEAH ESHELMAN NATASHA STEINHALL ADRIAN ZHENG

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REBEKAH JONES MARQUAN JONES NICHOLAS RAHIM ISABELLE PHILIPPE ALEX DAVIS CORNELIUS TULLOCH JESIREE NATHANIEL LEAH ESHELMAN OLIVIA CHAUDHURY

The Self

The Toxicity of Masculinity

Exploring Body Standards

The Asian-Culture Meld

Mixed Identity

Afro Punk: Exploration of American Assimilation

The Afro(punk) in Western Fashion

Undefined and Ever-Changing: The Self Written by Jenna Robinson I’m unaware whether we spend too much or too little time discussing the “self.” It is something that we embody but also avoid in the same manner. We cannot escape it. It is us. However, we expend so much energy trying to either mold or mask ourselves that we become unsure of who we are. Self-identity means freedom and captivity. We fear being trapped within the limitations that come along with the “self” when, truthfully, we are limitless. We, as people, create our own limitations by choosing “this” and not “that.” It is a dangerous game for those who wish to live outside of the box. When searching for definitions of self, there is no one answer. Some argue that it is a “complexsystem…that operate[s] at four levels: molecular, neural, psychological, and social” while some philosophers say the self is “an immortal soul that transcends the physical.” Others reject both definitions. The lack of agreement speaks to the gravity of the self and its implications. It also makes sense as to why so many of us struggle with the concept of self. How are we supposed to know who or what we are if we cannot even define what we are looking for?

We navigate our daily lives using self-identity. It determines where we go, how we act, how we dress, how we talk…maybe everything. It also determines aspects we cannot control, which is when things get tricky. People treat us based on their own perception, which can and cannot be reflective of who we truly are. The scariest part is their perceptions can be formed by the smallest interaction or no interaction at all. It is a dangerous game that we all play—choosing someone’s identity for them. It is how we b\come lost, feel rejected, or forced into a role we did not audition for. Ultimately, self-identity is fluid. It is unending. We are never “done.” Humans are constantly evolving, and we must not get stuck in our social constructs. Our generation has taken certain steps to address this issue, specifically with gender, but the work is far from over. To make progress, we have to be okay with dialogue and discussion. With that comes mistakes. So often, I find that our generation becomes defensive when people are uneducated. Yes, it’s terrible that some people’s issues are not known to others, but it is also terrible to not give others a chance to learn about their ignorance. We are so quick to jump on someone for saying

something politically incorrect that we often miss the chance to use it as an educational opportunity. If we all focused on finding and educating ourselves before educating others, I guarantee maneuvering this world would not be so difficult.

For me, the self is everything I embody. It’s a combination of my experiences, passions, relationships, emotions, attitudes, and more. It is apparent in everything that I do. What I appreciate most about the self is that it has no predestined path. I am what I want to be, when I want to be. My self-identity is something I have no matter what, regardless of whether or not someone agrees with it. In fact, it is not up for discussion. It is mine.

about self-identity. There was a time when I was unsure about everything. Unsure about who I was and where I belonged. Even though I still struggle with these concepts, I feel more confident in the idea that I do belong somewhere. My life is far from traditional, but I couldn’t imagine it any other way. My experiences shaped who I am today, whether that is being partially raised by my grandparents, attending an all-white school my entire life, or recovering after Hurricane Katrina. Each of these events taught me something about myself that has become a part of my identity, but the events themselves do not define me unless, of course, I want them to. And that’s the beautiful thing about self-identity. It is what you make of it.

I didn’t always have these stern feelings

And only you.

The Toxicity of Masculinity Written by Kemba Cooper

“Do you want to be a boy?” wouldn’t typically be a dumb question, but I heard the distaste in his voice. “No, why?” “Because, look at the way you dress and act. Why you so hard? I mean, it’s cool, I just hate dykes that wanna be men.” This wasn’t the easiest conversation to entertain, and for the boy to have been a high school senior, I thought he would have long outgrown some of his ignorance. What people pose as an “innocent” question has more often than not been a backhanded comment about my gender identity and appearance. Regardless, I identify as a woman. I should be respected as such -- but that’s not a concept that everyone absorbs, apparently. “Girls pay $3, boys pay $5, but dykes gotta pay $8 since you wanna be both,” was another day’s punchline. Of course, I would love to shake the comments off and play like I’m unbothered. I frequently ignored them, and this time was no different. I realized then that my instinct to appear insensitive to the remark was a reflection of what others expected of me. Toxic masculinity isn’t just a man’s problem. If you deviate from the status quo in the slightest, it follows you everywhere. The comment, though unreasonable, has some truth to it. I’m not feminine enough for the heteronormative party -- males

want to let women in for free so that there’s more of them, yet at the same time, what would be in it for them if I came through? Should they charge me, since I don’t appeal to them? If I “look” like a man, should you treat me like one? I’m most often held to the standards of a male than I am of a woman, and when reduced to simplest terms, it’s because of what I like and what I wear. Liking and experiencing traditionally feminine things seems unbelievable to people. People assume I act strangely about periods of my own accord. No, it’s everyone else who dramatizes the idea. I don’t even like asking for products, because girls will want to know more about why I use a tampon instead of the fact that I need it. As farfetched as these experiences may seem in today’s “woke” world, none of these are stories I could have made up. To some girls, being “one of the guys” is a regular day for them, maybe even a day in paradise. But when they leave their friend groups, they’re still seen as women. For me, people take that phrase quite literally, and throw those same expectations in my face, maybe even more so than that of their own male friends. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve been asked if I slept with one of my female friends, I could pay my tuition with ease. Why can’t we just be friends? Does the blurred line between

friends and lovers in the perception of others exist because I’m gay, I’m “masculine”, or both? Being butch is such an awkward place to be in society, and it can only be understood through experience. I’m not ladylike, but if I act too much like a male, I get “treated like one”. In theory, I shouldn’t be treated differently for what I wear. Albeit equality seems like the obvious answer, it’s not true in practice. I’m not feminine enough to be comfortable in women’s spaces; I’ve gotten my fair share of strange looks in the bathroom. I’ve had groups of feminine friends, but there are few occasions where I can relate in a conversation because it’s not quite me. Yet on the other hand, I’m not a boy, and I don’t share the same mannerisms and experiences as my male friends. Ultimately, I’ve felt stuck in the middle of a social spectrum where it’s been more difficult than usual to make

friends over something so simple. There’s so many individuals who have constantly represented for their respective groups and spoke on their experiences, and I still have yet to even meet someone who shares mine. I shouldn’t have to educate people on how not to pigeonhole individuals on the basis of their appearance and how to exercise basic human decency. Toxic masculinity doesn’t just follow men; you become subject to these expectations if you even so much as look like one. We tell one another to take care of effeminate boys in an effort to keep them from upholding alpha male standards of older generations. Efforts to help women help feminine women by default. Do I not deserve the same acknowledgement? Or should I keep fending for myself, since that’s a man’s job, and according to society, I want to be a man so much?

FASHION FEATURE

Nick Nathanson

As an Italian-Bangladeshi American who grew up overseas, I lived between cultures and always tried to find a synthesis that reflected these two cultures within my clothing. My parents met in Brooklyn in the 1980s, which has led to my fixated fascination with this era. When thrift shopping, I’m immediately drawn to anything that resembles this era. The commanding silhouette of strong shoulders and bold prints appeal to me in their assertiveness and tradition. The formality of the suit silhouette combined with loud, unique prints assert presence. I felt shy wearing bindis (or teeps in Bengali, my language) but when I combined them with my vintage staples, the look pulled through. Combining ethnic style with traditional retro silhouettes writes ethnicity into narratives of the past. Children of immigrants to the US are in a unique place because they do not wholly embrace the culture of the countries they immigrated from; however, they also do not completely fit into a predisposed Americana. By combining cultural fashion with classical pieces, multiracial people and people of color can celebrate both their heritage and patriotism.

Olivia Chaudhury

My father has most dominantly influenced my style. He is always dressed more proper than I am, but what he wears is what I have become keen on modernizing. What people would think of as business casual, I turn more into street wear. In taking one of his old sweaters that wears large on me and putting it with a baggy t-shirt that is longer than the sweater, it becomes a modern day look. Instead of his khakis, I wear black skinny jeans. Instead of his normal Stan Smiths, a pair with Velcro straps makes a great fit. For me, style is all about being comfortable. That’s first and foremost what I think about when picking out clothing. If you can’t say you are comfortable in your clothes, then you shouldn’t wear them.

FASHION FEATURE

I am drawn to the uniformity of retro style. In past eras, fashion was much more homogenous; a clear unifying style was established among communities. Although this can be restrictive, there is also a virtuous unifying element about it.

EXPLORING BODY STANDARDS: NEWFOUND ASSIMILATION Written by Isabelle Philippe

When asked to look into a mirror, more important than the question of what is being seen, is the question of what is being felt â&#x20AC;&#x201C; something that continuously fails to be addressed. When it is nothing but an image reflected back through the still panes of transparent glass, what emotions are surfaced within the beholder? Does this reflection generate pride? Confidence? Maybe it is insecurity that is felt. Regardless of the personal emotion that may be present at that moment, culture undoubtedly plays a large role in its prominence. The ways in which an individual views their body often stems from comparisons to others. Though this may just as well be a natural human tendency to constantly judge and attempt to self-identify with those around us, a greater problem with this relational identification lies at hand. When we constantly compare, we assimilate ourselves to the societal standards of beauty. Our flesh becomes a sort of mold that is never shaped correctly, unless it matches the composition of the ones around us. We envy, aspire, and detest those whose shapes are different from our own, finding flaws or attributions we would like to have or are glad we do not. But within this comparison typically emerges one common mindset of what the ideal beauty standard resembles. This mindset changes with the passing decades, flows through each year as these ideals are changed. As a result, the molds of our bodies change as well as we attempt to conform and embody this standard. Body assimilation has long been a part of society. From the Middle East, to Asia, to Africa, Europe, and the Americas, body assimilation has al-

ways been present, no matter the place. Looking at past decades, it is easy to see the changes that body standards have brought about - plump for ancient times, slender and thin for the 1900s, and toned and muscular in the present day. In Western culture, the view of the â&#x20AC;&#x153;perfect bodyâ&#x20AC;? is often categorized as being thin, lean, but rightly proportionate. Now, an emphasis is placed on women being either fitly curvy or athletically thin and sculpted. Similarly, for men, attraction is characterized as being tall and muscular. In reality, body assimilation will continuously be present as we will always be surrounded by those who differ among us, and whose physique we find admirable. As the media continues to portray these images as being a reflection of how the present day person should look, we will all continue to conform and fall subject to the body assimilation around us. The true fact is that body assimilation, though existent, should not be determinant of how one thinks about themselves. The ability to transform and transcend beyond the body and appreciate, believe, and spread self- love for oneself and to others, should always be embraced. No matter what shape, size or form is reflected back within the panes of that ever clear and all-revealing glass, the emotions we have for ourselves should never be anger, conceit, or shame: just love.

I have always loved anything classic, old-fashioned, or vintage as I’ve found a sort of comfort in it. In earlier decades, there was a clearer sense of morality and values. People moved much slower, took notice of detail, and life didn’t seem to pass by so quickly. While I love the past, I still acknowledge its flaws, and I know it would be a less than desirable time to live in, especially for a woman of color like myself. However, the past is where my sense of fashion comes from. I like to take classic looks and modernize them. I make purchases from vintage stores, thrift shops, or just steal from family members’ closets. I make the clothes fit me in both size and style. I take long, stiff skirts or dresses from the 1960’s and cut them down until they are short, or tight - sometimes both. I think sexualizing styles of past eras that were so willing to hinder the sexuality of women is liberating. It allows me to both indulge in the old-fashioned without feeling

like I’m agreeing to the norms of the past. It also represents a kick in the teeth to the old decade’s casually racist approach to the manner in which these styles were traditionally worn. As an Afro-Latina, I feel as if I am not only (happily) imposing on what could have been a beautiful, creative, iconic number of decades, but in fact, I’m improving these fashion standards through the use of feminism and racial inclusivity. When one thinks “vintage”, they usually don’t think of sex, Latinx, or blackness. We tend to think of women staying at home, restrained to modest lifestyles, unable to indulge in their own sexual expression. We think of white people and white picket fences. For me, this form of self-expression means taking a style that I love, one that never really loved me back, that would tell me I didn’t belong, and proving it wrong. Vintage is Latinx, vintage is Black, and it’s definitely sexy.

FASHION FEATURE

FASHION FEATURE Amy Gonzalez

I just throw on whatever is cute and cozy. It just so happens that it looks good together most times.

Joselis Cruceta 18

THE ASIAN CULTURE MELD Written by Kimberly Koh

We were in a dim sum restaurant when I first truly understood I wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t just asian. Filipino domestic workers are common in the places my extended families live. Both my relatives in Hong Kong and Singapore have Filipino nannies who help to cook, clean, and care for the children. In extreme cases, the relationship between the children and nanny is closer than that of the children and the mother, echoing the peculiar position of black nannies and white children in the US during the 20th century. While the working conditions and social implications of this common arrangement merit an article all on their own, it is necessary to note here that the racial aspects of this relationship do not go completely unnoticed. It also should be mentioned that not all nannies are from the Philippines. However, the majority do emigrate from poorer South and Southeast Asian countries, typically where darker skin is more common which exacerbates the racial dynamic. In my opinion the racial difference is slightly less obvious in Singapore because

of the countryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mixed population, but Hong Kong is fairly homogenous. And it was in a dim sum restaurant in Hong Kong that my mother was completely ignored by the waitstaff. At first I was confused. Maybe they were deferring to my father because he was the man in the family (also problematic), but my aunt was being treated more respectfully. Later, my mother brought my brother and I to the bathroom where a Filipino member of the cleaning staff approached us and asked tentatively if we were Filipino too. In retrospect, the two incidents are so interconnected it would be senseless to even mention them separately, but as an 8 year old I was not particularly sensitive to racial bias, especially after having finally discovered a place where I thought everyone looked and was asian just like me. What Cantonese people were noticing about us, however, was the opposite. We were and are tan. My family is genetically darker skinned, but I was also brought up believing it was healthy to have bronzed skin; but in Hong Kong it made the

waitress and the bathroom attendant assume we were Filipino, assume that my mother was a lower class worker unworthy of respect. It did not matter that she was wearing her wedding ring and speaking as an equal to the other adults at the table. It did not even matter that it was she, not my father, who was born and raised in Hong Kong. She was dark; she was a woman; and it was assumed that she was there to take care of the kids. Though it might be ok for the kids to be darker, it was inexcusable for my mother. In the US, the racism I face is mostly a result of the model minority myth. My academic success, which I attribute entirely to great parenting, is also generally associated with the fact that I am Asian. There was one incident where someone I had never met asked my boyfriend (caucasian) if I looked like this and showed him a google image of a yellow square, but I’ve never been made fun of for my eyes or asked if I was math whiz for no reason. My racial discomfort came mostly from an uneasy sense of unbelonging. Chinese New Year and the Lunar Festival seemed completely arbitrary where Christmas was never questioned. I was always itching to get out of my junior-sized cheongsam on special occasions because nobody else I knew wore one. Instead I bought floral Sunday dresses for church services my family does not attend. The other kids proclaimed to love asian food, but made faces at my lunch of sticky rice with lap cheong (a cured sausage particular to southern China); as if the only real asian food came from a local favorite: House of Emperor whose meals came complete with the expected ungrammatical restaurant name. I was so embarrassed that my mom learned to send me to school with turkey sandwiches and yogurt cups instead. The one other asian girl in my grade was adopted and Korean. While my integration allowed me a sense of security among my American peers, it also set me adrift. Today when I visit my family, I am recogniz-

able as a westerner even before my language and accent pour out of my mouth. I am not ang moh, a word for white foreigners which translates literally to “red haired”, but I am not Cantonese or Singaporean either. I suspect that a lot of the difference is in my appearance; not just in my skin color but my intentional choices. The bold brow and winged eyeliner common in the US stand in stark contrast to the intentionally slightly puffy eyes and light dewy skin popular with my cousins. My style, an unintentional manifestation of my internalized “Americanness”, somehow places me apart from all of my relatives. It’s demonstrative of my distance from the culture that I cannot even identify what it is clothing-wise which so clearly distinguishes me from everyone else. Yet my unchangeable external features make me someone who could be told to go ‘back to where I came from’ (New Jersey, if they’d ask). It is odd to be so unbound to geography whether it is the country of my ancestors or the one of my birth. I just know that Cantonese who know how attempt to speak to me in English first. Someone might have bowed to me while I was in a grocery store on a family trip in Tennessee. A waitress in Singapore tried to explain to me why someone like me would not enjoy a token Singaporean dish: laksa, something I’ve eaten since I was a kid. A friend’s drunk white neighbor tried to speak Mandarin to me at her grad party even after I told him I’m not from a region which speaks Mandarin. In Hong Kong, when trying to buy an umbrella, I was offered the hiked up price for foreigners even though I could read the original low price on the display in front of me. My manager at work this summer tried to say hello to me in Korean and retreated when I told him I could not understand him. Just last year I saw an article by Vogue called Now Trending: Chinoiserie featuring the likes of Margot Robbie and Cobie Smulders wearing dresses inspired by the cheongsams I used to own. Where they received praise, I was teased. Just last year I passed a Forever

original low price on the display in front of me. My manager at work this summer tried to say hello to me in Korean and retreated when I told him I could not understand him. Just last year I saw an article by Vogue called Now Trending: Chinoiserie featuring the likes of Margot Robbie and Cobie Smulders wearing dresses inspired by the cheongsams I used to own. Where they received praise, I was teased. Just last year I passed a Forever 21 carrying those satin bomber jackets with tigers, dragons, and cherry blossoms embroidered on the back. I found them again that winter all over Japan, on the streets where tourists walk, where I watched non Japanese women of all colors run around taking pictures in bizarrely gaudy kimonos. My mother told me that because I am XS petite that I would have better luck buying clothes that fit ‘back home,’ but I can never find anything which suits my tastes. It is not that I feel estranged in America because there is somewhere else where I fit perfectly; there simply isn’t a store in any country which accommodates every aspect of my identity.

FASHION FEATURE

21 carrying those satin bomber jackets with tigers, dragons, and cherry blossoms embroidered on the back. I found them again that winter all over Japan, on the streets where tourists walk, where I watched non Japanese women of all colors run around taking pictures in bizarrely gaudy kimonos. My mother told me that because I am XS petite that I would have better luck buying clothes that fit ‘back home,’ but I can never find anything which suits my tastes. It is not that I feel estranged in America because there is somewhere else where I fit perfectly; there simply isn’t a store in any country which accommodates every aspect of my identity. first. Someone might have bowed to me while I was in a grocery store on a family trip in Tennessee. A waitress in Singapore tried to explain to me why someone like me would not enjoy a token Singaporean dish: laksa, something I’ve eaten since I was a kid. A friend’s drunk white neighbor tried to speak Mandarin to me at her grad party even after I told him I’m not from a region which speaks Mandarin. In Hong Kong, when trying to buy an umbrella, I was offered the hiked up price for foreigners even though I could read the

My style is inspired by brands such as Tyler, the Creator’s Golfwang line. I’d watch his fashion shows and take what i want from It. I also always tell myself to not care what someone else would think about what I’m wearing. If i find an outfit that i like, i simply just wear I t without trying to figure out if other people think it’s cute. I am not easily swayed by the latest fashion trends either. I t takes a lot for me to hop on bandwagons . I love wearing heels with street clothes because of the visual clash I t creates. I am often wearing black clothes too .

Tyler Dixon 25

EXPLORING MIXED CULTURAL IDENTITY BY LEAH ESHLEMAN

Before I entered grade school, I was ignorant of the concept of race. My black mother and white father had decided before my birth that they would never talk about race or give me a racial identity because to them, it didn’t matter. However, when I entered school and started interacting with other kids, majority white, race was a topic that was brought up everyday. And so commenced my 18 year struggle with my own racial identity. The following 13 points are the most reoccurring topics in a long and complicated list of what it means to be mixed race (in this case white and black). I. Society placing an identity upon you The first thing I learned about my race from other people was that I was black. In elementary school, being mixed or being half-white and half-black wasn’t an option. Because my skin was brown and my hair was kinky, I was a black kid. I did everything to try and fit European beauty standards. I tied my hair in tight braids and gelled back all of my curls and tried to keep my skin as light as possible. I thought if I tried hard enough and wished long enough, I would wake up one morning as a white person. One time a white girl even told me that she once looked like me then she prayed to God and she became white. She said if I did that I could be beautiful too. II. “What are you? Wait, let me guess!” However, whilst most people automatically identify me as black, some like to play a “fun” guessing game and figure out what races combined to make my racially ambiguous face. “I feel like you’re part Native American or something, I mean, look at those cheek bones.” When will people understand that classifying phenotypes (or the way in which genes are physically expressed) into discrete races is racism?

This “harmless” game of categorizing my features to try and guess my races reflects the practice of scientific racism in which white people would justify racism because they believed non-European features gave empirical evidence to convey racial inferiority. My identity is not your entertainment. III. “Are you, like, adopted?” People could believe I was my mother’s child, but no one ever believed I was my father’s. Any time he came to school events, people would ask me who he was. When I responded that he was my dad, this statement was often followed by, “Oh, are you adopted?” One time, a man approached my dad and accused him of kidnapping my siblings and me because the thought of my father having black kids was just too absurd to him. We need to break the idea that races can’t or shouldn’t mix. IV. Your siblings might not identify as the same race. I personally identify as black and mixed, my reasoning being the One Drop Rule, people having always told me I’m black, and recognizing that because my parents are a biracial couple, I’m a biracial child. My sister, however, identifies as black and white because she wants to recognize both of our parents and doesn’t want to feel like she’s rejecting our father. V. “But you’re not really black.” “You’re like an Oreo or a graham cracker or something.” I am not a damn cookie! For my entire life, the kids I went to school with told me I was black, until hip-hop became popular in their community, then they decided I wasn’t actually black because I didn’t reflect their stereotypes of blackness.

VI. “Too black for the white kids, too white for the black.” From “Chum” by Earl Sweatshirt However, this didn’t stop them from recognizing that I was not one of the white kids and that I would never be one of the white kids because I was “just a little too black.” And while they never let me forget I wasn’t a “real black person”, they also liked to remind me that I would never be one of them. Amongst my black friends, I was almost always accepted and recognized as black, however, occasionally I would be called out for being “too light.” One time a boy even told me that I wasn’t a real black person, I was a product of rape between a slave and her master. VII. Filling out a form and only being able to check a single box to identify your race My dad told me never to check the “other” box because I was not an other, I was a person. So, I always checked that I was black, enforcing the idea that I could only be one thing. VIII. “You’re so exotic looking.” While some think this statement is a compliment, it only enforces the idea of otherness and that the brown and black body is something exotic, something different from whiteness. This goes hand-in-hand with statements like, “You’re pretty for a black/brown girl.” Whiteness is beautiful and anything that isn’t white or cannot be categorized is exotic. IX. You have your black family and your white family. And you cannot imagine them interacting in the same room. X. 5,000 different curl patterns

Some of my curls are tight, some of my curls are loose, I have random strands of straight hair…. And they all require different $10+ products. Hair care adds up quickly and stores like Target reserve minimal shelf space for what they call “ethnic” hair products, so you’re forced to work with what you have. Advice: coconut oil. XI. Racial identity crisis A mixed race person has the liberty to identify and embrace however much of the races they are mixed with as they want. Growing up, people provided me with constant reminders of my otherness whether in the form of mild jokes or aggressive statements. Depending on your environment, you might claim one race more than the other. I had a mixed friend who tried to bleach her skin to be more white and another mixed friend who tried to darken her skin to be more black. Society gives us this idea of half-this or halfthat, but why can’t mixed people ever just be mixed, why do they have to be categorized? We don’t look at the color purple and say it’s half-red and half-blue, we just call it purple. We need to apply this same thought process to mixed people.

Hauntology: Nostalgia for a Past that Never Existed. Written by Olivia Chaudhury 2017 marks the 50th anniversary of Loving v Virginia, the Supreme Court case that ruled anti-misgenigation laws unconstitutional, effectively legalizing interracial marriage. Let that sink in: multiracial people were not legal until 1967. Multiracial people were arguably represented less than single race people of color in the early to mid twentieth century. Classical American retro like the flappers of the 1920s, Hollywood glamour of the 1940s, and rockabilly in the 1950s were exempt from multiracial people as they did not have the privilege of legality. In the contemporary age, there is a bittersweetness in multiracial fashion influenced by bygone eras. It is a “hauntology”, a longing for a past that never existed. Jacques Derrida coined the term “hauntology” in 1993 to describe temporal disjunction, and it has been used by critics of the 2000s to highlight a longing for a past that never existed,

and pining for a future that will not come. Multiracial people could not be an official part of fashion eras of the past, but as of 1967, their legal status has allowed a freedom in fashion to be a part of those eras. Hauntology is equally about the past and the future. The Postwar United States saw a great boom in optimism: the baby boom and rising economy made plans for the future. Marginalized communities like multiracial people were exempt from this optimism and hopeful planning from the future, because they did not have a place in the present. Thus, any planning for the future would be a hauntology: pining for a future that will not exist. Loving v Virginia solidified multiracial people’s place in the present so that they may look toward the future. By claiming a past that did not exist through fashion, we establish ourselves in the present and write ourselves into the future.

XII. Meeting someone who is exactly your mix and feeling like y’all the same bonus points if the races of your parents match up too. XIII. People don’t accept your self-identity Despite identifying as black, I still have people try and argue this point with me. “Well, actually….” “Well, I think….” Your opinion of my identity does not matter, the way I perceive myself and the way in which I express myself is the only thing that matters.

AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK AFROPUNK

EXPLORING AMERICAN ASSIMILATION Written by Eme Iban

A first generation citizen is defined as a native-born citizen or resident of a country whose parents are foreign born. For me, being a first generation child, this meant that I wanted to belong to America and not to a strange land called Nigeria. Throughout my childhood recollections my parents stood out as mammoth giants I could never truly fathom..Almost of astronomical size, my mother’s family is huge. My great-grandfather married twenty-nine wives. “Twenty-nine wives!” I used to exclaim as a child. “Are you serious?” My mom would only patiently sigh and confirm this very tru fact. Her father, the great Chief Ibanga Akpabio, was the son of my great-grandfather, Okuku Akpabio who was the Paramount Ruler of his clan (Anang). After my grandfather married three wives he came to America to attend to prestigious colleges such as

Howard in Washington, DC and Columbia in New York. Chief Ibanga Akpabio went back to Nigeria to have eleven children and have my beautiful mother as the last child. As I grew up and started to learn about African American culture, I asked my mom how her father came to America. I knew there were no airplanes flying around in the 1940’s and trains could not roll across the ocean. “He came on a boat. But do not tell anyone that” she whispered. “They might think he came here as a slave!”

As the only African American girl on my school bus I was already different; however I desperately tried to blend in with everyone else. But as I matured into my pre-adolescent years, a startling revelation started to form in my mind. I was not black. As simple as that may sound, it tore me apart at thirteen years old. I wanted to belong. Yet my parent’s speech was peppered with accents unknown to my other friends. At parties my parents wore their traditional lace, beautiful for all to see. My psyche floats back to my eight year old self. It was white. That was all. A gorgeous white gown from Nigeria threaded with the utmost precision. Etched into each fiber was my culture, my genetic components exposed to the world. This sensation of triumph was interrupted by a small voice. “What are you wearing? That looks so weird. Eme you dress weird!” my fellow church friends exclaimed. I looked around slowly at all of my friends. I am different yet not unique. Not only were my white counterparts against me, but somehow I did not fit in even with my black friends either. Shame-faced I run past my mother into the quiet bathroom. I cry until my heart can stand to accept the truth- I could never alter my existence or my culture. I didn’t fit in anywhere as a child and even now. When I visited Nigeria I was seen as

an “igbo” child, or a foreign child from America. This created an abyss in my soul, as I wanted to belong to a circle, to be the missing point in a loop that encased people to be friendly to one another. I soon realized was never on the inside of any circle; I simply just looked in from the outside. To say that I wanted to be merely African American, American, Nigerian would make the hazy line between invention and legitimacy even more blurred. Everyone wants to belong to an exclusive group and feel secure. Our forefathers transitioned from a nomadic existence to one of settled agricultural villages. Humans longed to be connected to each other and not drift over the world’s vast landscape alone. I am just happy to be alive with few superficial scratches that judgement from others has brought. My forefathers whisper to me to follow them into a white space. We dance until my lungs have expanded and I explode into fervent gratitude that I exist. We splash the white world with passionate colors; crimson, orange, wine, auburn. I feel my body surrounded with a warm sensation of something fuzzy. It is love they whisper, self acceptance. I am transformed into the rarest butterfly, Nubian queen. They glance from east to west to map our conquest of this immense world. We flee.

Whereas my counterparts could speak however they wanted, my mother would continuously correct my vernacular. I could not walk, talk, or act like any of the other kids. “It is I am going to, not finna go” she used to say. Man mama why do you want me to be white? I pondered.

The Afro(punk) in Western Fashion Written by Abigail Mengesha A break-down of the term “Afropunk” directly translates to “the other black experience.” Particularly, it is the remedy to the whitewashed domain of alternative culture. In its process of neutralizing this polarized part of western society, Afropunk has generated and welcomed richly diversified fashion styles: eclectic outfits, body art and unique hairstyles, which hail inspiration from various forms of African fashion. After all, what can serve as a better inspiration than the motherland? For many, this movement has been an act of defiance, a beautiful form of rebellion against Eurocentric beauty standards. And thanks to fashion’s tendency to spread like wildfire, it has now gotten a lot of media attention and has infiltrated our various social media platforms. Even though this reality generates a lot of awareness among the present society, it has also left it unprotected to the prying and ravenous eyes of fashion’s high end and affordable brands. For instance, in 2016, Valentino launched a spring collection that was inspired by a “wild

and primitive” Africa. For most viewers, this might not seem like an active example of cultural appropriation. After all, the brand has admitted to getting inspiration from the vast number of African cultures, while creating awareness about the “modern day African grace.” Isn’t fashion about borrowing, as much as it is about creating? Sure, as much as this is true, it doesn’t defeat the fact that only eight outfits (from about 90) were given to black models during the runway show. Moreover, loosely securing the collection’s muse as “African” with words such as “tribal”, “ethnic”, “primitive” or “wild,” completely downgrades an entire continent (one that is culturally rich, is home to over a billion people in 54 different nations, is bigger than America, China, India and half of Europe put together, and has over 2000 spoken languages) into a few racist stereotypes. More importantly, the fact that this collection was meant to create “tolerance” and showcase “the beauty that comes from

cross-cultural expression” highlights its unavoidable similarities to Afropunk. Both forms illustrate an intricate mix of western and African cultures, generating an unprecedented sight for the eyes, but the way they are carried through and the results that they have produced are by no means comparable. Afropunk uses Yoruba-like prints, Fulani septum rings and djellabas as a means of appreciating black cultural roots, which African Americans have been robbed of during the American Black Holocaust. It is a symbol of being unapologetically black and the transcending fashion’s aesthetic boundaries. On the other hand, Valentino’s collection, in Amandla Stenberg’s most sacred words, is a means of “cash cropping our cornrows,” without providing anything in return. Nonetheless, Valentino is not the only cause of the problem, like most cases of cultural appropriation, it is not limited to one person or company. Throughout the decades, both highend and affordable brands have culturally appropriated various African fashions and twisted them into an array of hodgepodges. In 2013, Urban Outfitters featured a traditional Habesha (Ethiopian and Eritrean) dress as “Vintage ‘90 Linen Dress.” Similarly, Alexander McQueen’s

AW00 Eshu collection was named after a god of the West African Yoruba people. Mango appointed Kendall Jenner as the face of SS16 campaign, “Tribal Spirit;” Galliano’s SS97 haute couture for Dior was severely influenced by Masai tribes. The list can go on. The problem with this form of cultural appropriation is the fact that it turns culturally substantial pieces into embellishments stripped of their meaning or heritage, and then sells them as luxury goods for ridiculous prices or fast-fashion worthy, trendy items. It is sad, because if the same fashion designs were curated by an African designer and shown by black models, they would not have gotten as much recognition. As a result, when designers handle other cultures, they should do it with respect and an understanding of the heritage and custom of the place it hails from. Ignorantly reducing cultural items to vague, inconsiderate forms of descriptors not only promotes the adoption of the elements into foreign cultures, it erases their genealogic records and discredits the original founders. Even if these inspirations come from political fashion movements, which mash together Western and non-Western cultures, they should be recognized for what they are.

Written by Khansa Mahum

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