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District is the award-winning, editorially independent news source for the Savannah College of Art and Design. Founded in 1995, the publication has evolved to an online format where students create daily multimedia content. District has earned more than 500 awards from organizations including Columbia Scholastic Press Association, Society of Professional Journalists and Associated Collegiate Press. District operates on the passionate belief that educational and inspirational content should be available to all.

Square 95 is the student magazine of the Savannah College of Art and Design in Savannah. All editorial content is determined by student editors. Opinions expressed in Square 95 are not necessarily those of the college. © 2021 Square 95. All Rights Reserved. No part of this magazine may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher.

One copy of Square 95 is available free of charge to SCAD students, faculty, staff and the public. Additional copies are $5 each.

Music is often so central to our sense of self. It can symbolize the values we hold dear and be indicative of our personalities. For this issue of Square 95, we asked every writer, artist, designer, and editor to pick one song for an accompanying playlist.

We invite you to listen to their song choices in the playlist “Exploring Identity” on Spotify while you read. In your Spotify app, scan the code below to be linked directly to the playlist. Please enjoy!

Skin from the Lodge of Sorrows 30

Written by David Dufour, Illustrated by Emily Bernier by Kaitlynne Rainne, Illustrated by Scarlett Thayer

Written by Julia Gralki, Typography by Urja Dwivedi

Written by Joel Thatcher

Katie Chapman is an illustrator who discovered her love for surface design at SCAD. Her greatest inspirations are children’s book art and nature. She will graduate in March 2022 with a B.F.A. in illustration.

Adrienne Krozack is a children’s book writer and illustrator who enjoys telling whimsical stories that empower children and inspire positive social change. You can find her work at the following website: adriennekrozack.myportfolio.com

Jenna Gutierrez has felt a deep passion for storytelling since she was a little girl. An illustration student, she also incorporates her characteristically childlike, whimsical style into writing, often reflecting on childhood and nostalgia.

Sevyn Michaela-Rose is a poet and writer who explores the curiosities of life—as can be read in this issue’s article, “What Used to be Brown,” and debut poetry book, WheretheCoastBeginsandEnds.

Bryn Renèe Mayo is studying fashion design and is expected to graduate in 2022.

Elizabeth Parent started writing when she was young. Her work is inspired by neurodiversity and mental health because she found solace in creating something that relates to others in an important way.

Soo Hyun Namkoong’s art explores feelings of the moment through a variety of media. She worked on the opening credits for Uncanny Counter and the music video for Jimothy’s “Getting Acid.” Her work can be found on Instagram @namkoongzzz.

With a B.F.A. in writing, Ka’Dia Dhatnubia has published memoirs in Blue Marble Review, fiction in Moria, and a feature story with Savannah Magazine. Currently, she freelances for My Goddess Complex, covering her first love—music.

Mr. E. Minx is a multimedia surface designer and drag artist from Houston, Texas. Whether through their illustrations or captivating an audience on stage, Minx values telling unique stories with imagery and concepts.

Marleah Flajnik reimagines the mundane through colorful and graphic photography. Using her talents as a means of expression, her creativity and charm translate from camera to image. More of their work can be seen at www.martookthis.me

Julia Gralki has been writing fiction since she learned to use a pen, but only recently discovered her passion for nonfiction writing. Her favorite thing to write about is running, which you can find on her blog www.runflysmile.eu.

David Dufour writes about forgotten people. Primarily a nonfiction writer, he dabbles with autofiction from time to time. He also writes personal essays, one of which has been published in Prometheus Dreaming.

Emily Bernier is a textile designer and printmaker who adores tactile mediums and the connections they bring. Through exploring memories, their surroundings, and a variety of other subjects, their fine art practice blooms.

Kaitlynne Rainne has been telling stories since she learned to write. She loves helping others share their stories, which you can find through her work as an editor with District.

Scarlett Thayer creates art to provoke questions about the sense of self and reality. This allows her to better navigate the worlds inside and outside of her.

Urja Dwivedi was about to become a type-designer when she was offered an internship at Ogilvy. Without hesitating, she jumped at the chance. It changed her life. She is now pursuing an M.F.A. in advertising, although she can still be found exploring typefaces in her spare time.

Joel Thatcher has been a swimmer for over sixteen years. This commitment has led him to multiple NAIA National Championship titles as well as a desire to write about the sport he loves.

Haylee Gemeiner is a writer who is always up for a challenge. From fictional stories to personal essays, she aspires to offer a unique perspective in all her writing.

Mayce Schindler is a junior pursuing a B.F.A. in illustration for entertainment. She has been interested in art since childhood and specializes in creating dreamlike aesthetics in her pieces.

My Paw, the Southern way to say grandpa, used to tell great stories.

Before he passed away, he told one of his favorites like this: He was a little boy, outside running circles around his childhood home. It was high summer. Hot, humid, miserable. His Mama was tired of all his clodhopping. “Stop it there!” she yelled across the yard. Paw didn’t listen—he never did—and kept on running. Seconds later, his foot snagged a tree root that had twisted its way up through the ground.

Wham. Thud.

He fell flat on his chest.

When he told me this story for the first time, he was leaned back in his favorite recliner. He chuckled. The lesson I should learn from his bruised toe, he said, is to listen. “You got-to pay attention when someone knows a thing or two you don’t.”

For some reason, that story is synonymous to me with identity, our theme for this issue. Maybe it’s because Paw was always telling (and repeating) stories. That was his personality—a part of his identity. When I thought of Paw, I thought of tall tales. Yet now that he’s gone, I think of myself. That maybe my infatuation with storytelling grew from his stories. Perhaps the interest so central to how I view myself developed because of him.

But inspiration and identity aren’t easy things to trace back to their sources.

Written by Perrin Smith, Editor-in-Chief Illustrated by Adrienne Krozack

It’s true for everyone though, ain’t it? How we end up as ourselves is a bit of a mystery. We come into the world with certain facets of our person predefined. We are who we are in so many ways. From childhood to adulthood, we uncover even more about ourselves which we know must have always been there. Still, the time we spend clomping around the earth develops our personalities, too, ever so steadily.

Our actions shape us. So do the actions of others. And the actions of people we may never meet impact us daily. It all forms us, little by little, into who we are. Our favorite movies, shows, books, games, paintings, songs—they all play a role in it. No matter the medium, stories have power. The characters we love are, in a way, just a reflection of ourselves or who we’d like to be. The stories they inhabit offer comfort and provide safe places to explore the world and who we are.

There’s no clear answer as to which moments define us the most. To chart it is messy, and complex, and seemingly impossible. But we try.

When our team set out to create the second issue of Square 95, we knew that the theme “identity” would be open to interpretation. We knew that this topic is so vast, so varied, so intricate, that we would only ever scratch the surface of what makes us, well, us. Even so, while we awaited submissions, we could have hardly dreamed of what it would blossom into.

The stories Paw told me from his recliner were the first ones that stayed with me. Even today, I can remember the inflection of his voice as he spoke—which words he enunciated more clearly, which ones he emphasized. That’s the funny thing about stories; they stick with us. Whether we want them to or not, certain ones adhere like they’ve been glued onto our bodies and others fall away. We can’t control it, only pay attention to when it happens.

So, as you dive into the articles and artwork your peers have dedicated their summers to crafting, I have one question: Which of these stories will stick with you?

In her debut novel A Place for Us, Fatima Farheen Mirza wrote the following: “How were they to know the moments that would define them?” These were the thoughts of Hadia, the eldest daughter in a fractured family, as she considered the ways people could hurt one another across years, decades, and never know which actions wounded the deepest—the smallest, most intimate failures or the largest, most cataclysmic?

Dozens of writers, artists, and designers came together to create this beautiful, diverse magazine that you hold in your hands now. Together, they interpreted our theme in ways they were specially positioned to—from profiles about local eccentricities to reporting on how language can influence personality, from the intricate pattern-work that makes up our cover to detailed paintings and designs from artists’ imaginations found further within. They created a mosaic, pieced of their unique views on identity and held together by their ingenuity.

Tucked beneath a Long Island home lies the most magical place in the whole wide world.

Written and Illustrated by Jenna Gutierrez

Our basement was a mecca for the children of Taft Drive. A winding staircase transported visitors from the main floor down to the bottom. Half of the floor space was run entirely by my twin sister (who I have only ever called Sissy) and me. The stairs divided the basement into two juxtaposing areas: the “kids’ side” and the “adults’ side.” They were unified, however, by school bus yellow walls with orange and lime green moulding. Sissy made signs written in Sharpie on the wall to label both areas—for newcomers, of course. For the rest of our friends who came down, it was muscle memory. Keep left for the kids’ side and stay away from the right. That was the rule if you wanted to play at the Gutierrez House: never, ever go on the adults’ side. We didn’t need to though—our side was enough.

The monument of the kids’ side was a colossal 1995 Hitachi TV, with all other toys and games surrounding. It was covered in thick dust and could barely budge when we needed to move it forward to re-plug the Wii into the wall. Sometimes it didn’t turn on. When it did, we chose between Guitar Hero and Super Mario, and if we broke out the guitars, Mom would sometimes come down for a song or two. Up against a bunch of seven-year-olds, she shredded the tiny plastic guitar to Kiss and Alice Cooper songs. After our defeat, she would proudly walk back upstairs with her nose in the air, not to be seen again for another few hours when everyone was sent home for dinner.

On the many days when the blank TV screen mocked us, we got creative. Sissy and I had all the typical toys. Yes, the used-up Barbies, the Polly

Pockets, the countless birthday party Build-a-Bears. But imaginative play, play that we conceived out of nothing at all, was what we did best. We liked to pretend most of all—pretending to be singers or parents or, most notably, maids. “French Cleaning” was what we called it, dreamt up by my sister and me along with the Lefkowitz twins next door. A bunch of eight-year-olds cleaning for fun. The Hairspray soundtrack blared from Mom’s boombox, Sissy on her hands and knees to scrub under the craft table. Imagining Link Larkin singing back to me as I sang all of Tracy’s verses, I wiped down the vandalized, homemade chalkboard dramatically, as if he was lovingly watching me. Everybody sang. Everybody knew all the words—I made sure of it. “French Cleaning” was unexplainably fun. It felt mature in a way, like we were growing out of something. But the next night was the debut of my performance of Lady Gaga’s “Alejandro,” where I squeezed into Sissy’s red leotard from one of her recitals and provocatively danced and lip-synced for the parents and kids of Taft Drive. It was a smash hit. Mrs. Murphy next door peed in her pants. Performing never got old in the basement, we just slowly seemed to.

“If you play ‘house’ with us, you can be a celebrity,” my neighbors and I would beg Sissy. The prospect of fame in our performances became the only way we could get Sissy to play pretend with us past age ten, and we really tried our hardest to lure her in.

“You can wear the Hannah Montana wig today and our kids can be fans!” Maggie exclaimed, kneeling over a pile of doll clothes. But Sissy rolled her eyes and confidently crossed over to the adult’s side, disappearing into the giant couch with her brand-new iPad. With such ease, Sissy shattered the rule that shaped our childhood playground. As if we could have just walked over there all along. A great wave of shame smacked the kids’ side, flooding our wonderland. The dolls and the dress-up and the dancing suddenly became shameful, a vice I had to keep hidden from my now seemingly older twin sister. So, I waited patiently for Sissy to go to dance class for the night, knowing I would have a few hours to indulge peacefully.

And to the kids’ side I went, savoring the last moments I knew I would have in the make-believe. We all eventually followed Sissy, though, slowly making the switch to the adults’ side. Accompsett Elementary to Accompsett Middle School.

Hanging on the yellow walls was a taxidermy swordfish that my dad and brother caught, its eyes still glassy and alive. The monument of the adults’ side for many years. My mom hated it.

Surrounding the fish were cabinets filled deep with antique liquor, matted with dust and cobwebs. These cabinets also shelve dozens of the greatest movies of all time, according to my dad: The Godfather, Goodfellas, Raging Bull. And at the very far corner of the adults’ side was a closet stuffed with a giant, working tanning bed. My dad and older brother bought it when they won a scratchoff, I think. This closet also stores our thirteen-foot Christmas tree and, eventually, that swordfish.

But the couch was always everybody’s favorite part of our new hangout spot. The longest part of the sectional doubled as my brother’s bed when he would come to visit, my mom tucking sheets into it as if it were a mattress. My brother shot an infamous photo of me sprawled on the couch holding countless twenty-dollar bills from his wallet, showing off a tragic Justice tee and oversized sunnies. We loved the couch. Couch meant visit which meant fun. Its neonmustard color was confusing, even its material was confusing—perhaps chenille. But it was massive and unexplainably comfortable, with the brawn to hold piles of giggling teenage girls. And eventually some teenage boys, too. Countless first kisses took place on this ratty couch, under tents made of gawky pubescent legs and me and my sister’s old fairy comforters.

In the seventh grade, Minnie, one of the kids’ side originals, spilled her melted rainbow Italian ice all over Colin Kehoe, a ginger boy from school with confused proportions, when he reached in for a smooch during Insidious. Minnie screamed. Colin didn’t. R-rated movies were picked out from Pay-Per-View, and we prayed that our parents would not notice on the bill. Or maybe they would just be too uncomfortable to bring up why Fifty Shades of Grey was rented. So, we watched and laughed, our faces bright red and burning.

But the couch is gone. The beloved couch. The couch my friends have written whole papers about. I stalled its departure for a long time, but eventually, Mom said it just had to go. Stray popcorn kernels and M&Ms hid under the many cushions, getting shoved into the cracks and crevices of its never-ending form. She took it completely apart to clean, finding old remotes and mismatched Old Navy flip-flops stuffed under the pull-out mattress. It was transformed, she said. Ready for its new home. But it just wound up sitting on the dirty porch for three days, waiting for the truck.

It reminded them of my brother, who passed in 2019. That’s where he slept. He loved that couch. As did I.

Our basement remains a mecca—the walls are now a lousy tan, though. But in some corners, you can catch patches of yellow and orange peeking through the weak paint my mom desperately slathered on. Those walls were some of her biggest burdens. The Hitachi TV finally gave out. My parents had to pay my huskiest guy friends to haul it up the basement stairs and outside to the curb. Mom posted all our Build-a-Bears to Facebook Marketplace for free—they were gone within a day. But the bride and groom horses Sissy and I made (both of which are named Neigh Neigh) got to stay. They live on the shelf above the new flat screen that we sometimes plug Guitar Hero into.

But we make do without—the scratchy carpeted floors have become its replacement. On New Year’s Eve, they are littered with sleeping kids clutching half-empty Mike’s Harder cans. Drunken friends passed out between the display case of American Girl dolls and Dad’s old family photos, wrapped up in blankets and pillows we requested they bring from home. They spread out. Both sides filled.

Our mecca.

Written by Elizabeth Parent

Illustrated by Soo Hyun Namkoong

In my experience being neurodiverse, I realize that we tend to gloss over or look past very serious injustices or ableism towards my community. According to Jeff Miller of Potentia, at least 20% of adults are neurodiverse. Yet, somehow, we are still struggling to get past stigmas, alienation, or just blatant disrespect. Advocacy is so crucial for those who can’t speak up for themselves or fear the repercussions of doing so.

Haley Moss, a disability lawyer based in Miami, Florida, is one of those advocates who helps to communicate what disability rights are, why they are important, and why they shouldn’t be ignored. Having conversations about disability and disability rights is underdone, but it is often an important conversation we should be having. Above all else, human rights consist of the ability to be free from alienation and be treated equally, which, unfortunately, is not a guarantee to all— including those in the neurodiverse community. Moss has accomplished a lot in her years of being an advocate, disability lawyer, writer, and artist. She takes every opportunity to generate awareness surrounding neurodiversity—even recently appearing on national television to explain her stances on disability rights coinciding with human rights.

Being neurodiverse comes with its hurdles, we have to learn the basics of human emotion around us, social cues, and even how to communicate what we’re feeling when we are feeling it. A lot of these tasks are second nature to the neurotypical population, and that’s what sometimes casts us to the side, the inability to do everything our peers can do right from the start. When Haley was young, she was thought to be completely nonverbal indefinitely. Her doctors and family didn’t think she’d ever come close to saying a full sentence let alone become a well-respected disability advocate and a disability lawyer. She often speaks about her mother giving her support and guidance along the way, and how much it helps to have someone care about what you do, and how you get there.

Over the past decade, Moss has been writing books on autism and disability rights, and even disability law topics. She takes pride in expressing her values surrounding neurodiversity as it’s a topic she has passionately defended since she was diagnosed as a child. It is completely okay to not know something, or be uneducated on the topic at hand, but it is so important to not be dismissive of this community, because chances are they have been dealing with dismission, alienation, or even bullying for a good part of their lives.

What does being a disability advocate mean for you, and what type of fulfillment have you experienced from it?

Moss: Being an advocate means using my voice to speak for myself and my perspectives, educating others, and sharing more about autism and neurodiversity while also highlighting the issues that affect my community. It also means knowing when to listen, pass the mic, and amplify others who have different experiences than I do. As for fulfillment, I think there is so much to be done in order to have a more inclusive and accessible world, and knowing that this work will continue to exist although it shouldn’t have to exist keeps me going. I also think the people who want to learn more about neurodiversity and disability are open-minded, passionate, and genuinely want to do better. So, I think I meet a lot of really cool people, and every day is an adventure!

You recently made an appearance on the talk show Banfield speaking about Britney Spears and disability rights. Without getting too political, what do you think people often overlook in trials pertaining to disabilities from an attorney’s perspective?

Moss: If we’re talking about Britney Spears, people really tend to overlook the disability issues involved—if they are involved. Most of the focus is on other aspects of social justice, such as reproductive justice and sexism, but ignoring that people who end up in conservatorships, like Britney, are deemed disabled by the court is a mistake.

Reproductive rights and disability rights are intertwined, and disability is intersectional with most marginalization. But as for what people overlook in court proceedings involving disability is mostly how disability can be involved. Even in conservatorships and guardianships, those proceedings happen primarily to people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Also, there are lots of issues with how disability is perceived on the stand if someone is testifying and sharing their side or what they might have seen as a witness.

Ableism* is a real trial that all disabled people experience one way or the other, but what advice could you give to the inadvertent ableist, or the one who tries to say the right things, but messes it up somewhere along the way?

Moss: Ableism is embedded in our culture, and even people with disabilities can unintentionally say or do ableist things. Think about how often we say ‘crazy,’ even though it is seen as offensive to some people with mental health disabilities. One of the hardest experiences I have is with “benevolent ableism,” when people offer me help when it is neither wanted nor needed. It’s well-intentioned and disguised as caring, but often speaks over or silences a disabled person because somebody else is deciding what’s best for us without our consent. I think about this a lot in terms of parties–I’ve had friends tell me I wasn’t invited because they thought a social situation might be too loud for me and they were being kind by excluding me, instead of inviting me and allowing me to make the choice. A lot of my advice is simple–it’s okay to mess up. We all do it. What’s important is what you do with that information. You realize what you did, why it is wrong, apologize if you’ve hurt someone, and learn how to do better. I come from a place of calling people in, rather than calling them out. How do we turn the harmful things people say or do, especially if they mean well, into little moments of learning and growth? That’s what I hope to do.

We talk a lot about neurodiversity and the obstacles that come with it, but in a sense of practicality in the real world, how has being disabled affected you?

Moss: I am autistic, and I can’t separate my autism from myself. I don’t know what it is like to be neurotypical or nondisabled. I likely never will, nor would I trade the brain I have for a neurotypical one. Some things are very overwhelming for me! I sometimes have difficulties from sensory differences, so places that are really loud and crowded can be a lot to handle. I also struggle with making friends and understanding certain social cues. Also, my executive functioning skills aren’t the best. I have a hard time knowing when to start and stop things and doing a lot of the things young adults typically struggle with. Except I do want to do stuff like clean my apartment, and I just find the steps of getting out the vacuum, mop, different cleaners, etc. to be cognitively overloading so then nothing gets done. It isn’t the same as “I don’t want to do this.”

What’s some advice you have for people who want to help their disabled or neurodiverse loved ones?

Moss: One of the best things you can do as an ally is be affirming. People with disabilities are often told either by people they care about or society as a whole that something is “wrong” with them, and they are broken. Instead, we should be supportive and give that person as much love as we can while rallying around them. People know what they struggle with, but it’s less often we talk about what someone is good or encourage them to follow their dreams and nurture their talents. Aligning people to their strengths and celebrating those differences can make a world of difference for someone.

* Ableism is a term we use to describe a person who favors able-bodied or minded folks and discriminates against those with disabilities. As an advocate, Haley has had her fair share of run-ins with even those who mean well, but still have some of those same mindsets.

For the neurodiverse community, an ally or advocate means the world. A lot of times we are left trying to find someone to help or listen to, and when we have someone like Haley batting for us, we can rest easy knowing she cares.