ISSUE NO. 13
THE YEARBOOK ISSUE
FALL/WINTER 2018
PRESIDENT Omar Abdul-Rahim
VICE PRESIDENT Nadine Fuller
MANAGING DIRECTOR Joyce Jin
ART
CREATIVE
DIRECTOR Michael Choe
DIRECTOR Cornelius Tulloch
Kayla Bouazouni Celine Choo Leah Cohen Jennifer Guo
Alice Rhim Jasmine Teng Gianni Valenti Crystal Wu
William Blankman Rebeca Boudet Caroline Brown Concetta Ciarlo Juliana daRoza Taimaisu Ferrer Sin Gwyneth Gravador Zora Hahn Seungyeon Han Genie Kilb Chae Yeon Lim
Nathan Powell Odeya Rosenband Alexander Schaef Yvonne Schichtel Risa Sunakawa Victor Min Tesoro Anjali Velu Chi Yamakawa Isabella Yang Jung Hyun Yang
BEAUTY DIRECTOR Charlene Pires Emily Eagleton David Jansen Cathy Jin Ryan Jose
Lara Patz Samantha Rachmil Kate Schrage Nikki Simonson
EDITORIAL EDITOR IN CHIEF Andrea Orduña ASSOC. EDITOR IN CHIEF Jacob Swaim
BUSINESS DIRECTOR Jacqueline Han Marisa Brail Lauren Chong Alta Gong Sam Khatchadourian Iris Liu Sosonia Ma
Lexi Schaaf Saumya Sharma Daniel Sickle April Song Catherine Zhang
Beckett Azevedo Stasia Bartsch Emma Bernstein Kelsey Chan Jacinta Chang Matthew Danbury Emily Ehsan Emma Eisler Charlotte Féquière-Esser Danielle Harris Brandon Hoak
Chi Kyu Lee Sophia Lee Gabrielle Leung Victoria Lopez Victoria Moore Valerie Odonkor Tori Pietsch Emma Smith Hyeji Suh Teagan Todd Marguerite Wang
MARKETING DIRECTOR Christine Yang Gabriella Berchtold Lauren Crosbie-Walsh Grace Han Caroline Harrison Min Ju Kang Gina Hwa Young Lee
Mia Seungeun Lee Sophie Meyers Olivia Silberstein Rebeca Wajner Avivi Wang Kendall White
STYLING Melissa Belmont Tiffany Chen Mimi deLisser Louise Hatcher Henna Hussain Lena Rose Navarro
Hanna Norris Caitlyn Park Dani Rochez Hali Shin Julia Zeng
PHOTOGRAPHY
WEB
DIRECTOR Savanna Lim
DIRECTOR Cedric Castillo
Rajiv Beepat Nicholas Boozang Tyler Brown Steven Cha Christina Chin Dante Dahabreh Tomas Engquist Chloe Goldman Karina Guo Sihan Guo Lauren Harpole Gillian Harrill Georgia Hausmann Maya Jacks Erika Kane Sarah Karkoura Cade Ladine Joanna Li
Ke Ma Finan Malcolm Rory McDermott Crystal Navellier Valerie Odonkor Anna Perry Nicholas Robinson Tenzin Saldon Matthew Schaeffer Marah Selim Veronica Si Alice Song Lucy Spahr Shoshana Swell Taliyah Truehart Jonathan Tsang Yuhang Wang
Jacob Bee Ho Brown Erin Chen Kelly Fam Aaliya Khan
Naotaka Kinoshita Wanxing Lu Yanir Nulman
contents table of contents table of contents table of contents table of contents table of contents
table of contents table of contents table of contents table of contents table of contents table of
photographs by Steven Cha Sihuan Guo Shoshana Swell style by Melissa Belmont Henna Hussain beauty by Kate Schrage
creative direction by Caroline Brown Zora Hahn Georgia Manning Chi Yamakawa
Can you keep a secret? words by Victoria Moore
It all begins with a tap on the shoulder. One fateful spring day before senior year, you are approached by a student clad in plaid and penny loafers. The stranger taps you on the shoulder, gestures discreetly, and whispers, “You have been invited to Cornell University’s Top Secret Society.” Congratulations. You’re one of the select few to be chosen by one of the secret societies in the Ivy League. Naturally, you accept. The following night, someone knocks loudly on your door. A pause. They knock again. Another pause. Then three times in quick succession. That’s the code. You open the door, and immediately after, a black tie whips around and covers your eyes. Blindfolded, you’re led outside. As lovely as ever, Ithaca is below freezing, which is a shame because your kidnappers conveniently forgot to tell you to bring a jacket. When the blindfold falls, you realize you’re at the center of the arts quad in the dead of night, surrounded by secret society members. One of them announces in an eerie Darth-Vader voice, “Welcome to initiation.” As expected, weird stuff happens. Rumor has it the current members wear robes and skull masks. Add in some chanting and other spooky activities, and the ritual is complete. At the end, everyone speaks three Latin words in unison: “Audi, vite, tace.” Hear, see, be silent. As an official member, you meet on Thursdays in an Egyptian tomb overlooking Fall Creek Gorge or atop a stone tower, depending on which society you’re in. On Fridays, you attend parties, trading your gingham
blazer and trousers for a tuxedo and even a gorilla mask. On Saturdays, you dine, drink champagne, and toast to comradery. On Sundays, you conduct community service without asking for any acknowledgement in return. I cannot confirm nor deny if this is truly how secret societies at Cornell operate because, by their very nature, they are incognito. No one, except for the members, knows what really goes on under the veil of secrecy. In spite of—or more likely because of their secrecy, these societies possess a certain mystique and prestige. If you’re selected, you inherit that status, even if not everyone knows it, and are set apart from the rest of campus. But why do they have to be secret? Collegiate secret societies are synonymous with honor societies. They are meant to better the community and recognize the top of the graduating class, which one might assume should be publicized rather than hidden. In order to be invited, members generally need to match two criteria: exceptional on-campus leadership and Can Keep a Secret. At Cornell, Quill and Dagger is, ironically, the most famous secret society. According to the Cornell Daily Sun archives (and Wikipedia), about 15 to 20% of members make up the Board of Trustees. Beyond that, the society has a history of Congressmen, a Supreme Court Justice, and other powerful alumni who are, to some extent, running the country. Similarly, Sphinx Head is another highly esteemed senior secret society, on par with Yale’s legendary Skull and Bones. Secret societies are seen as elite groups, and they appear to be dedicated to giving back to the community and recognizing accomplished students.
Although everyone loves a good mystery, maybe secrecy is overrated, and these societies would do more good if they were out in the open. If they are meant to be honor societies, shouldn’t members be known and the selection process more transparent? Without an open application process, not everyone has a chance to be a part of the selective societies. IFC, Panhellenic Council, and MGLC leaders are often chosen, but it is hard to say if they have superior character and leadership qualities than other student leaders. What makes the IFC president more qualified than Thread Magazine’s president? (Unless Omar is already part of a secret society…) Selection is based on existing social networks, who-knows-who, and therefore may leave out leaders who are just as qualified but less well-known. Not to mention, depriving students of the opportunity to apply is fundamentally unfair. And if the goal is to serve the community, which many societies say it is, leaders from every group should be able to apply. That way, they can represent different corners of campus and collaborate together to serve Cornell as a whole. Secrets are also inherently exclusive. They draw a line between those who know the secret and those who do not. Secret societies are the epitome of exclusive clubs: small, selective, and exclusionary. Only a fraction of the student body is invited to join,
and traditionally, selectivity is associated with prestige, inflating the reputation of secret societies. If extended an invitation, members can only share information about the society amongst each other, regrettably leaving out their other friends and peers. Since secret societies are so intriguing and exclusive, it makes sense that students would want to be included, to know what’s going on inside the inner circle. Cornell University calls itself “elite but not elitist,” but secret societies seem to challenge that view. They are reminiscent of the selective process we as students had to go through to be accepted by Cornell. From a cynical perspective, they are another step—another exclusionary process to further narrow down students to pinpoint the most elite. Secret societies are relics of the past. But, across the board in the Ivy League, there has been a shift from a focus on prestige
to a desire to create a group that students enjoy being a part of. Today, they accept women, as well as men, and have become less covert. Der Hexenkreis, Cornell’s second oldest not-so-secret secret honor society, is widely known and accepts applications to join the 128th tapping class. Even the once top-secret Quill and Dagger has released a list of its members to the Cornell Daily Sun in the past. Transitioning away from elitism, they are on their way to a more modern and all-inclusive group. So, why are many secret societies still a secret? It may be because they want to be selective about who knows them, creating the impression that they are exclusive and elite. But I will not accept their reasoning is to exclude others. Rather, I believe it’s the opposite: secrets bring people closer together. Secrets have the paradoxical power to divide and unite people. While they exclude the Cornell public, which is in some ways problematic, they simultaneously unite members with one shared secret. Isn’t it thrilling when someone asks you, “Can you keep a secret?” When
another person shares a secret with you, they put their faith in you by disclosing something confidential that only a select few know. Upon initiation, secret society members gain a truly special sense of belonging. They are entrusted with an important secret and become a part of something greater than themselves: the society. Not unlike other organizations, secret societies are about community. You meet people you would not have otherwise been introduced to. Plus, the prestige that comes with a secret society’s name is a resume-builder or, depending on how you look at it, unnecessarily pompous. Either way, a secret shared between members unites a society. After all, it takes two to share a secret. Spring semester is coming. It’s that time of year when secret societies invite rising seniors. Keep calm and carry on as usual. If you feel a tap on the shoulder, breathe, turn around, and always remember:
Friday words by Hyeji Suh photos by Erika Kane style by Hanna Norris & Hali Shin creative direction by: Rebeca Boudet Alexander Schaef Risa Sunakawa Anjali Velu location courtesy of Llenroc
It’s Friday night. The days leading up to this night are long, marked with deadlines, empty coffee cups, and the silent space in the library. It’s projects, seemingly endless papers, lack of sleep, and the slow crawl of time. But not Friday night. Tonight, you exchange coffee for shots, books for red solo cups. Rain or shine, the weather has no impact on how much skin is exposed. Time is like sand on Friday nights, slipping through your fingers at a rate faster than usual. And for once,
you aren’t divided by majors, career interests, clubs, or project teams. One thing unites you tonight - and that’s escape. Friday night brings together the most assorted group. In the far right corner of the room is an engineering student, a little unfamiliar to the fraternity scene but not immune to the rush of excitement throughout the room. He’s with his friends, already three shots in from the pregame, and reaching for the cheap beer the brothers always hand out. He has a long, busy week ahead of him in lab, but tonight
he’s celebrating the end of this one. Across from him, in the center of the room, is a girl in the Brandy Melville crop top she’s been dying to wear (Friday nights know no weather). She knows all the words to Mr. Brightside, as everyone seems to, and has a well-practiced choreography to match it. Her friends look concerned with the way she’s swaying and slurring, but figure she deserves it after her orgo prelim this past Thursday. About twenty feet away from her, a boy feels his phone buzz
for the tenth time that night. The onslaught of messages from last week’s Tinder hookup is a major turnoff and hey, is that the cute girl from his orgo class? The bathroom is a bit of a shelter from the crazy night. Not everyone needs as much as an escape as others, so the girl in line is itching for one more barrier between her sober body and the thumping bass. She scrolls lazily on her seemingly endless Instagram feed, and patiently waits for the drunk girls in front of her to finish comforting a stranger about her (ex?) boyfriend.
(“Honey, let’s face it: you deserve so much better and he wasn’t even that cute anyways!!”) The frat brothers are in the middle of a heated competition of the extreme sport of shotgunning beers. The hesitant looking freshman secretly hates the taste of beer, but he’s planning on rushing next semester anyways. Besides, college is supposed to be about having the best time of your life, right? Exactly. College is the unique time where you are expected to simultaneously thrive and suffer. Throwing ourselves into years of debt in hopes of getting even a chance to pay it off. Learning about all the possibilities of expanding your knowledge and improving the human condition, only to spend most of the week crammed in libraries, drinking coffee like water, popping pills. No wonder Friday nights exist. No wonder escape is such a uniting concept. The mundane busyness of your everyday life dulls the broader picture. Why are you here? What does this all mean? Questions like that are harder to answer when the most important thing in this time, this moment, is the upcoming prelim or project. The ever-romanticized Friday night is when we channel our humanness and break away from our machine-like life. It’s when public displays of borderline insanity and desperate escape are accepted, even expected. We need more Friday nights.
the sun will come by marguerite wang
i’ve lost myself at the start of somewhere, wayward compasses and mislabeled maps, the minute hand and the hour hand spin in circles, the stars align in the summer sky. by the side of brambles and roses, on a patch of grass growing in marbled ground, with a knitted scarf wrapped around my neck in a Christmas bow, alice flew to wonderland, peter pan fell into neverland, the cheshire cat frowned, wendy darling grew young. loose yarn curled like a worm in spring rain, and pomegranate nails pinch and pull. how far would it go? the moon rises in the stained sea, the fated red string is in tatters, i’ll find myself in the end of nowhere.
MODERN MATRIARCH MODERN MATRIARCH
photos by: Gillian Harrill Savanna Lim style by: Louise Hatcher Lena Rose Navarro Julia Zeng beauty by: David Jansen Cathy Jin Nikki Simonson creative direction by: Jung Hyun Yang
S0
FT
LI P S gaby leung
soft lips soft lips, you said. your soft lips are what i love my puzzle piece body had found its home You do not need to validate yourself in front of the eyes that run this country the ones that create laws for your body and feed into your skin You have soft spots that can be held but, i know what they teach you that you (we) need to be the Venus’s of our generation Darling, Botticelli would faint at the sight of you You cannot be contained in a frame within walls of an institution that validates beauty and worth You are only for You Did they forget to tell you that? We washed ourselves of sin only to see its reflection looking back blazing in the mouths of boys fumbling with their belts You wonder how you made it into this damn bed without sheets Who sleeps without sheets? Unless sleep was not the intention Damn you Did Venus have sheets? Did Helen feel bad when she launched a thousand ships? But — She had the face thousands would kill for What a face! Did you faint when you realized what your soft lips could do? Calling to a world that has forgotten your name but falls apart at the softness of your body? Your back is a drawing board for the promises that have shed their guilt and left pieces of their presence But, darling, do not give up now I beg you
KAREN LOYA
words by Brandon Hoak
A queen is someone of power and importance, someone fit to be a leader: Karen Loya is just that. Loya is a senior, majoring in sociology, with minors in Inequality studies, Latina/o studies, and Spanish. Her virtuous palette of academic interests make her the ideal representative for the Latinx community at Cornell. Loya acts as a model of the community through her role as co-chair for LAL - La Asociación Latina - an umbrella organization on campus that oversees, funds, and supports all Latino/a programs and events on campus. In addition, LAL bears the great responsibility of responding to crucial events - both that occur on campus and in the world - through sending out messages of solidarity or denouncement pertaining to the situation. The position of co-chair suits Loya not only because of her interests, but also because of her amicable and generous persona. These qualities will aid not only her, but also society, as Loya ventures down a career pathway into education equality
focused on aiding specifically those of minority backgrounds. Loya’s own parents have always emphasized the importance of education, especially with their decision to move from Mexico to the United States in order to give Loya and her brother better educational opportunities. Loya’s family still resides in McAllen, Texas and she hopes to return there at some point in her career to improve its education system. Before closing the interview, I made sure to get some wisdom from the queen. She shared with me a simple one liner that she lives her life by and encourages others to do the same, “Whenever you move forward, bring your people with you. Because no one can get to where they are just by themselves.” This sage line was followed by some advice for current students, and that is to, “never give up health for academics, research, extracurriculars, or others.” sentiments like these show the true source of where a queen’s clout stems from.
MARGARET GROTON
words by Tori Pietsch
“I don’t think I embody a prom queen,” she says, sitting criss-crossed on the bench beside me. “In the usual understanding, prom queen means popular and beautiful.” She reassures me. “Not that I’m saying I’m not beautiful,” she goes on, “but I appreciate that, in this spread, we’re trying to expand that idea. Important girls [like prom queens] are multidimensional.” It’s interesting Margaret brings up the traditional notion of the prom queen. A sophomore Fine Arts major from Westchester, she feels she starkly contrasts that stereotype. “I hated being from there,” she says. “As a black person... I was invisible and hypervisible at the same time.” Margaret’s explanation comes from her recollection of high school, where she felt she drew attention only when it was problematic. Yet, when it came to her passions and the benefits she could offer – art, poetry, running, and having fun with friends – she says, “I felt underappreciated.” As a result, Margaret’s artistic skill affected her fashionable presence in high school. “I actually painted the words ‘I hate it here’ onto my backpack,” she remembers. And it’s hard to believe someone as captivating as Margaret could have ever felt underappreciated. Striking black boots and a bandana characterize the strength and attitude with which she carries herself. Her descriptions are picturesque, and she’s eloquent in her speech. “I should have brought a tape recorder,” I joked.
Nevertheless, Margaret felt she found her footing upon her transition into college. Her strong connections with her mother, including a weekly mailed letter and a commemorative tattoo on her wrist, empower her everyday. “I realize college is a time to be focusing on myself,” she says, something many of us as college students neglect, as we focus on our GPAs and social lives. “I feel most empowered in my studio,” she says, stopping to correct herself: it’s actually “the” studio, communally open to and used by other Fine Arts majors like herself. But her ownership is visible and contagious. Her art brings her strength. So do the women with whom she surrounds herself. She can list them by name: “Amelia, Lane, and my English instructor, Ama Adwetewa-Badu.” Her sorority also lifts her up; her friends were responsible for helping her commit to her artistic passions. Yet, while surrounded by empowering women, Margaret is humbled and honored to have been considered a prom queen. At her own prom, she recalls, “I was really insecure about shopping for dresses, so I kind of didn’t. Just picked a random one I didn’t feel great in. No hairdressers knew how to do my hair, and I did my make-up in the bathroom, like, five minutes before.” What Margaret neglects to mention, however, is that her not-quitemainstream approach to prom established her royalty, even then. She was self-sufficient, independent, and empowered in her own right. “A prom queen is just someone who makes other people feel good,” she muses. “And I love that people could see me that way.” I do.
ELIZABETH COUSE
words by Danielle Harris
When I asked Elizabeth why she wanted to be a part of Thread’s prom queen shoot, her answer was the least shocking, as it was a perfect reflection of her character. She just wanted to try it. First time for everything, right? When we think of Prom Queens, we normally conjure up the images of pretty girls in pink, frolicking over makeup, shoes, hair, and clothes, in what seems to be a largely materialistic world. But not Elizabeth. This prom queen shows far more depth of character then what the stereotype might suggest. Elizabeth displays selfless, humble, and genuine dedication in things she is passionate about - dedication to the incorporation of sustainability into the global food system; dedication to coupling this progressive movement with combatting the social injustices seen in developing countries; dedication to changing the current methods and redirecting the global way of thinking when it comes to worldwide agricultural cultivation. When I asked about what activities she’s involved in on campus, my fingers could barely write fast enough. Smiling, with eyes lit, and hands waving, Elizabeth described her deeply held passions, interests, and goals. She’s the cofacilitator of The Cornell Environmental Collaborative, working to bridge
environmentally sustainable activities between the university and its students; an active member of Ithaca’s Youth Farm Project, teaching kids about healthy dieting and farming; and a participant in Ithaca’s Farmers Market, managing the “Macro Mamas” stand. Her selflessness radiated from her pursuit of helping environmentally underdeveloped countries. Her humbleness emanated from her quiet posture and few strands of hair frequently tucked behind her ear. Compassion lept from her eyes as she described her trips to Ghana and Costa Rica where she witnessed poverty first hand. Creativity magnified as she explained her love of photography and the arts. Intelligence, drive, and passion exuded as she molded all these attributes together describing her efforts to convey her message of environmental change through these mediums. Not society’s typical “Prom Queen,” but the royalty conveyed in her disposition and down to earth character rests in unparalleled genuinity, as it outweighs the socially prescribed characteristics of a typical Prom Queen. However, as Elizabeth may not render herself the credit she deserves, she is a trailblazer deserving of her crown and the recognition of it.
photos by: Maya Jacks Crystal Navellier style by: Tiffany Chen Caitlyn Park Dani Rochez beauty by: Ryan Jose Samantha Rachmil creative direction by: Concetta Ciarlo Gwyneth Gravador Nathan Powell
C O LO R I N G OUTSIDE OF THE
L I N E S
Ask Not What the Clique Can Do for You, but What You Can Do for the Clique Teagan Todd
I grew up thinking of the “Clique” as a myth. You can attribute this to any number of factors: that I attended a small, somewhat rural high school in the belly of Upstate New York; that I was socially isolated from my peer group whenever I wasn’t in class; that I had a particular ability, once initial barriers had dinstintegrated, to carry on a friendly and funny conversation with virtually anyone I met. Thus, while initially drawn to shows like Gossip Girl and Pretty Little Liars with their delectably urban/ suburban (remember, I lived in the middle of nowhere) wardrobes and perfectly center-parted hair, I always tuned out eventually because the subject matter felt too far from home. I told myself that no one could really be that petty or conniving, or could care so much about the way they looked on a day-today basis or what someone else’s parents did for a living, how much money they had and whether or not they flaunted it in exactly the right way; that no one really cared that much about popularity, this vague abstract concept that always seemed more to do with power and fear than it did with people liking you. Cornell came as a shock to me, then, because at Cornell I found out that the Clique was alive and well, that there were people out there (I think of this as being peak small-town naiveté) who were actually concerned with something as seemingly inane as “status.” For the first time, I felt ashamed: ashamed of how many friends I had on Facebook, ashamed of how many clubs I was (or wasn’t) involved in, ashamed of my family’s economic status and the part of the country I came from, ashamed
of how many clothes I owned and the fact that I’d bought most of them on sale at department stores like Forever 21. For the first time in my life, I felt like being a size 4 was too fat, that wearing sweatpants to class made me look like a slob, that no one was ever going to love me if I didn’t figure out how to keep my Maybelline gel liner from transferring to my bottom lashes by the end of the night. Detaching myself from the shame installed by a clique mentality and learning how to re-embrace who I am - and consequently, learning how to re-embrace everyone else, to trust that not everyone is determined to disparage or decry me on the basis of simple minituae - has been one of the toughest challenges I’ve faced at Cornell. In creating our photoshoots, my teammates and I discussed the concept of the Clique, and we discussed it in mostly negative terms. We paid particular mind to the issue of minority exclusion via the Clique - that is, the way in which women and people of color in particular often feel ostracized by underrepresentation in academic fields, in social clubs, in their career paths. This is a subject about which I have written countless essays, articles, and think pieces; on which I have read piles and piles of research, news reports, and literature. It is a topic which, in my honest opinion, forms the entire basis for my work - and yet I find myself unable to write an article about it. Why choke now? I keep asking myself. Why is it that, when presented with the perfect opportunity to discuss the issue I’m most passionate about, I find myself unable to (entirely) disavow the Clique?
I think some part of me cannot separate my own experience with groups and individuality from the collective vision. I have been at Cornell for five semesters and I’ve been on Thread for four, and I’ve always been intimidated by other people in the club, always felt as though I was too ugly and offbeat and rural to be liked; have always, at times very explicitly, thought of Thread as a Clique. As a result, I’ve avoided hanging around after meetings, haven’t attended most of the photoshoots, have ditched most social events after the first ten minutes (when I’ve even gone to them) and have generally attempted to be as unobtrusive as possible while still pursuing something I love, fashion. Yet this semester, something changed. In working with my team, I felt welcomed, included, and perhaps even, dare I say it, liked. I realized what I’d suspected all along but never dared to vocalize - that most of the Clique mentality I perceived at Thread had more to do with fears about my own insignificance than what anyone else actually thought of me. People had always been willing to open up to me - I’d just been afraid to open up to them. Oftentimes we find acceptance where we least expect it. When the Clique is identified in terms of the majority, in terms of whiteness or maleness or wealth, it does become a vehicle for harm, let that be abundantly clear. But it’s also important to distinguish discriminatory and oppressive circumstances from circumstances in which our insecurity gets the better of us. While at Cornell I’ve thought I was too uncool for Thread, too boring for theatre, too gay and emotional and erratic for the tight-knit band of sorority STEM majors that have become my best friends, and in none of those cases have my fears ever turned out to be true. Perhaps, then, if we want to disband the Clique, we need to acknowledge the role that our personal self-doubt has in creating it. As we project the shame we have learned about ourselves via the clique mentality onto other groups of people, we lose out on opportunities for community, understanding, personal growth, and friendship. Moving forward, perhaps we must reimagine the Clique not as an agent for eradicating difference, but rather as opportunity to celebrate individuality and to find ourselves within the space of a group.
Untitled Sophia Lee
Summer nights spent talking Our favorite indie albums playing B sides And the far sides Of the earth We imagine in the confines Of our bedrooms Summer nights spent talking Changing bra size And borrowed faces From photoshopped women On worn out pages Trashy magazines We hate to love You want the boys to play Harder to get I wonder why I wish they wouldn’t play At all Hard cider Emptied On mostly spotless white carpet Our parents left us to Recreate movie scenes Of strung out teens High on misery But irony says I’ll never be happier Than sitting here next to you Watching drink pour out Your nose Dirty jokes We’re too old for But can’t give up Maybe I don’t know myself The way I used to Dreaming future with Someone as pretty As you Maybe I don’t know myself The way I want to What I like Do you like it too I don’t know how to Describe me I’m not sure I should have to
L AT E
NIGHT
CHAOS
(late night chaos) words by Chi-Kyu Lee photos by Joanna Li & Jonathan Tsang creative direction by Taimaisu Ferrer Sin & Odeya Rosenband
I like to think of myself as chaotic good. (I can’t believe I used to think I was lawful good—Cornell has debunked that myth many times.) But for some reason, I can’t pinpoint the source of chaos in my life. Or rather, I’m completely ignoring the glaringly obvious suspects because acknowledging them won’t do anything productive other than debilitating my sense of worth. The time when the chaos is at its most fluctuating state is during late night study sessions, no matter the location (everyone should experience Klarman at 4 am—it’s serene and terrifying at the same time). When I successfully convince my brain to concentrate on the paper/project/ prelim prep, the chaos seems to fade into a light grayish hue. But as soon as the focus shatters, it brings me dizziness and irrational existential crises. It patiently waits for that quiver in my motivation and focus. Between sunset and sunrise, chaos likes to dress up as something else; it approaches me with a dangerously calm outlook on the history paper that’s due in two hours. It soothes me when I’m supposed to be fired up, and I end up hitting as many keys as possible for the paper’s minimum word count, twenty minutes before the 11:59 pm deadline. Chaos brings me feelings of anxiety when I finally get to my leisure read and I end up thinking aimlessly about my future instead of enjoying the story on my lap. Late nights are valuable, yet we quickly forget its importance as soon as the countdown starts. We waste them on late night talk shows. Late night snacks. Late night karaoke. The qualifier ‘late night’ seems to be capable of justifying most things. Chaos during those ungodly hours is silent but its authority is amplified.
But when the chaos is on the leash, I sit in armchairs sideways with my legs hanging on the armrest while I read a book or write in my journal. Those fifteen minutes of silent rest reminds the late night chaos you no longer chase me. The late night’s surrealism fuels my creativity. In the absence of chaos’ mischief, there’s a sense of wonder and appreciation for the other, the external. Late nights are romanticized, and it’s somewhat valid—many fond memories with friends or interesting discoveries happen during the ungodly but comfortable hours. We discover a lot about ourselves and about others when our guards are down, and we are willing to become vulnerable when darkness protects us and when many social norms become less important or even deactivated. So what are some practical ways to make chaos our friend? First, sleep hygiene, not the number of hours of sleep, seems to be important; it’s the old quality-over-quantity debate. For me, it’s resisting my craving for soy latte after dinner and having a solid bedtime routine (even though I end up not following it at times) among other things. Instead of a YouTube video, maybe five minutes of meditation. Instead of sugary drinks, drinking fizzy water to trick my brain, which thinks water is boring (it doesn’t make sense, I know). Second, I invested in a ‘distraction notepad’ recently (but a piece of paper works perfectly fine, too). When I sit to start working, the innate god of procrastination that I am starts to think about the so-called ‘oh that reminds me, I should’ tasks, and I end up searching for the cheapest way out of Ithaca or just getting lost amongst the bureaucratic cyberspace of institutions like the infamous StudentCenter or the municipal trash collection company (yes, I know). So whenever these intrusive thoughts come up, just write them down on the notepad and return to them later. Oh I should email my professor about… —write it down so that you can finish whatever you are doing right now.
Chaos, when it’s confined by our schedules and our notepads, can be domesticated. Late night becomes holier because it’s not the time for chaos but for ourselves. Let’s redefine what late night means to us. Not panic-ridden, not filled with worries, and no more last-minute frenzy but rather, serene walks, films, coziness, the sound of pages flipping, the infinitesimal wetness of highlighted lines, the refreshing smell of folded laundry, and our bodies, aligned and well. We’re taking back our late nights.
photos by: Lauren Harpole Gillian Harrill Cade Ladine beauty by: Emily Eagleton Lara Patz creative direction by: Juliana daRoza Genie Kilb Isabella Yang
A COMMON THREAD words by Emma Smith
When people think of Cornell students, they don’t necessarily picture two people on top of a table in A.D. White library, one dressed in a massive white fur coat, legs braced wide apart, the other reclining serenely, reading a book written in French. Yet these two students embody a sense of duality and versatility that is being cultivated as the zeitgeist of this school.
The reclining figure is Oyin Fasehun. Don’t let her calm demeanor fool you; this girl is a powerhouse. Educated at some of the finest boarding schools around the world, her slight British accent hints at a font of maturity unexpected of a college freshman. When asked about her major over a chai latte she responds, “I’m an architecture major but I didn’t really chose my major.” A self-described “LEGO kid,” for her Barbies held less appeal than Minecraft, and Math and Physics dominated her list of favorite subjects in high school. But when the time came to decide on a major, a lifelong love for the arts led her to Architecture . . and away from a less-thanloved physics teacher. Beyond the duality of art and science, Oyin also embodies an adaptive nature that has helped her not only survive, but thrive in new situations. “Usually when I speak about myself I go for the international thing,” she admits. “I’ve gone to camp where I’ve had to share a room with twelve people and I’ve been to school where I’ve had to live in a room on my own when I was only twelve. Now, you could put me in the middle of a market and tell me to go to sleep and I probably will. I can sleep with the lights on and music playing. But I could also work in a market if you told me to.”
This adaptability manifests itself in her style. Equal parts Western teenage girl, refined British uniform, and Nigerian appreciation of jewelry, Oyin has been able to find a look that may come off as demure, but in fact belies a power to find her place in new situations.
Attending Hotchkiss, a private school in Connecticut complete with a preppy dress code, shaped Oyin’s style by telling her what she couldn’t wear (jeans, tank tops, leggings or sweatpants, flip flops, or basically anything else most teenagers consider wardrobe staples), and got her used to wearing a skirt or slack trousers and a button up shirt everyday. The uniform, coupled with her time spent in
England, meant that formal dressing became second nature for Oyin. This innate maturity and formality has persisted, even though the dress codes haven’t. Often, she’ll show up in black trousers when friends recommended that she wear jeans, because it’s what she’s “used to.” Coming to Cornell and faced with arguably one of the most demanding majors the university has to offer, the “ridiculous hours” haven’t tested that commitment to putting her best foot forward, even though it requires an increased effort: “This is one of the first times I’ve had to sleep three hours and then wake up at ridiculous hours to keep going . . . So sometimes I’ll wake up and let’s say that in the studio we have a crit [a critique of the students’ work]. Everyone gets dressed up. And I slept one hour. I still have to wake up and think about how I have to present myself properly if I’m going through a review this morning.” Oyin is one of the few freshman who deems workout clothes purely for that function, and who promises herself, “After this I’m still going to go back and shower and still dress up before my studio.” You could chalk this seemed regality to the fact that Oyin is, in fact, a princess. But when asked about her title, she instantly starts to laugh and waves her hands in the air saying, “Oh my god. It’s - I’m Yeah,” before laughing again. Insisting that,“It’s not a big deal. It’s nothing at all,” she emphasizes that she was not even aware of the novelty of her largely ceremonial title until her move to Epsom School in England. She describes the incident with the same tone of insistent dismissal: “My grandfather came to visit. And he came with like, an escort. And everyone was saying, ‘What’s going on?’ But, in Nigeria that was completely normal. People went with an escort to anywhere. Even going to an airport you need an escort. For safety and stuff.” She concludes by saying, “And so, it was a little extra and I was very embarrassed. It’s a weird thing I have to explain to people. It’s just there. I mean it’s there for life, but it doesn’t leave our family. It’s just there.” Traveling away from home since she was about six, Oyin doesn’t get very homesick easily. She also doesn’t wear traditional Nigerian clothing, even though it seems almost expected of her by people who know about her origins. But don’t mistake that for indifference.
“I would say I’m fully Nigerian. I go back every Christmas and summer and sometimes Easter. I get to spend time with the culture most, and the majority of my friends are Nigerian because it’s very common for Nigerians to go to school in England.” So why no traditional elements in her day-to-day style? She explains, “Nigerian traditional clothing is usually for weddings, burials, very ceremonial events . . . It’s very structured. The tradition. You have to wear certain colors for certain things like the groom has a color and the bride has a color and everyone wears those two colors. And so everyone has to wear the same lace and traditional clothing. So people don’t usually wear it out of those [occasions]. Most people just wear jeans.” Instead Oyin’s homage to her birthplace is more subtle: her jewelry. When asked about her feelings towards jewelry, she breaks into a smile. “This is basically nothing right now,” she says, gesturing to the six or so bracelets that adorn her wrists, the earrings twinkling amidst her hair, and the many necklaces placed around her neck. “I’m used to even sleeping with my jewelry. I don’t take out my earrings. I sometimes feel very naked if I don’t even have a bracelet on.” She applies her characteristic attention to detail, opting for gold jewelry if parts of her outfit such as her shoes contain gold details. Oyin is quick to identify that this element of her style comes “from [her] Nigerian culture. Because for everything you wear different jewelry. For burials you have to wear pearls and then for weddings you have to wear different jewelry. It’s very cultural. It’s very important.” Unsurprisingly, it runs in the family. “My mom wears a ton of jewelry too [and] my dad wears a necklace that has three pendants for my mom, my brother, and I.” In her two months at Cornell, Oyin has already picked up on a “a very prominent work hard play hard culture.” As she puts it: “You meet a party animal on Saturday night and then you see them Sunday morning going to the library at 8am.” Combined with a rigorous scholastic environment, this culture can easily lead to students being caught up in the mindset of “I have all these assignments to do and club meetings to attend and then I’m going to go to a party or go to bed.’” In the process, this routine can leave other personal and worldly issues unaddressed. And Cornell, nestled in otherwise
quiet-hippie, friendly Ithaca, can certainly feel like a bubble to some, such as junior Alex Schaef. “I see a lot of normativity on campus,” says Schaef, for whom the isolation of Ithaca isn’t too far off from his Woodstock origins. “I think we all handle it differently. A lot of us go straight to the system while for many of us it encourages us to be more different or wild.” Shaef admits he falls into the latter. “I came here and I realized everyone wants to do school and do things with their lives, and I really just want to find a way to love myself and actually enjoy life in the moment, which is a totally different mindset.” Staring out serenely from behind his aviator-style glasses, chin resting in his hand, amidst the lunch bustle at Temple of Zeus, Alex certainly gives off the image of an observer.
“I like to think about power dynamics between myself and everyone around me. Just being here and wearing this fucking snakeskin and staring off into space says something. Hopefully something good but I’m not really going for anything . . . I’m not trying to be anyone.”
When asked to describe himself in three words, Alex’s first thought was, “I want one of the words to be ‘maybe.’ That will be the last one. Comma. Maybe.” And while he was quick to dismiss the answer, this response is actually spot on -- when it comes to Alex Schaef’s style, nothing is off-limits. “I started showing up to parties in like underwear and shit. I don’t know. Wearing clothes that aren’t clothes? Like an apron or a garbage bag or something.” His face breaks into a smile as he says “No one’s going to say anything to you so it’s funny. And some people really vibe with it and they say like, ‘Oh I wish I could do what he’s doing’ and it’s like ‘You can. Shut up.’”
(n) the defining spirit or mood of a particular period in history as shown by the ideas and beliefs of the time
Alex’s style is more than clothing. To him, it’s performance art. And while some people see being able to wear a crown to class as body confidence, Schaef says, “It definitely took a long time but it doesn’t even come from a place of confidence, it comes from a place of trying to show people that it doesn’t have to be the way you think it is. And me showing up to my normal, daily classes looking different or looking like I might be going out makes a statement about what we do in our daily lives and how you don’t need a special event to feel good.” Growing up in Woodstock, New York (“the hippie town”), Alex ran around outdoors and with his sister getting dirty and having “a time.” But this isolation was also very lonely, with friends all living over an hour away and plenty of solitary time. And while Alex’s style as it is known today didn’t begin until he had access to thrift stores, even before college he was “ buying cool clothes from Forever 21 or Kohls or something.” Different places mean “it’s a different style. But same idea. Just trying to be different.” Despite being a viticulture major, Alex has also picked up an LGTBQ Studies minor and a passion for human rights that is strongly featured in his art, be it physical, poetry or prose. Alex’s other emotional investment in his art? Mental health. ”Someone asked me once where I got my style from and I just told them that it came from depression. And I honestly think it did, I think that’s why I am the way am and that’s why I do everything the way I do today because I have had a whole string of mental health problems in my own life. And a lot of it was unaddressed for a while and when it actually got addressed it actually got a lot worse. So recovering from weird stages of paranoia, depression, and ADHD has made me feel like I don’t need to necessarily stress myself out and that things don’t need to. I’ve been trying to focus more on the idea that there are always hundreds of options . . . And I think my style mostly conjures up that feeling of not really giving a fuck but also maybe giving too much of a fuck about . . . myself. If that makes sense.” Self care and self awareness certainly seems to be Alex’s style. While he’s quick to dismiss himself for being here at Cornell for “not the right reasons,” because he’s “here for [himself],” who isn’t in college for themselves? To learn something, about themselves and about the world. To be able to enter the job market with an Ivy League degree. To have that “Cornell” name in their bios. These are the most selfish years of our lives and we know it. But they’re also critical. Critical to learning how to cope when no one is around to take care of you when you get
sick or the laundry piles up. Learning how to deal with less sleep and more work. Learning how to deal with that 70 in Gen Chem or celebrating when you get a good grade on that prelim you thought you got a 39 on. “We’re at an age of our lives where we change so often,” observes Alex. “I change weekly. Like I’m never the same person day after day.” And whether our styles are button downs and trousers or snakeskin vests, we’re dressing for ourselves and learning more about ourselves in the process. And as Alex said himself, “There’s still a lot to unpack there.”
Lemonade for Gasoline Beckett Azevedo
Rosey-eyed and grinning in fictitious boulevards to undefined destinations, we waded through the afternoon with lemonade for gasoline. The royal reds and blues in our blanket were the elements to the magic of our carpet. “Stuffed animals,” but it was more than that; our game was a lifestyle, or a science experiment, or a statistical question, hypothesizing how our tomorrow would be with plush characters. “You pretend to be the singer and I’ll pretend to be the dancer.” “You pretend to come over to my house and I’ll pretend to cook dinner.” So simple, yet our worlds were anything but. With parking lots and doctors’ offices, beauty salons and riverbeds and pots and pans, it was our peace — our land of fortitude and our haven of creativity. The rug became reality when we put our toes to the pedal. I watched my friend Maddie develop into one of the most creative thinkers I knew, and it started with our game of pretend with our Webkinz. We then became a team of filmmakers, using our Flip video camera as a means of our transportation to our childhood. It became our new version of rosey lenses, with every avenue available to explore at the push of the record button. Whether it was a music video to “Shut Up and Drive” or recreating the Hunger games, we were fascinated with our fantasy to create something like we saw on Disney Channel or Cartoon Network. We trekked through the woods behind my house and chased each other with branches pulled off trees playing the role of makeshift torches, and our camera captured the magic that we created, only to be further refined in my livingroom iMovie studio. Today, Maddie goes to college for film, and I seem to have stumbled into a world of superficial concern for job status and financial reward. “What if I don’t make it as an artist?” “What will it mean if I can’t afford a nice place to live?” It is these questions that dig at the core of the insecurity of many artists’ minds and the minds of our generation in general. But, more importantly, the questions that we could and should be asking are, what about the parking lots and doctors’ offices and beauty salons and riverbeds and pots and pans that we pretended were there when they really weren’t? How did we create such magic so as to become so excited by the prospect of making something so fictitious? Moreover, is it that? What is it about childhood that adults miss? The magic. The fearlessness. The naïvite. The guiltless pleasure of playing pretend. It’s the pressure to be “mature,” “adult,” and “independent” that blinds us from what we want — those careless joys and guiltfree smiles as we sat, wrapped in blanket next to our parents as they read us “Goodnight Moon.” Our goal now as adolescents should be less about dreaming in a world of nostalgia and more about how we can recreate these magical elements in new ways — to find a way to live wildly, messily, and crazily. Because why should we settle for anything less than joy?
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