Food For Thought
Tufts Dining has changed — and so have its eaters.
Cover Image: Kunal Botla Magazine Design: Olivia White Photospread Design: Claire Wood
10/12/2024 - Boston, MA - Henry Chandonnet is pictured.
Letter From The Editor
Next to my bed, below my alarm clock and strewn necklaces, is what I call the “stack.” It’s a tower of magazines, always threatening to topple over. The titles range from New York to Vanity Fair , GQ to Vogue . Their spines are all cracked, the pages ripped and smudged from my ravenous reading.
Among the deluge of digital media, there’s something so luxurious about print magazines. Web stories offer bites of information; maybe you’ll read the first paragraph or two, or the headline alone. That story was also chosen just for you — by a search algorithm, a social media feed or just what headline your cursor tends to hover over. The print magazine, on the other hand, is curated. Features ask big questions, and in turn snake through their bigger answers. I can load a New York Times story and seep up its content in the midst of a lecture; a sprawling New Yorker feature needs my sustained attention. As life becomes increasingly quick, there’s an odd beauty in the slow.
At The Tufts Daily , we know a thing or two about quick media. We
publish five days a week to meet the area’s unending news cycle, sprawl ing across verticals, from opinion and audio. Through my tenure as executive arts editor and later managing editor of the paper, I saw the virtues of this quick-paced environment, creating a snappy product that could be absorbed through a quick scroll. But I also saw how it wore our staff thin and barred many longer-term projects.
With The Tufts Daily Magazine , I wanted to offer our newsroom a chance to slow down. I asked this issue’s seven writers to tackle big questions and to speak with as many people as they could find. The writers spent over two months reporting these stories, pulling together compelling portraits of campus and local life, not just the budding news item of the day. The resulting product, the inaugural magazine for the Daily (but certainly not the last), offers a more thorough glimpse into what life at Tufts looks like today.
On the cover, Aaron Gruen dug deep into the culinary fabric of the university. That includes an
intensive, multi-part interview with dining director Patti Klos — and yes, she sees your complaints on Sidechat. Kaitlyn Wells traced the origins of the athlete-NARP divide; Daniel Vos weighed the critiques of liberal arts politics; Ella Sanders asked Tufts interns how they got their jobs; and Matthew Winkler profiled a student artist earning tens of thousands in commissions. The magazine also lets us flaunt the work of the incredible photographers of the Daily. Check out some adorable snaps of kids (and dogs!) in Sarah Firth’s cargo bike story, and see if you can spot yourself next to Shannon Murphy’s musings on pant width inflation.
This magazine wouldn’t be possible without the incredible Olivia White, who designed the beautiful print product you’re looking at now. She spent countless hours staring at graphics, tinkering with text, and making sure that each story pops. She’s been there from inception to execution, and for that, I’m so grateful. I also must thank the current managing board for their help in editing, and their willingness to let me experiment. Finally, the idea for this magazine was hatched around the editing table last year. Without Aaron, Kaitlyn, Julia Carpi and Caroline Vandis, this magazine would never have been thought up in the first place.
Watching me leaf through a copy of Highsnobiety this summer, my editor described how our phones have overtaken the print media market. “You’d read it while cooking, you’d read it while commuting, you’d read it on the toilet,” she explained. So I implore you: Tuck this copy under your arm, and give it a scan when you have a minute. Read it wherever you can, from the kitchen to the restroom. I hope you’ll see your experiences reflected, or learn something new about the community around you.
Sincerely,
HENRY CHANDONNET Founding Editor,
The Tufts Daily Magazine
AARON
Ihave always wanted to know why some Tufts students walk around campus carrying a gallon of Poland Spring water. Do they stockpile gallons, or refill them? Aren’t they bulky and cumbersome? Yet, tracking down an answer was easier said than done. From the gear and uniforms, it’s obvious that these gallons are accessories sported by players on a men’s athletics team. However, none of my own close friends are on any of Tufts’ Division III teams, nor do I have any solid mutual connections to anyone on the men’s football or lacrosse teams, who I suspected to be the gallon-users.
Do athletes and non-athletes really occupy such different worlds at Tufts? Senior Jessie Ku claims we do. As someone involved in the arts, Ku doesn’t encounter any athletes on a day-to-day basis and suspects a huge social division exists.
“I feel like athletes are very secluded in their own bubble and their own friend group,” Ku said. “Because of different interests and not a lot of overlapping time together, it just so happens to be that I don’t really have any athlete friends.”
Student-athletes have a unique commitment at Tufts, typically
Athlete Alienation
Tufts athletes spend dozens of hours a week together. No wonder they travel in herds.
KAITLYN WELLS Senior Staff Writer
spending 10–15 hours a week training together during their game season, on top of more time spent commuting to and participating in competitions. The athletes I spoke to all agreed that having the same practice routine bleeds into similar meal times, class schedules and social opportunities. They’ve been herding together for years, long before they arrived at Tufts. Senior swimmer Brian Uribe explained that as a Division III student-athlete, your sport has been a large part of your life for a long time.
“For us, it is part of our identity to be an athlete or be a swimmer,” Uribe said. “[At] Tufts, if we’re introducing ourselves, a lot of time we do say we’re on a team.”
The nature of competitive sports can affect the way student-athletes relate to others on their team. Even before college, master’s student and fifth-year fencer Lea Levi made most of her friends through some sort of athletic activity.
“If you win and you cry, you can hug them, and if you lose and you cry, you can hug them,” Levi said. “Feeling that way with a friendship is just not really something that goes away.”
There’s something comforting about having friends with similar interests, including that of a sport. But Levi believes that, without the team, it would have been hard to meet fellow fencers. With her freshman year dominated by COVID-19, Levi recalls a social cohort mostly composed of teammates. “We were [kind of] forced our first two years to hang out with mostly athletes,” Levi said.
Tufts allows first-year student-athletes to opt into rooming with another athlete. For senior football player Jameer Alves, living in dorms as an underclassmen actually helped him meet students outside of football. His non-athlete friends are very understanding of his time constraints, and they’ll often find time to hang out by
studying together. Still, coming from Atlanta to join one of the largest sports teams on campus was formative for Alves when arriving at Tufts.
“I didn’t know anyone coming up here except for the coaches, [but on football you] automatically meet 100 people, and then on top of that, you could just meet 100 people’s friends,” Alves said. “I live with two of my teammates now in my house, and I feel like the majority of the time, if I’m hanging out with anybody, it’s probably going to be one of my teammates.”
That’s not just true of the highstakes Division III teams. Tufts’ club and intramural teams also serve as remarkably strong social connectors. Senior Phoebe McMahon remembers being a first-year, trying to find her place at Tufts and not knowing what to do on the weekends. That is, until she joined BWO frisbee — a clublevel sports team at Tufts that has a reputation for being social.
“There’s so many people who are able to come into it and feel that sense of growth,” McMahon said. “It’s about bringing people in and building a community, rather than solely trying to be the best at the sport.”
Senior Enrique Delso is a captain of the men’s club soccer brown team. From Madrid, he finds that there aren’t many other international students in the men’s club soccer scene, but he enjoys having different groups of friends.
Meeting an upperclassman on the team was how Delso ended up at his first party at Tufts; they even convinced him to rush DTD. While men’s club and varsity soccer teams do not interact much beyond sporadic joint practices or games, club sports teams often have mixers with each other or with Greek organizations.
ATO has long had a reputation for attracting student-athletes who do water sports, such as swim and dive, rowing, and sailing. ATO member Uribe emphasizes that their events are advertised through word of
mouth: If athletes are members, then their teammates will naturally catch wind of the ongoings. Ku believes Greek life and varsity sports have that in common.
“I think exclusivity is one of the biggest denominating factors between the both,” she said. “Getting invited to these social events, you have to either do a sport or know people who do a sport and even then their circles are quite exclusive.”
Uribe agrees that there is a divide between which social activities athletes and non-athletes have access to. He also suspects an atmosphere of separation when athletes move in groups around campus, which some students may find intimidating. But it’s not all homogenous within the sports circles: Uribe chose to help lead Athlete Ally, which highlights queer representation in college athletics, after interacting with some sports that were “more heteronormative than others.”
“Do athletes and non-athletes really occupy such different worlds at Tufts?”
When it comes to housing, recent graduate Lauren Pollak can speak to sharing a space with teammates. Formerly on the women’s cross-country and track teams, Pollak continued living with her teammates after graduation when they moved to Boston. From the COVID-19 cohorts to off-campus housing, she cherished being able to cohabitate with the cross-country athletes who were some of her closest friends. They would have teammates over for movie nights, unproductive study sessions and carb-loading pasta dinners before races.
“What I liked about Tufts — honestly one of the best things I
think — was that most people on the team had friends also outside of the team,” Pollak said. “I have some friends who go to [Division] I schools, and their regimens are very, very strict and much more intense, and so as a result, they really only socialize with their teammates, which makes it, I think, a less enriching experience.”
The extent to which athletes seek connections outside their teams seems to depend on the person. Uribe appreciates having a hideaway from athletics and exposure to other corners of Tufts life.
“It’s nice to take a step away from the sport. I don’t want to be thinking about swimming all the time,” Uribe said. “Sometimes it’s nice to hang out with people who are involved in other things and hear about what they’re doing. … It opens your social circle, and you get to learn about other things going on on campus.”
But there’s something about working together on a team that inevitably brings these athletes close. McMahon argued they might even be closer than other forms of friendship.
“You’re trying to score a goal, you’re trying to learn how to throw a backhand, you’re trying to do all of these other very physical things, and I like the idea of two people trying to work together towards a common goal and becoming friends out of that, rather than just having friendship be the goal,” McMahon said. “I think some of my most natural friendships have come out of sports.”
Whether athlete or NARP (non-athletic regular person, that is), we’re all looking for connection. That even goes for the water gallon-carriers, which Alves cleared up for me. Indeed, it’s mostly a habit of football players, stemming from their intense preseason training that has the team in “football mode” from 6 a.m. to 10 p.m. for two weeks in August. Gallons provide the necessary hydration, and some players continue refilling them into the semester. Sustainable kings!
11/19/2024 - Somerville, MA - Tofu is prepared in Fresh at Carmichael.
We Are What We Eat
Tufts Dining has radically evolved in recent decades. What do its changes reveal about our culture?
AARON GRUEN Investigative Editor
The last time Nadine Brozan dined at Dewick, women were not allowed to wear pants inside — that is, unless it was snowing. So, she and her friends carried skirts to cover their legs.
“This was the era of Bermuda shorts,” she recalled. “We each had what we called a ‘dinner skirt.’ It was a skirt that was big enough to fit over the Bermuda shorts.”
While the core function of the dining center — to fill bellies — is unchanged, little else remains the same since Brozan was an undergraduate in the late 1950s. If dining halls are reflective of our time, then the fare (and certainly the dress code) is much more progressive. Vibrant green smoothies appear in students’ hands across campus; Fresh at Carmichael is entirely
gluten- and nut-free; and dozens of cuisines are available on any given day. A lot of these changes are due in no small part to Patti Klos, Tufts’ senior director of dining services. Since arriving at Tufts 35 years ago, Klos has ushered in a more personalized era of college food.
“There’d be three entrees and some sides that went with it. … In the ’70s, ’80s, maybe that was enough; by the time we got into the ’90s and beyond, that really wasn’t enough variety at a meal,” she recalled.
One of Klos’ goals is to “deinstitutionalize” dining. That means scrapping single-file lines in favor of open, marketplace-style buffets. Salad bars have been supplemented with makeyour-own-pancake machines. Hot dogs and fries are served regularly, but so are quinoa salads and chia pudding.
As more items have been introduced, certain dishes have attained
cult status over the years. Students flock to Hodgdon for sticky-sweet pieces of General Gao’s chicken, and dining centers go all out with holiday-themed menus. If you want to score dumplings at Dewick on Lunar New Year, you better be prepared to wait upwards of 30 minutes.
There’s more food, in more varieties, in more places than ever before — but that’s also true beyond the Medford bubble. The dining hall might have had fewer items in the ’80s, but there were also fewer food options everywhere. Alumni recall a time when eating out was for special occasions only, and more people viewed cooking as a chore rather than a leisurely activity.
“A lot of us came from backgrounds where our moms cooked, we didn’t cook,” Laurie Jakobsen (LA’92) said. “If you wanted decent food, you had to come to the dining hall.”
I spoke to Jakobsen, Brozan and other alumni while they were on campus for a reunion. Perhaps it was the novelty of cuisine that would have been so alien to their collegeaged selves or the thrill of being back on campus after decades, but the alumni raved about the food.
“When I was in school, tofu was a new thing for Americans,” Michael Goldberg (LA’85) remarked. Now, it’s on the menu every day.
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If a student complains about Tufts Dining on social media, Klos is probably aware of it. She’s even on Sidechat, though her interactions on the anonymous online forum are limited. “I just read. I scroll. I rarely post anything,” she said. “It’s just a way of staying informed.”
People’s gripes about dining vary; sometimes, students complain about the quality of food. One student went viral in 2021 after posting a TikTok of the “scallion pancakes” at Carm, which looked more like buttermilk flapjacks than the traditional, flaky
pancakes. Another time, Dewick ran out of food, leading students to flock to Sidechat and post about it. Klos immediately worked to address the food shortages.
“We looked into that and took action right away,” she said. “That feedback hurts because we’re not living up to what we’re supposed to be providing you.”
Klos is Hawaiian and was raised in Indiana. Food was an integral part of her upbringing, and when she arrived at Tufts, she found that her vision aligned with what the school was looking for.
“I’m quirky. Tufts is a little quirky. I felt like I could fit in here and do some good,” she said. Now, decades later, Klos has overseen scores of renovations and menu overhauls. Keeping an ear to the ground is an essential part of Klos’ job, and social media happens to be the top venue for voicing complaints nowadays. She created the first Tufts Dining Facebook page in the social network’s nascent stages, in part to monitor students’ posts about meal swipes. She regularly meets with students and Tufts Community
Union senators, sometimes to hear feedback about the food itself and other times to better understand how she can expand the accessibility of dining.
In response to COVID-19, Tufts briefly allowed students to redeem meal swipes at Commons and use two swipes per meal period at retail locations; but those policies were recently reversed, to students’ frustration. Klos says the hardest part of the job is when she has to say “no,” but this was an instance where her hands were tied.
“It wasn’t tenable. It was a response to COVID,” Klos said of the shift. Nevertheless, it prompted petitions, opinion pieces and TCU senate resolutions. Klos saw that feedback and worked with TCU senators on a compromise. Now, students have a fourth “munch” period between lunch and dinner, giving those with meal plans more opportunities to use up their swipes.
This isn’t the first time student advocacy has resulted in concrete policy changes. In 1994, after students requested round tables at Dewick, they were installed. Dewick has also
extended dining hours this semester after TCU senate advocacy.
The most recent example of student-driven change is the return of the on-campus pub, in the form of a pop-up at Hotung. The initiative, spearheaded by TCU senators, Tufts Dining, and University President Sunil Kumar, is designed to create a new social space for students as of November.
“It’s important for our students to have fun in environments that are safe and inclusive,” Kumar told me.
As it turns out, on-campus bar nights used to be fixtures of campus. The MacPhie Pub opened in April 1977, when the drinking age was still 18. Alcohol was served nightly in the same spot students now eat at Dewick.
But the tradition of on-campus, university-sanctioned drinking has waned over time. Pub nights became less frequent and were moved to a bar downtown. Owing to students’ unruly behavior, university pub nights ended in 2016. In its stead, seniors have flocked to student-organized bar nights at off-campus venues. The cover charges alone
11/19/2024 - Somerville, MA - The Fresh at Carmichael kitchen is pictured.
can top $30, plus steep drink prices and late-night Uber fares.
I attended a test run of the Pop-up Pub in October. While the vibe was decidedly different from off-campus bars — no sticky floors or visibly intoxicated students here — I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t excited to see alcohol served where I usually order coffee. The tables laden with finger food and mood lighting reminded me of a bar mitzvah, in a good way. As I sipped on a blueberry mojito mocktail — I planned to be sober for my seminar later that night — I had no trouble envisioning myself attending future pub nights.
With Pop-up Pub events lasting from 5–9:30 p.m., it’s unlikely they will replace seniors’ nightlife. But the resurrection of an on-campus bar is recognition of students’ desire for more social events.
“What we hear from students in the community is they want a place to socialize that feels more adult, and a place where they can have alcoholic beverages,” Klos said. “We see our students studying all the time, everywhere, and we hope that this is a place to relax a little bit.”
It remains to be seen whether complimentary snacks and modestly priced drinks can convince students to pay a $10 entrance fee. But Kumar, for his part, plans to be a frequent guest. “At [the University of] Chicago, I was dean at that time, but I used to go from time to time to the pub. So if it’s half decent, I’ll show up,” he joked.
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When you factor in the sheer amount of hungry students, some tradeoffs are necessary. Tufts is neither a small college nor a large state school; that means the food straddles a line between homey and industrial. Food is still prepared in large batches and served off of hotel pans; but now, the recipes
span a wider range of cuisines and utilize more local ingredients.
“If I want to make sure that I’ve got asparagus for 400 people, I may not be able to buy it all within Massachusetts,” Klos said. She tries to take a less “institutional” approach, opting for multiple sources and responsible procurement practices.
One of Tufts’ food suppliers is the New Entry Sustainable Farming Project, an initiative of the Tufts Friedman School of Nutrition Science and Policy which supports new farmers locally. According to Sara Poggi Davis, New Entry’s food hub program manager, Tufts Dining currently purchases around $800 of seasonal local produce each week through New Entry.
On one of the recent occasions I visited Dewick for this article, I learned that the apples were sourced from New Entry. If I had not asked a dining worker where the apples had come from, I never would have known it was organic and locally harvested. But there’s more intentionality and human effort behind choices at Tufts Dining than we might realize. Even the location of certain food items has a justification.
“I know the gym is not too far [from Kindlevan Café], so we get a lot of athletes, so they’ll come in and grab smoothies,” Neesie Antoine, a retail manager with Tufts Dining, said. “We have a smoothie machine at Hodgdon because I noticed that some people are like, ‘Yeah, Kindlevan’s too far. My classes are this way.’”
Antoine touched on something I picked up on from most of my interactions with students: People generally cite convenience as the reason for their preferred dining location. Sophomore Jessica Zeng mostly frequents Carm because she lives uphill. Firstyear KK Chen walks past Dewick on her way to class, so she usually stops to eat there. Even her seating choice — the tables near the soft serve machines — is made out of expediency: “It takes less time to walk to get food,” she said.
When we choose to eat at a traditional dining hall like Dewick or Carm, we generally anticipate that we’ll linger there. Running into a friend (or, let’s face it, an enemy) is practically inevitable. Anticipating run-ins, sophomore Mikey Glueck sits in a different part of Dewick based on his mood.
“It depends if I want to be seen, you know? If I’m trying to lock in, I’m going to a corner. If I’m feeling good about myself today, I’ll sit in the middle,” he said.
Sophomore Jackelyn Palomo was sitting alone in the back corner of Dewick when I spoke with her. She had come from an early morning chemistry lecture and was doing homework over breakfast. When I asked her why she chose to sit in that spot, she told me, “It’s pretty calm. Usually there’s not a lot of people here.”
Sophomore Annika Rose Terwilliger sat near the edge of the dining room for the same reason. “I am just eating alone today, and so I wanted to sit at the end, be a little bit out of the way of everybody else, in a quieter space,” she said. Usually, Terwilliger gets lunch at a retail location, even when she’s with a group. “I’d rather sit in my room or outside somewhere than [have] to stay in here.”
Sunday brunch remains an occasion to luxuriate at Dewick. Jakobsen recalls brunch as a “big social event,” eating with her friends for three hours straight. The location opens late, at 11 a.m., and the cuisine matches the celebratory spirit: Strawberries are rolled out in grand bowls alongside quiches and lunch food. It feels celebratory.
“If you want to go to Carm or Dewick, you’re doing it because of the variety. You’re willing to take the 30 minutes to an hour, depending on which meal period, and you may or may not be willing to be social,” Klos said.
Though a renovation of Dewick is not currently slated, Klos
envisions having more seating options (think: “soft” seating options, spaces curated for neurodivergent people) as well as a fully meat and dairy-Kosher platform. Right now, though, the priority is brainstorming dining options for the student dormitory set to be constructed on Boston Avenue.
“We have to figure out what dining options we provide upperclassmen on campus because there will be more of them — 700 more of them,” Kumar said. “Whether the Dewick experience is sufficient or we have to do something else, like grab-and-go, or something deeper, I think will be important for us to think through.”
Klos’ ideas for the new space range from a ghost kitchen to a
Hodgdon and Kindlevan. “Popup” events with special menu items resemble trendy limited-run restaurants.
For upperclassmen, most of whom live off campus and do not have unlimited meal plans, the dining center is no longer the convenient source of sustenance it used to be.
Only now, as a senior experiencing the harsh responsibilities of adulthood, do I realize how I took the dining centers for granted. At Dewick or Carm, a swipe is a swipe; a cone of soft serve costs the same as a slice of pizza. In the “real world,” there is no place (except maybe an all-you-can-eat buffet) where you can go without making a reservation, eat without having to speak
mini supermarket combined with ready-made options. “The constant through all the renovations is the question of, ‘Is the current service model really meeting the needs of the community, and how can we imagine or anticipate how those tastes might change?’” she said.
Some of the changes to Tufts
Dining resemble shifts in American dining-out culture. As more people flock to fast-casual spots like sweetgreen and Cava, Tufts has doubled down on retail dining with recent renovations of
with a single person and leave without worrying about the bill.
But the dining halls serve as more than a feeding ground or a gathering place; they also reflect our culture and our values. Our choices — what to eat, where to sit, our interactions with staff — reflect our upbringings. Maybe part of the reason students crave more options is because we come from more backgrounds.
Klos has worked to make the dining experience fulfill students’ desires. Long, narrow “community
tables” have been reintroduced to Dewick so that people can sit by themselves or in groups. While the round tables sound ideal in theory, the reality is that some people just want to do their homework alone in a place that isn’t the library.
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One morning, I toured the labyrinthine kitchen of Dewick with Klos to get a better sense of how food makes it to our tables. The sheer scale of the operation reminded me of a factory, but calling it such would ignore the massive human effort that goes into meal preparation. As one cook stirred a vat of vegetable jambalaya, I snuck a look at her recipe sheet; except for the massive quantities the recipe called for (15 pounds each of potatoes, tomatoes and beans), it looked like something I would cook at home.
At the end of the tour, Klos and I sat in the dining room and chatted. She told me that more people have requested to tour the kitchen recently, and alumni will come to dining centers in search of specific staff members. To this day, Klos recalls connecting with students as a sophomore flipping eggs at Purdue University, eventually learning which students liked theirs cooked over-easy or well-done. These indelible experiences have always been a part of the dining experience because food is always personal.
Before we parted ways in Dewick, Klos told me to help myself to a plate of food. As I walked into the serving area, I felt newly overwhelmed. There were so many choices, and I only had one free meal. Our access to dining halls is limited to our time at college. So go ahead, get that second plate of fries. Have a cone of ice cream for breakfast and a bowl of cereal for dinner. Just don’t take it for granted, because in a few decades, it’s possible that none of it will be the same.
11/19/2024 - Somerville, MA - Salmon is prepared in Fresh at Carmichael.
The Liberal Arts Voter
Are Tufts students hard-line radicals or indifferent elites? Most of us can’t agree on what’s wrong with liberal arts political culture.
DANIEL VOS Staff Writer
Penelope Kopp remembers her high school frustration. She watched dismally as national climate policies unraveled under President-elect Donald Trump, still too young to cast her vote.
Now a junior at Tufts, Kopp has made activism a core part of her life, from attending protests with her family to working on campaigns for candidates like President Joe Biden. For the 2024 election, she coordinated phone banks twice a week, speaking with North Carolina voters for Vice President Kamala Harris’ campaign.
“There are elections that are decided by margins of 1,000 votes, and in a typical phone banking session of two hours, you’re probably calling like 60 voters,” she said.
Kopp fits squarely into the classic image of a liberal arts student: politically engaged, progressive and motivated to make change. Yet, as she looks around campus, she feels that she’s part of a minority who actually cares about the election’s outcome.
“There is a student body that cares a lot about political issues,” she says, “but that isn’t always necessarily followed up with concrete action.”
For all the talk of social justice and making a difference, some at Tufts express a quiet cynicism about politics. The once ubiquitous refrain of wanting to “make a difference” has lost some of its weight. In a space where activism can feel like a badge, true
political engagement risks becoming performative. All discourse, no effort. For Kopp, Tufts’ liberal bubble sometimes creates a kind of political complacency. “Living in a blue state, we take good policies and things for granted,” she explained. In the throes of the 2024 election, prior to which all interviews for this piece were conducted, this attitude has become more noticeable to her. While students appear engaged in political discourse, many have a limited sense of civic urgency.
Jen McAndrew, a senior director at Tisch College, is well aware of this national perception that young voters are apathetic. She explained that one of the young people’s biggest barriers to voting is access, arguing that low Gen Z turnout may be a product of increasingly ornate and restrictive voting policies.
“Commentators complain about bubbles on bubbles, but they can’t seem to agree on what kind of thought that bubble foments.”
Voter registration rates, in many key congressional districts in which young people were likely to be decisive, were strong. This active participation, McAndrew suggests, reflects an informed and motivated Gen Z electorate that campaign messaging doesn’t always capture. According to her, young voters are not just concerned about student debt but hold the economy and climate change among their top priorities as well.
Political apathy is difficult to measure but easy to prognosticate upon. Gen Z voters had overall lower turnout in the 2024 election than in 2020 — except in key battleground states. Youth voters
also notably pushed towards the right this year but still favored Harris by double-digit margins. What the data really shows is that broad statements about the youth electorate do not always align with reality. As to whether students at Tufts — and young people writ large — are shrouded in an apathy bubble, the answer may be more complicated than expected.
Eitan Hersh, a political science professor who studies American conservatism, has observed a different type of ideological homogeneity at Tufts. He conducted an anonymous poll in his class: Out of 100 students, only about five identified as conservative. Nationally, about 26% of college students identify as conservative, but Tufts stands out as an enclave of left-leaning politics. Hersh attributes this to the messaging and branding Tufts has embraced for years, which prizes certain types of diversity such as race, gender and sexual orientation, while avoiding ideological or religious diversity.
“Tufts prioritizes in the language it uses to advertise itself a version of civic engagement that is coded as left-oriented,” he said. “A reasonable person would look at Tufts’ material and say, ‘This is a school that’s trying to recruit progressives.’”
Kopp does not see it that way: “It honestly feels like there is a wide range [of] political ideology on campus. It’s more just the loudest voices tend to be those on the left, whereas I feel the more centrist voices aren’t as involved in activism or advocacy.”
Deborah Schildkraut, a political science professor at Tufts, also held an in-class survey. She found that students tend to focus on the broad issues, often more aware of the details of the Texas Senate race than the name of their own local representative.
“One of the questions I ask is, what’s the most important problem facing the country today?” Schildkraut said. “I have noticed a significant change over time, where people talk more
about polarization and perceived threats to democracy. [That] never used to come up, and now those are the most common answers that I get.”
Polarization and threats to democracy are macro issues. They are born of discourse and inquiry, not rallies and action. While Democrats framed the 2024 election as the fight against threats to democracy, tangible economic issues like inflation won out. But many Tufts students need not think about these woes — after all, we are the 10th most disproportionately wealthy college in the country. Many students can stay wrapped up in thought, using their political brain over their feet.
“It’s certainly a privilege to be able to focus on long-term, theoretical change rather than immediate policy changes,” Kopp said. For her, translating progressive ideals into activism is a conscious choice, one she wishes more of her peers would embrace.
And, from within the political bubble, can Tufts students even handle information contrary to their rampant progressivism? Many high-profile conservatives argue the answer is no: In fact, the “anti-woke” University of Austin was recently founded on the principle that most major universities, including those like Tufts, are pushing their students towards progressivism. But Schildkraut pushes back: “There’s the perception that [students] are empty vessels that professors indoctrinate, which is not true. Our students
are complex people with agency and their own experiences that they bring to the table. A lot of times, they challenge their professors to reevaluate their own perspectives.”
Schildkraut also points to the range of political discussions that take place on campus almost daily. Conservatives have long lamented the efforts to “deplatform” right-leaning speakers and panelists on university campuses. At Tufts, Schildkraut points out, disruptions are rare. Sure enough, the Foundation for Individual Rights and Expression’s database finds only two recent instances of student activism against campus speakers at Tufts, neither of which were canceled. Still, the perception of Tufts as an
ideologically rigid space persists, even among students.
But Hersh stands firm in his belief of the university’s hard left tilt, noting that the excessively liberal ecosystem has diminished trust in academia. “Republican politicians and conservative leaders are really turning against higher education,” he warns. For him, the university’s political culture reinforces an ideological homogeneity that may be satisfying to the campus community but ultimately fuels public resentment.
It seems that everyone has an opinion on campus politics. Liberal arts students are vicious, speech-quashing progressives, or they’re immorally apathetic. They’re high-minded discourse junkies without action, or they’re overly partisan hacks. Commentators complain about bubbles on bubbles, but they can’t seem to agree on what kind of thought that bubble foments.
Even if there is a political bubble at Tufts, we’re bound to leave it with graduation. Schildkraut recently sat on an alumni panel with a former student now working for the Senate Rules Committee. They had gone on to help revise the Electoral Count Act — a consequential effort to safeguard democracy. “They do seem to have faith that they can make a difference,” Schildkraut said. “They do the work, and it’s really inspiring.”
11/05/2024 - Medford, MA - The Election Night Extravaganza is pictured.
11/05/2024 - Medford, MA - The Election Night Extravaganza is pictured.
Pedaling Together
Cargo bikes are scoring big among Tufts-area families. They say these bikes are the best way to get around.
SARAH FIRTH Features Editor
In a country where cars are king, Tufts’ host cities stand out for their embrace of an unusual alternative: the cargo bike. Designed to transport almost anything — groceries, work supplies or even children — these bikes are becoming increasingly popular for families hoping to minimize transport expenses and foster a more connected lifestyle. Oh, and skipping out on car traffic doesn’t hurt.
A popular choice among local families is the Dutch-style “bakfiet,” a bicycle with a large front box that can hold several children. Boris Vallee lives one block from the Tufts campus in Medford Hillside with his 6-year-old son and 4- and 2-year old daughters. Originally from France, Vallee uses a bakfiet-style Riese and Müller Load 75 to take his three children around the Tufts area.
“I have many friends in France that are doing that to bring their kids [around],” Vallee said. “I wanted both to improve my environmental
footprint and have a different way of commuting, getting through traffic and having a nicer lifestyle.”
In nearby Magoun Square, Klaus and Mimi Schultz rely on an Urban Arrow to ferry their kids around town. They chose the model for its utility and ability to carry an additional child on top of their two sons.
“We could potentially carpool — ‘bike-pool’ — and [I love] the amount of groceries [Klaus] can fit,” Mimi said. “He jokes it’s his midlife crisis vehicle.”
The Schultz family uses a special wooden accessory handmade in Somerville called the “Tow Monster” to attach their older son’s bike to the Urban Arrow. Klaus allows his son to bike alongside him on the way to school; since their son won’t be biking home, he tows the additional bike to the office. The cargo bike suited their needs so well that they ordered a second.
Another widely favored style of cargo bicycle around Tufts is the “longtail,” which features an extended rear rack that can accommodate child seats or a bench for older children. Tufts alumnus Nathan Ricci lives in Magoun
Square with his wife, also a Tufts alum, and uses a Tern GSD cargo bike to navigate with his 6-year-old son.
“Driving around here is really frustrating. I think I have an above-average hatred for traffic and being stuck in traffic,” Ricci said. “It just seemed like a pretty obvious solution if you need to transport kids.”
The purchase of a cargo bike allowed Ricci’s family to avoid purchasing a second car, a common sentiment among families. For almost any trip under 5 miles, Ricci opts to use the cargo bike, having now racked up over 7,000 miles on it. “It would be more, except I got a lot less mileage during the pandemic,” he said.
The third type of cargo bicycle commonly found near Tufts is the “trike.” With three wheels, these bikes are highly stable and can carry more than four children at a time. Jessica Deary lives in Arlington along the Minuteman Bike Path. She and her husband Victor purchased the tricycle-style Bunch Bike for their 3- and 1-year-old daughters. Originally from Hartford, Connecticut, they use the Bunch Bike to take their girls to the library and nearby parks.
“When we came here, we downsized to one car,” Victor said. “When we were in Cambridge, it was easier to work, but we always had to coordinate with a car. But since we’ve gotten this, it’s a lot easier.”
The Bunch Bike makes it possible to mount a toddler seat designed to support children from ages 18 months to two years. And their daughters are fans, too: “They never fight getting in it, compared to the car, which they often don’t want to get into,” Jessica said.
Cargo bicycles have long been popular in countries like the Netherlands and Denmark, which have strong bicycling cultures and flat topography. As for their spike around the more hilly Tufts, the addition of electric batteries may be to thank.
“[Cargo bikes] have existed for at least 100 years, but having lithium-ion batteries and the development of
SARAH FIRTH / THE TUFTS
10/25/2024 - Medford, MA - Boris Vallee is pictured with his children.
electric motors, they’ve reached a level of quality now,” Ricci said. “If you want to take one of those up a steep hill with two kids in it, now you can.”
For these cargo-biking families, safety is the first priority. Vallee estimates that he’ll be carting around his kids until they’re old enough to bike solo in traffic — a long way out. Local government has also been investing in safe biking, building protected lanes and extending the Somerville Community Path. Ricci credits Somerville and Cambridge with making biking infrastructure “more appealing.”
“Nobody’s going to ride their bike around with a kid if it doesn’t feel safe,” he said. “Your risk tolerance is so much lower when you have a kid.”
And they’re not just fair-weather vehicles. Vallee uses his cargo bike year-round; he outfits his R&M Load 75 bicycle with a cover to keep his children warm during colder months.
“[The little tent] is needed for it to work for the children. They keep themselves warm — they’re like penguins,” Vallee said. “You just need to be well dressed, and then, it’s all good.”
Judith Fortin recently began using a Tern HSD to transport her young daughter and Boston Terrier to school and around Cambridge. While initially nervous about pedaling Massachusetts Avenue, Fortin has found that the benefits outweigh
the risks. She also plans to continue as the weather gets colder.
“I’m trying to see if I’m going to buy all the gear for winter or if we’re going to dress up and tough it out,” Fortin said. “I’m from Quebec, so I’m used to cold weather. [My daughter is] not used as much, being born and raised here.”
Over in Arlington, Derek Paxson took more of a do-it-yourself approach to find the perfect cargo bike for his family. Due to limited storage at their home near Alewife Brook Parkway, he and his wife weren’t interested in a bakfiet-style bicycle, and many of the other traditional options for cargo bikes were not suited for an infant young enough to need a car seat.
Drawing on his background as a mechanical engineer, Paxson custom built a wooden rack with suspension to mount his son’s infant car seat to the front of a Cero One cargo bicycle. He then moved the original front rack to the bike’s rear, allowing them to hook on a stroller. With his bicycle, Paxson can take his infant and baby supplies anywhere he wants to go: “I’ve told people it’s like when you first learn how to ride a bike, and you’re a kid, and you can go everywhere,” he says.
The higher upfront cost of cargo bikes can be a barrier for some, with most models ranging from $1,700 to $9,000. Paxson was able to snag a gently used cargo bicycle from
- Cambridge, MA
Facebook Marketplace; however, because cargo bikes are a newer phenomenon in the United States, the secondhand market is still developing.
“Especially the ones with the bucket in the front, where you could actually buy something to put a car seat, these bikes are like five grand minimum, and they’re not that old, so there’s not that many used,” Paxson said. “Luckily, I stumbled upon this one.”
The Tufts-area families point to several instigators for the cargo bike spike. There’s the increased biking infrastructure, the focus on sustainability and even the simple joys of pedaling around with your kids in tow. But they all agree: The cargo bikes have brought them joy.
“It has improved [my] quality of life a lot,” Ricci says. “It’s easier to get around; it’s faster to get places. You go to local places more; you enjoy the outdoors more. I know everybody in the neighborhood because … I’m not inside a car, so I see people, and I talk to them.”
Now, the cargo bike feeding frenzy shows no signs of fading. In fact, they might be getting too popular near Tufts. “I’m not a morning person, so I usually use [my cargo bike] in the afternoon,” Fortin said. “Too much bike traffic in the morning, to be honest.”
COURTESY
SARAH FIRTH / THE TUFTS DAILY
10/18/2024 - Somerville, MA - Mimi Schultz is pictured with her son.
10/30/2024
- Judith Fortin's child and dog are pictured.
11/07/2024 - Medford, MA - Makai Murray is
SMFA Reject, Big-Name Artist
Makai Murray never felt at home in academia or the art world. And yet, he keeps dominating them.
MATTHEW
WINKLER
Arts Editor
Makai Murray was finishing a piece in his Stoughton studio. The wall-sized work, an abstraction of three-dimensional shapes and color clipped to two pieces of plywood, would serve as a backdrop for an audiovisual installation in his planned show on Newbury Street that summer, his biggest show yet. He calmly stood above his creation with a placid expression as he mixed paint with the amplified words of Frank Ocean spilling from a nearby speaker. But three months later, the Newbury show had yet to materialize. Even then, Murray’s tranquility remained undisturbed; he hadn’t failed — it just wasn’t the right time for this dream. He turned toward his next creation with the same peaceful devotion.
A senior philosophy major, Murray has been a professional artist since he turned 18. He’s exhibited his work across Massachusetts and Rhode Island, scoring thousands of dollars in sales to private collectors. Yet he’s
self-taught, rejected by the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, and intrinsically driven to work daily on pieces and self-manage the business of his practice — all while finishing his degree at Tufts.
I first met Murray in October 2023 while covering the premiere of “The Highest Standard” at the GlobeDocs Film Festival. The documentary centers on three students enrolling in a gap year at Beacon Academy between middle and high school, a program that prepares lower-income minority students to apply to the most competitive private schools in the country. Not until the epilogue is it revealed that one of the three stars, a fun-loving conscientious kid named Makai, had committed to the Tufts.
While “The Highest Standard” never mentions Murray’s art, the film centers on the split identities of students who come from marginalized backgrounds at elite institutions. Over the course of multiple chats with Murray and his colleagues, it’s made clear that tension continues to inform Murray’s art.
“I live in two worlds and I live in both worlds very well,” Murray said. “That’s something that can’t be well explained to people who live in one world, and most of the people in this country live in one world and they have no exposure to the other. I feel like my art serves as a vehicle for people to get some level of mobility between the worlds.”
Navigating “two worlds” has been core to Murray’s identity since his enrollment at Beacon at 14. In addition to rigorous academics, Beacon prepared Murray for the future worlds of whiteness and privilege he would be entering at St. George’s School for high school and Tufts for college. Reflecting on this time, Murray asked, “How much different would my life have been had I not gone skiing or taken that [etiquette] class that teaches me about the seven different forks that are supposed to be on the table?”
An obsessive dedication continues to inform his creation of art. Repeatedly, across interviews separated by months, Murray emphasized his daily habit of working from “10 to 2, 10 to 2, 10 to 3, 10 to 5” ahead of a show, meaning 10 p.m. to the early morning, the hours most available to a student with a full course load. Yet no matter how hard he works, there’s still something unspeakably foreign about these elite institutions. He may have worked tirelessly on a regimented schedule to become senior prefect at St. George’s, but he’s still socially an “other.” On the weekends when his classmates vacationed in the Bahamas, he stayed on campus. On holidays when they sojourned abroad, he returned to his home in Brockton, Mass.
Isara Krieger, director of “The Highest Standard,” spoke about the split identities and challenges Murray faces in these predominantly white and upper-class spaces.
“Makai said something to me [about going] to an event and starting to be more aware of how uncomfortable he felt,” Krieger said. “He was one of three Black people in a room full of
pictured.
white people. He had the same accolades as everyone there and every reason to be a part of the event, but he felt so uncomfortable. He had worked so much harder to get into that room than everyone else there. … I wished he had said that in the film. That is exactly what I wanted to show.”
One of the primary institutions Murray has struggled against happens to be the SMFA. Even after earning a large commission for a piece sold to a Newport mansion resident, his transfer application was rejected, likely because he refused to play the admissions game.
“I had to submit a portfolio but I don’t take pictures of my art,” Murray said. “So I threw together a little video that basically says … I’ve hit certain amounts of success in my art and I just don’t have a portfolio because I don’t take pictures of my art.”
When it comes to his art, Murray refuses to compromise, even if it means gaining status. Just as he wouldn’t photograph his art for the SMFA, Murray withholds from gloating about his commissions. Throughout our conversations, Murray showed a consistent discomfort towards my proddings of the specifics of the business side of his art. He remained vague when describing who purchased his pieces and where they were housed. Exorbitant prices were only mentioned when trying to make a point about changing the affordability of the art world.
When speaking about “The Unframed 500,” an ambitious project from 2023 that aimed to produce 500 pieces arranged in a grid and sold individually, Murray paired high-priced pieces with affordable ones. “Those panels I had for sale at a gallery in Rhode Island for over $10,000, but they’re in the same series as $10 pieces,” Murray said. “It’s important for me to have series of works that encapsulate all the demographics of people and enable it to be beneficial [to] all those
people purchasing those pieces.” He emphasized that the high-ticket pieces upped the valuation of the lower-price ones. Selling the $10,000 piece adds value to his name, boosting the $10 piece and benefitting the purchaser.
Inherent in this perspective on selling art, which Murray defines as being “by [his] own rules,” is also his generosity. When I was observing Murray in his studio in the spring of 2023, he showed me all his currently unsold pieces held in storage. After I expressed interest in one, he told me to take it for free. I refused, not feeling comfortable not paying for the work, which greatly upset him. Months later, when I was sitting in his car for another interview, I asked about a covered artwork in
“I think the idea of galleries for profit is flawed. I think the idea of success being directly correlated to finances in the art space is flawed. And I think that I can chase success in the art space, by way of money, because that’s how it is while also trying to combat that,” Murray reflected. “I’m not just making pieces so that I can make money. I want to make sure that my relationship with art in the way I have it now stays consistent.”
He further explained his relationship with art. “I try to use my work as a reflection of where I am currently,” Murray said. “Not even so much in an emotional capacity, but in a philosophical capacity.”
This approach doesn’t prevent Murray from dreaming big; it merely divorces the anxiety of
his backseat. He told me he had just sold the work and needed to transport it to a gallery, and when he removed the cover, the piece was the same one he nonchalantly tried to give me in the spring. He refused to comment on how much the piece sold for.
Even with his own financial success, Murray remains skeptical of art world economics. Throughout our conversation, he mulls over questions of mixing creativity with work.
expectation from his creative process. Now he can reframe what would seem like failures — rejection from the SMFA, the canceling of his Newbury Street show — as new paths on his creative journey as an artist.
Approaching the end of his time at Tufts, Murray continues to grow. He recently listed his works on Artsy, an exclusive online marketplace for artists with collector demand. Prices, of course, are only available upon request. Two have already sold.
CARYS YANG / THE TUFTS DAILY
11/07/2024 - Medford, MA - Makai Murray is pictured.
Summer Stressors
Finding an internship should be easy, right? Students take us along the messy, uncomfortable process.
ELLA SANDERS Deputy Features Editor
In just three years at Tufts, I’ve probably changed my career path at least five times.
I arrived in Medford with aspirations to combat climate change through policy, before discovering innovations in the biotech and pharmaceutical industries. I’ve even tacked on an economics major. That’s the beauty of attending a liberal arts college: I can explore and experiment with multiple professional curiosities.
Sophomore Connie Li agrees. “When you come to college, you see so many opportunities; you see so many potentials of yourself,” she said. Li is looking to work in investment banking, a field she first stumbled upon by attending a Tufts Investment Banking Club meeting during her freshman year. “Talking to so many people from different
industries, not just finance, really helped me a lot [in] knowing what I want.”
At some point, we must all make a decision. For many, that comes in the summertime, when students chase after internships to get a better taste of who they want to become. But before they get there, they must traverse a highly competitive application process, filled with the social pressure to secure a position and the subsequent aggravations when none arise. Simply put, the internship search process is messy at best.
Donna Esposito, director of the Tufts Career Center, recommended that students get involved early and stay engaged to best leverage their services. Along with several Career Center staff, Esposito wrote to me about the breadth of their programs and resources, which aim to reflect a diverse student body. They run panels and information sessions
while also building out The Herd, an extensive networking platform of over 7,000 alumni.
Esposito explained the center’s approach to keeping up with the dynamic job market. “We engage in regular conversation with employer partners, peer universities, and our professional associations and networks about the career competencies that employers require,” she wrote. “In turn, we help students develop sought-after competencies through individual advising, career programs, and more.”
Students I spoke to were split on just how effective the Career Center’s offerings were. Sophomore Aahan Mehra found the semesterly career fair to be particularly helpful in connecting him with Fidelity Investments, where he worked as a data science intern in cybersecurity. While at the event, Mehra networked with a Fidelity recruiter who told him to apply online and reach out to her afterward. After a summer at Fidelity, Mehra said he received a return offer for this summer but was not sure he would take it. “I’ve started applying to some other places … [because] I’m interested in data science,” Mehra said. He thinks so, at least, “for the most part.”
“Simply put, the internship search process is messy at best.”
But for many, like junior Yashica Nagpal, one’s own internal networks are far better leveraged. Nagpal will have completed an impressive six internships, spanning corporate finance to private equity, by the time she graduates college. She found two of those internships through current
GRAPHIC BY JAYLIN CHO
Tufts students who connected Nagpal with their managers. She got her position at NextEra Energy after a Tufts alumnus vouched for her. Like Mehra, she received a return offer, but chose to explore other career areas. She told me she’s pursuing investment banking (for which she has yet another internship), but still values her previous job experiences. “Even though pursuing an internship and doing it takes time, that is an effort I’m willing to make if I can be more curated in my decision at the end.”
The real wave of application frenzy starts at the beginning of the fall semester. This marks a turning point for many returning students — the time of year where we reflect on our past summer’s work experiences and contemplate: Is this really what I want to do for the rest of my life?
For most, the response typically involves spending hours perusing job boards like Handshake and LinkedIn to find either a similar position or the complete opposite, all in anticipation of another chance to “figure it out.” While working as a summer intern at Johnson & Johnson Innovative Medicine this past summer, I realized that I wanted to pivot from a laboratory-focused position to a more business-oriented area, which pointed me towards roles in life science consulting and sales. Sophomore Terry Zhu says he’s passionate about teaching, having taught at a boarding school last summer. But, wanting a “better place” post-graduation to make money and develop his career, Zhu said he’s looking for sales, marketing and government internships. “It’s very hard to juggle around and actually decide to choose money or passion,” he says. “It’s something that I haven't figured out yet.”
Sophomore Elizabeth Chin spent the summer working for a sports medicine clinic she herself had attended for past injuries. “I was really looking for a clinical
experience or a clinical internship, and for pre-med it technically should be done in a hospital setting,” she said. “[But] I thought maybe I would want to explore physical therapy.”
During her time there, Chin realized her interests lie elsewhere. “Even though it wasn't in a hospital, the clinical experience I got working one-on-one with the patient, getting to know them, getting to interact with them and seeing how that relationship works, made me want to pursue medicine even more,” she said. Medical school is her ultimate goal, and this summer she plans to pursue volunteer opportunities and potentially work on an ambulance as an EMT.
“Tufts isn’t exactly pre-professional, so internships may be the best opportunity for students to grow their professional repertoire.”
Many dream of the perfect internship that leads them directly down the right path. But experiences like Chin’s play an integral role in experimenting with and eliminating the “what if” factor when deciding what to pursue. That’s especially true for first-years, who often seek out experiences outside of the conventional internship, lacking the competitive edge over an upperclassmen applicant pool. “At the end of freshman year, it can be kind of hard to find a job because you don’t really have technical skills,” sophomore Emerson Wang said. Wang worked as an instructor for iD Tech, a company that hosts summer camps for kids who are interested in video games
and technology. While Wang enjoyed his experience, he is currently looking at internships for this coming summer where he can more thoroughly use his computer science background.
When that seemingly perfect position doesn’t pan out, there’s still so much to learn. Tufts isn’t exactly pre-professional, so internships may be the best opportunity for students to grow their professional repertoire. At J&J, I was able to learn how to best communicate complex data to a general audience, going from almost no knowledge of cell therapy to presenting on it at the intern symposium. That’s a skill cultivated only through living the experience, but is transferable to any team and client-facing role.
While physical therapy may not have been the perfect fit for Chin, she agreed that on-the-job experience was invaluable. “In the beginning I didn’t know how to exactly talk to [the patient], or ask them how their day was and build those connections,” she said. “Over the course of the summer, I got better at being a friendly face that they could see when they were going through treatment.”
Then there’s the elusive concept of “networking”— those all-important chats that can be crucial for mentorship and securing a future job. At Nagpal’s NextEra Energy gig, she specifically made it a point to set weekly coffee chats with current employees. And there’s an opportunity to expand within the firm itself. “It’s really helpful to see what kind of business group you’d be interested in and be transparent about that with your manager and network with them,” she said.
As fall turns to winter, hundreds of Tufts students descend upon the job boards and career fairs looking for their dream internship. The process starts yet again — it’ll be messy, there’ll be missteps and they’ll probably grow weary. But take these students’ word for it: it’s worth it.
When Did Pants Get So Big?
Unpacking the pant width inflation, from rejection of millennial culture to Gen Z’s thrifting obsession.
SHANNON MURPHY Arts Editor
Take a stroll along Professors Row and see what people are wearing. You might see Doc Martens, you’ll probably see oversized sweaters, but you’ll almost certainly see long, cuffed wide-leg pants. Gone are the days when pants were meant to cling to your calves. When it comes to jeans, the Jumbos are going jumbo.
While elephant-sized pants were considered laughable in the preceding decades, the 2020s view them as stylish. Some hypothesize an adverse reaction to slim-fitting “millennial” skinny jeans. And, as each generation does, Gen Z has stuck out their tongue at the favorites of their predecessors. Sophomore Morgan Rozansky watched this generational shift happen online.
“The memeification of skinny jeans that happened because we hate millennials so much definitely contributed to why people wear baggy jeans,” Rozansky said. “But also, Y2K fashion, early 2000’s and late 90’s fashion [is] coming back around. … Those were really popular in that time: low rise jeans, flare jeans, baggy pants.”
But wider pants may also have a utilitarian function. Rozansky considers baggier pants to be much more comfortable and less restrictive than skin-tight jeans, while still offering an outlet to feel confident and attractive.
“Specifically for women, a lot of times it’s more comfortable to have one tight piece of clothing and one loose piece of clothing. Like how before it was a baggy shirt and tight shorts in the VSCO-girl era,” she said. “It’s
shifted to a tighter top and baggy pants, so you can still feel com fortable in your femininity, and that’s how a lot of people express that while also feeling comfortable mobility-wise.”
This trend’s growth might be self-fulfilling. We all want to fit in: The more students you see wear ing wide-leg jeans, the more you’ll want to buy your own.
“The tightest pants I see [around campus] are like straight-leg jeans. I feel like I never see traditional skinny jeans,” she said. “Having a smaller campus tends to breed that. … If you notice that other people around you are wearing something, I feel like you’re more apt to try to adapt to that style, whereas at a bigger school, there’s more of a sense of anonymity.”
Gen Z has also embraced thrifting, aiming to cut costs and reject fast fashion’s environmental degradation. SMFA junior Teddy Hwang credits the big pants trend in Boston to the popularity among college students of purchasing second-hand clothes.
“I thrift a lot, and I find that it’s easier to buy way [too] big pants and wear a belt,” Hwang said. “That way I don’t have to worry about it being too small. You can never have pants too big, but you can always have pants that are too small.”
Of course, our fashion choices come down to what we think looks good . Whether there’s a generational rejection of millennial culture or a growing acceptance of thrifting, every young person must individually choose what they wear. Senior Owen Thomas kept his reasoning for big pants brief: “I thought they looked cooler.”
“When
theJumbos
Photos by
CARYS YANG
Staff Photographer
