Umbrella Terms, Issue #1, Identity by Umbrella Terms Magazine

letter from the editors

Dear Readers,

our beginnings Founded on February 18th, 2014 at the USC Ground Zero Performance Cafe with the best of intentions by Chelsee Bergen and Erika Hang. Based in Los Angeles, CA and created as a means for expression of our angst and outlet for discussion on being a 20-something in the digital age. We welcome you into our take on modern life with a collection of essays, stories, art, and digital media.

founders

Chelsee Bergen, Editor-in-Chief, Content Erika Hang, Editor-in-Chief, Design

contributors

Brittney Abad Kelseigh Coombs MD Timothy Heidorn Joey Hines Ena Nielsen Katie Phan Monica Ramsy

cover design by

Ethelind Vu

fueled & powered by

Creativity Adobe inDesign CC Dedication Feminists With a Litttle Help From Our Friends

This being our first issue, we wanted to tell you what we’re all about. What is umbrella terms? “An umbrella term, or a hypernym, is a word or phrase used to generally, rather than specifically, describe a group of varying but identifiably related subjects.” Great. Now what does that mean in terms of our magazine? We encounter a lot of talk about modern life — the modern woman, the modern man, modern social anxieties and neuroses. But who are we? What is it to be modern? We, the creators of Umbrella Terms, want to explore life in this moment. More than that, we seek to define and re-define the terms of modern life. Nothing is sacred, everything is subject to inquiry. While our content exists in a digital space, we aim to spark face to face conversation and make tangible impact.

What are the totems of the 21st century?

2 How can we conscientiously use technology for growth rather than stasis? 3 Are there transcendent truths of modernity? 4 What are the narratives about people and life today? In what ways do they help and hurt us?

These are some of the questions we want to pose, but they are only the beginning. We intend to approach these inquiries with the fervor of a wine enthusiast with an empty stomach, the critical eye of a scorned ex-girlfriend, the creativity of Manhattan based performance artists, and the doggedness of door to door salesman. For this first issue, it’s only fitting that we tackle the theme of identity. For those in the Los Angeles area, we’re hosting a launch party for the magazine on Friday May 2nd, 2014 - please check out the website for more information! Enjoy, C&E

tabl f content

page 6-9 Meet Our Contributors page 10-11 Introduction page 12-13 PRETENSE, an essay by Brittney Abad page 14-15 I AM, a poem by Monica Ramsy

page 32-33 IDENTITY COLLAGE, by Erika Hang page 34-43

LETTERS FOR ELSEWHERE, a project by Chelsee Bergen Contributions by Kelseigh Coombs, Erika Hang, Timothy Heidorn & Joey Hines.

page 44-45

SOMETHING ETERNAL: ON STORYTELLING & IDENTITY, an essay by Katie Phan

page 16-17 page 46-51 A THREE WORD PROBLEM, an essay by Ena Nielsen page 18-21 ON BEING AN ARTIST, an essay by Joey Hines PAGE 22-23 AN INTERVIEW WITH REBECCA KLING PAGE 24-25 UNPLUG LA, by Chelsee Bergen and Erika Hang page 26-29 INTERNET SLUT, an essay by M.D. page 30-31 PERSONAL SPACES, a poem by Chelsee Bergen

LAST FOREVER, a poem by Joey Hines

page 52-53

THE ANXIETY ATTACK: SOCIAL MEDIA & PERSONAL CURATION, an essay by Chelsee Bergen

page 54-55

RECOMMENDED READING

page 56-57

PEOPLE DOING AWESOME THINGS

PAGE 58-59

CONTRIBUTOR’S GUIDE TO ISSUE#2: From Beginning to End

table of contents

Meet the Contributors These are the brilliant and talented writers, artists, designers and creative individuals that brought this first issue to reality. We asked each of them to write a bio about themselves.

erika hang, a recent graduate from USC with a B.A. in

Communication and minor in Digital Studies, somehow landed a temporary gig at USC as a Digital Lab Supervisor and Media Assistant. She aspires to do something in digital media and that’s all she has really figured out. When she’s not ordering around work study students (not really), she can be found exploring Los Angeles. She once was a college radio DJ for a show called ‘The Hang Out.” In her ideal world, she is a bartender, lives in New York, and gets paid to do things like Umbrella Terms - but hey, maybe some day. You can find out more about her at erikahang.com

chelsee bergen, lives and writes in Los Angeles,

where she sleeps in the sun as much as possible. She has a deep (and admittedly irrational) fear that she will one day be replaced by a cyborg or some alternate version of herself (Chelsea) and no one will notice. Chelsee has a superiority complex, and an inferiority complex about it. Her writing can be found at chelseebergen.tumblr.com

m.d. is a college student studying journalism and

gender studies in Southern California. She’s a born and raised southerner and will always be bitter she never picked up the Southern twang to prove it. When she pierced her nose, her parents didn’t care... So that was pretty cool.

ena nielsen is a current student at USC. She’s

majoring in history, and before you can ask what kind of jobs you can get with that, she’s also an aspiring pediatrician. Outside of school, Ena runs triathlons, bakes bread for friends, and reads an alarming amount of science-fiction.

joey hines is a traveling songwriter who

recently graduated with a BFA in Acting from the University of Oklahoma. He is one-third of the creative team behind The Adventures of Amphibiman and Banana Boy, an ongoing internet audio drama. During the day he tells stories to children at the public library, and by night he can be found strumming his guitar in a Las Vegas coffee bar. When no one wants to hang out and jam with him, he likes to run, read graphic novels, and work on his hopefully never-ending autobiography.

brittney abad is an English-Writing major and women and gender studies minor at Gonzaga University.

meet the contributors

timothy heidorn is a senior Theatre major

monica ramsy recently became mama to a kitten,

Cici, who she hopes will grow in the arms of a thousand feminist mamas nurturing her. Favorite Sport is swimming to do, gymnastics to watch. Ultimate dream job: being a water bender. Favorite videogames: Animal Crossing, Harvest moon series, Paper Mario Series, Final Fantasy X. Musical theatre is her jam. Two things she would really like to learn: how to emote through dance, and how to knit. Other extracurriculars include: Outings Director of YEP, Vice President of Coptic Club, Event Coordinator of SoCal Lazarex, writer for Naked Narratives collective. Favorite Fruits: plums, mangos and kumquats (which she has only had 2x now)

from Las Vegas, NV. When he’s not contributing to Umbrella Terms, he enjoys keeping up with the Kardashians and vicariously living through toddlers in tiaras. He once starred as a contestant on The Price is Right, but unfortunately went home empty-handed. While he may not be the best on game shows, he has found great luck in the USC School of Dramatic Arts, where he has starrted as non-speaking servant #2 and a butler more than once. He hopes to one day star opposite Betty White in a romantic comedy, but better get to it soon because he isn’t getting any younger.

ethelind vu is an aspiring graphic designer living

kelseigh coombs lives in the city of Los

Angeles and is a soon-to-be USC graduate. She writes things like radio dramas and short stories and acts sometimes, but mostly she eats too many Starbucks sandwiches - which are expensive and not very good because she doesn’t have enough control over her life to go grocery shopping. You can find her work at kelseighcoombs.tumblr.com, although she doesn’t promise there will actually be anything there when you look. She doesn’t count on you looking.

in San Francisco. She spends a shitload of time figuring out how to get rid of the “aspiring” part. When she’s not slaving away on her macbook, you can find her at a local venue grooving terribly to some poppin’ tunes or in line at Bi-Rite for ice cream. She also does a lot of walking around the city, partly because she likes it but mostly because she forgot to reload her clipper card.

katie phan and her little black heart can be found in the beautiful S.F. Bay Area. Follow her @katiehphan.

meet the contributors

For what it’s worth: it’s never too How much of my brain is willfully my own? late to be whoever you want to How much is not a rubber stamp of what I How much is not a rubber stamp of what I have have read and andand lived? be. I hope you live a life you’re readheard and heard lived? Sure, I make a sort of synthesis of what I come proud of, and if you find that across, but that is all that differentiates me from another person? you’re not, I hope you have the - SLYVIA PLATH Before I am your daughter, your sister, strength to start all over again. your aunt, niece, or cousin,

“

”

I am my own person, and I will not set fire to myself to keep you warm.

That ain't me, that ain't my face. It wasn't even me when I was trying to be that face. I wasn't even really me them; I was just being the way I looked, the way people wanted. ―- Ken Kesey, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

“

the following pages are our perspective on identity

Sometimes people think they know you. They know a few facts about you, and they piece you together in a way that makes sense to them. And if you don’t know yourself very well, you might even believe that they are right. But the truth is, that isn’t you. That isn’t you at all.

”

- Leila Sales, This Song Will Save Your Life

- F. Scott Fizgerald

We have to really educate ourselves in a way about who we are, what our real identity is. - Deepak Chopra

Everything changes when you start to emit your own frequency rather than absorbing the frequencies around you, when you start imprinting your intent theto universe rather receiving an Everything changes when youon start emit your ownthan frequency from existence rather imprint than absorbing the frequencies around you,start when Everything changes whenMarciniak you to you emitstart your own frequency Barbara imprinting your intent on the universe rather receivingaround an you, when you start rather than absorbing the than frequencies imprint from existence imprinting your intent on the universe rather than receiving an imprint from existence

Nothing of me is original. I am the combined effort of everyone I’ve ever known. - Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible introduction Monsters

pretense By: b r i t t n e y a b a d

My mom is Hawaiian. My dad is Filipino.

Together, they made me, a Hawaiian Filipino woman. Together, they graced me with straight, black hair; almond-shaped brown eyes; and copper skin. Together, they decided that I would be born on Oahu, but I would not be raised there. My distinct ‘island girl’ characteristics would be transferred to the ‘mainland’ where I would stick out like an exotic hibiscus amongst a garden of roses. My hair, eyes, skin color would help me classify myself as Asian, a collapsed demographic that would allow people to

Four years later, in my senior year of high school, my English teacher would assign the Soundtrack to my Life senior project, a compilation of songs that reflected who I was and original stories that would accompany them. A week after turning it in, on a half sheet of paper, my teacher would write that he was disappointed I left so much of my home out of the collection of stories. ‘I talked about Las Vegas,’ I would say to him. ‘But what about Hawaii,’ he asked back. Subconsciously, I had not included anything about Hawaii in my project- no Hawaiian music was included, there were no allusions to the Hawaiian culture, no mention that I had been born there. Hawaii became an afterthought. The next year, I would participate in a pre-orientation program before starting my freshman year in college, BRIDGE, which helped students (of color) transition into a new environment (predominantly white). We all sat in a circle stating important markers that would help a stranger understand who we were. Person after person described his or her name, place of birth, and a time that he or she experienced being the other. “Hi, my name is Brittney Abad. I’m from Las Vegas. I’m the only girl in a family of six children.” Their eyes would look at me with a mixture of awe and disgust. I had not been the victim of racism.

effortlessly categorize me.

Do you know you’re brown? Do you know that they’re

These mainland people would not understand the nuances of being Hawaiian Filipino, so

white? Why are you here if you refuse to acknowledge

I’d simplify it to them in terms they understood. I would tell them that Kawailani means “heavenly

your victimhood?

waters” to appease them when they asked me to say a word in Hawaiian. Purposefully, I would

My junior year of college, I excitedly registered

leave out the fact that Kawailani is my middle name and was the only word I could remember the

for a “Literature of Alaska and Hawaii” class. I would be

definition for. If they asked whether I danced hula or played ukulele or surfed, I would distract

one of the only students of color in a class of twenty.

them by singing the title track to Lilo and Stitch, “He Mele No Lilo,” and they would look at me in

After people found out I was born in Hawaii, I would be

bewilderment and recite to me, “Ohana means family and family means nobody gets left behind.”

called upon to act as the class expert. When there were

Soon, I, too, would not understand the nuances of being Hawaiian Filipino. Soon, I, too, would simplify myself. At the age of thirteen, I returned to Hawaii after being assimilated into a life that was different from my extended family, who knew nothing beyond the island. They would look at me with a mixture of awe and disgust. My diction was precise and well understood—haole. My clothes were well made and mirrored popular trends—haole. My silence would speak volumes when they talked about important issues concerning Hawaii’s history and annexation—haole. To them, I had sided with the oppressor. To them, I had become the enemy. At the age of thirteen, I

questions about the text, I would feel the attention of the class center on me—the girl born in Hawaii, but not raised there—the girl with the island looks and the Hawaiian middle name, but knew nothing of the history of the land. I would dread the three hours every Monday night I would spend in that class because I had to pretend that I was an expert of a culture that I knew nothing about. I was reminded every time I walked into that class that I was an impostor. I am reminded every day that I am an impostor.

took my last trip to Hawaii.

Pretense

I AM IA I AMB y : m o n i c a r a m s y M

I AM

I am the voice of America, Calling, singing, weeping For the home of my surrogate fathers

I am the Sphinx Bellowing the enigmas of my motherland With glinting eyes and maimed nose

My existence yesterday and today are separate entities, laundry on a clothesline, Fragments pieced together by a thread Swaying in the salty ocean breeze. My being of last minute differs from mine of this Or the next—I am a series of changing faces, morphing figures I am the mighty Proteus, I am the vagabond chameleon I am a priestess— The shards of my shattered, scintillating visages commune with the gods I marvel at photos Two years, two months, two days ago I am already a relic to myself, An obsolete presence Present, in the ever-morphing will be and has been

IamIamIamIamIam…

I Am Poem

a three word problem

By: e n a n i e l s e n dream. I give them my three-words, but not my life. And I wait for

your dreams, your fears. Condense this description. Make it com-

them to discover the fraud.

pact and travel size. Now shrink it even further–describe yourself in three words or less.

But this same fraud that feels so limiting in interviews has freed me to interact with communities outside my typical social groups. In

And I wait for them to discover the fraud.

It is an impossible task, one laid out innocuously by job applica-

the semi-anonymous world of the internet, my three words become

tions, school applications, interviewers, social media. They pretend

a sort of twisted freedom. I can choose words to obscure what I

like it’s an innocent request. But it’s not. It requires that I contort my

hate about myself or words that emphasize my dark side. I can

three-dimensional being into a two-dimensional row of black print.

choose words that connect me to new people in new ways, simply

It results in the deconstruction of my personality. In this age when

by obscuring our differences and emphasizing our similarities. Yes,

everyone digests information by the byte, my three words become

cyberspace interactions are typically shallow. But taken as a sup-

my identity.

plement to comprehensive, face-to-face relationships, such interactions can enhance the human experience. My generation has been

So I have to choose what parts of myself to expose. To medical

criticized as the “me me me generation,” but the internet has al-

schools I am quirky, ambitious, and adventurous. To employers I am

lowed us to democratize social and political opportunities as never

driven, organized, and loyal. My three-words allow me to become a

before. Across the world, citizens of the “me generation” have used

chameleon of sorts, camouflaging my identity to match surrounding

their three word identities and their cyberspace relationships to in-

expectations. It’s an uncomfortable disguise.

cite social and political revolutions. If chosen with care, the three word descriptions that constrict us can break our social constraints.

Admissions officers don’t understand the nuances of my quirky. They don’t tolerate my science-fiction addiction or my Monty Py-

This is the three word problem. The simultaneous compression of

thon voice. They aren’t exposed to my bad habit of correcting peo-

identity and expansion of anonymous social freedom. Describe

ple with random bits of knowledge. Employers hear me say driven,

yourself, but describe carefully. Cultivate a multi-dimensional

but weren’t there when I decided to go to graduate school in the

personality. Use these words to broaden your experiences, not box

third grade, and haven’t watched me chase the iterations of that

them in. Become more than the sum of your three words.

become more than the sum of

Describe yourself. Summarize your entire essence, all of your hopes,

your three words. 16

define yourself

ON BEING AN ARTIST

By: J O E Y H I N E S

th this his h is s is is the th th he artist ar ar rtist t at t work...art work. w work wor wo ork ork rk. rk. k. ... ..a .art .ar art a r rt t is s not no ot t war, war wa w ar, r r, , but bu bu ut t a creative creativ cr creati reati ati at ti tive ive instinct instinct insti ns n stinct tinct n t

identify myself primarily as an artist. This was an instant

tactics, or forms of ass-kissing they can to get cast (wooo), their reception

self-diagnosis. Since the beginning of my life, I haven’t been

becomes that much more a reflection of who they are as a person, and

able to stop making things up and telling people outlandish

they become insecure and defensive, for some unimaginable reason, mak-

stories. Some people think this makes me a liar. They don’t

ing them ten times less likely to be cast.

understand that when I text them and say, “I can’t make it to

This is more than a little bit fucked up!

your party, I’m sick again,” that is the Artist at Work.

My generation has more tools at its disposal than any other, ever. No

matter what kind of art career you want, your path is “easier” than it’s ever

Seriously though, I’m really creative. I like writing and playing my

guitar and drawing and interpretive dance. And I like acting. I like act-

been. Aspiring filmmaker? Put your work on Youtube and reach a wide

ing so much that I went to theatre school!

audience. Independent musician? You can build a home studio that makes

That made me not want to do art at all for a while.

you sound like a pro and sell your songs on Bandcamp. Writer? Start a

I don’t mean to misrepresent the University of Oklahoma. If you’re

blog! You can have a large, impressive-looking portfolio of work in no time.

gonna do the whole college thing, it’s a good place to go. I made great

These strategies have worked for some people; all it takes is one viral video

friends, and my professors were, for the most part, wonderful people.

and you’ll be internet-famous overnight. No one will ever forget you, just

But theatrical expression, holding the mirror up to nature, isn’t easy when

like no one’s forgotten that Fred kid who sped up his voice.

people are giving you cynical, often contradictory career advice the

whole way through. This isn’t an OU thing; my artsy fartsy friends from

couraging. If I want to feel like a terrible guitar player, all I have to do is

institutions around the country have provided me with similar feedback.

watch a random 12-year-old who can tap, sweep pick, and shred better

than I ever will, while drumming a sick beat on the body of his guitar. And

What happens is this: a school can only put up so many produc-

More often than not, though, this widespread power is actually dis-

tions a year. These productions have only so many roles to be filled.

he’s playing “My Heart Will Go On”! Or that guy with the ukulele who de-

Even in a school with a relatively small class size like mine, people don’t

stroys “While My Guitar Gently Weeps” – he must be a robot. Meanwhile,

get cast. Auditions become highly competitive and passive-aggressive –

those of us more modestly talented musicians can post all the material we

and occasionally aggressive-aggressive. To some extent, this is no one’s

want, and the internet will never notice. I’m still waiting for someone to

fault, and students everywhere who aren’t being cast should know it

catch onto the comedic genius of “Chuck the Duck” and spread it like wild-

doesn’t mean they are bad people, and that there are plenty of other

fire. Any day now.

opportunities out there. But when these students are being encouraged

to be cutthroat competitors and use whatever gimmicks, underhanded

roses, reflect a foundational error in the way our culture conceives of art,

These mindsets, present both in our society and in our sensitive neu-

on being an artist

one of the most basic human activities. I argue that art is not a war where only the “strongest” can win, but a creative instinct – creative here meaning the opposite of destructive. I simply cannot believe that competition is conducive to something that is so all-encompassing and deeply human.

People will disagree with me on that, and that is partially because admit-

ting that I’m not willing to get competitive makes me weak. Which is bullshit, of course. The strongest people I know are those who stand up for their friends and the ideals they believe in, even when such a stance may be uncool. I can’t admire anyone for being selfish and insisting that success can only be attained through the failures of others – which is what “competition” pretty much always means.

The Beat Coffeehouse, in Las Vegas where I now live, has a fantastic open

mic on Monday nights, run by a local organization called “Human Experience”. Largely poetry with a healthy proportion of stand-up comedy and acoustic music, the night serves no other purpose than be what it is; artists meeting regularly in a

know I’m not the only one. I urge you to get involved in something like Umbrella Terms Magazine, or if this isn’t your scene, an open mic night, a book club, a sports team, a wine-bottle-juggling troupe, whatever, something communal that makes you feel fulfilled and happy. Our lives are happening in what we do everyday, not in some far-off future or paralyzing past. We need less fame-chasing and financial panicking, and more people sharing things and communicating just for the sake of doing so. Overpopulation is nonsense; people are not the problem, they are the solution and our most valuable resource. And art will always be a form of peaceful resistance, a way of transforming our struggles into positive constructs, and of kindly saying “Fuck

You!” to all the hateful forces of the

world. Please join me in doing so.

room together to share their art. No one is trying to be famous (at least for those few hours) and everyone is listening to each other. It is a beautiful community that has been built here and is exactly what the world, and especially a big business-oriented city like this one, needs.

I have been dreading writing this essay, because I’ve been worried it would

sound stupid. It’s so silly; I’m writing this for my friends’ new magazine, which is staffed by and will be read by people who are probably biased toward me. I’m doing this not for requirement or pay, but just because I want to, and I think it’d be cool to create a dialogue with some of my peers. It’s a pretty low-stakes sit-

ART

will always be a form of

peaceful resistance

uation. And yet, because I am saying some things I really think, because I am revealing some of the musings of my soul, I’ve been very hesitant to do it.

I mean how fucked up is that??

I don’t want to feel that way anymore. And I don’t want you to either – I

on being an artist

an interview with

rebecca kling

By: c h e l s e e b e r g e n & E r i k a H a n g

Q: One of the things you mentioned at

your performance was being a possibility model as opposed to a role model, could you talk a little about that? What does it mean to be a possibility model?

borrow the phrase “possibility model” from Laverne because I want to steer away from saying there is any one way to be trans, but that my experience presents one possibility among an infinite galaxy of identities.

Identity can be a very amorphous A: This comes from Laverne Cox, who gave Q: things, do you think it’s important for people to the term some publicity on her interview with Katie Couric. From a transcript of that interview:

“I would never be so arrogant to think that someone should model their lives after me but the idea of possibility. The idea that I get to live my dreams out in public hopefully will show other folks that that is possible. And so I prefer the term possibility model to role model.”

be able to concretely identify themselves? As in, “I am ---”

A: Language is important. Our under-

standing of the language around our identity can help further shape that identity, and vice versa. As such, I think having language that captures lived experience is very important, because it is one way in which we can make sense of our experience and communicate that understanding to others. At the same time, I would never want that identity or that language to be imposed. So I don’t have a problem with people who feel that their identity is too nuanced or complicated to be captured in a single “I am...” statement, but I do want to expand language so that everyone who desires such an experience can have it.

I love that, because growing up as a trans youth there seemed to be all too few possibilities. Trans women were portrayed as sexualized and fetishized objects, not as true and whole people. As I grew older, I realized that being trans was a component of my identity, but not the entirety of who I am. To be clear, it’s a big component, but that’s because it feels right for me, not because I would claim any other trans person should have the same Is there any particular time(s) in your relationship with who they are. And so I life that you can recall specifically conceptu-

Rebecca kling is “a transgender artist & educator who explores gender and identity through solo pieces and educaitonal workshops.” Her visit to the USC campus gave us the opportunity to witness her work in person and see her humor, feel her passion, and witness her unique storytelling. Visit her website to see some of her work: rebeccakling.com

alizing your identity as being different from the people around you?

A: Yes and no. I think the trans

experience is not fundamentally different from the cis experience, in that we all want to feel comfortable in our bodies and secure in our sense of self. At the same time, I do think being trans can heighten many of those body and comfort issues everyone experiences. So, as I was hitting puberty, I definitely realized that my experience of my changing body was different than that of those around me, and different than the experience I was learning from puberty books or sex ed at school.

Q: Why did you decide to start No

Gender Left Behind? What made you decide this was the best way to get your message out? Have you seen an impact through the sharing of your stories?

A: I started blogging shortly after

beginning to transition. I came out to a close friend and she said, “You’re gonna want to write down your experiences so you can look back on them.” I quickly realized that blogging (and, more broadly,

sharing my writing) was both important to me as a way to keep track of thoughts/ experiences, and as a way to engage with others. I’ve been surprised and delighted at how sharing my work, both on and offline, has allowed me to engage with a community of trans folks and cis allies around the country and around the world. I decided to put some of those writings together into the book No Gender Left Behind as I wanted a way to provide a static shot of a moment in time. I don’t view NGLB as a final version of anything, but it does serve as a way to capture a period in my life.

Q: Your work challenges a lot of

traditional narratives about gender, in your best of all possible worlds how do you see the gender binary changing?

A: I want gender experience and

expression to be optional. As someone who does identify as relatively binary female, and expresses her gender in a way that aligns with societies expectations of feminine, I don’t want to say “NO! No one can live at either end of the gender binary!” At the same time, I don’t want to impose or force that binary on anyone.

rebecca kling

unplug LA By: c h e l s e e b e r g e n & E r i k a H a n g

ERIKA

CHELSEE I first heard of Digital Detox and Camp I can honestly say that no two hours in Grounded from this little tucked away area at the my recent life have passed as quickly as our Outside Lands Music Festival this past summer. time spent at Unplug. When we started talking Somehow, we wandered into an area with typeabout leaving—after playing on typewriters, writers, tea communal areas, face painting, polawalking in on a band, taking a photo in an roid cameras, and most importantly no cell phones. analog Photo Booth, listening to kickass Cello During the chaotic running around of trying to see Joe while going crazy with body paints, and one music act from the next, we stopped to take eating mini-churros— I thought we can’t go, we part in this hippy-like experience that felt intimate drove 40 minutes and we just got here! I know and personal. A large part of music festivals seem to it sounds cliche and antiquated, but the time have become more about capturing the experience “digitally” and bragging about it via social media, but went so much faster while we weren’t checking the clock on our phones every 10 minutes. It, of here was this little nook that no one outside of my course, helped that there was lots to do. Beyond friend group currently with me would experience. No one else would be notified that at this moment, I the aforementioned activities there were also various crafts, musical acts, and board games was digitally detoxing. going on (a sign told me that there was pet rock When Chelsee told me that Digital Detox and Camp Grounded (as well as Reboot) were making, but we unfortunately never discovered putting on an ‘UnPlug LA’ event in Venice, I immesuch a thing). diately knew I wanted to go for fun as well as for Technically, we broke the rules because the magazine. As someone heavily involved in the there was supposed to be no work talk— but digital media field, I’ve come to see the expansion how could we not talk about this awesome of all things digital and it’s made me think about event so clearly meant to be featured in our these digital online identities that I’ve curated. Have awesome magazine? Not to get cheesy on you, I lost the ability to be in the moment? Do I need to but it was seriously inspiring. Here we were in Instagram every moment of my life? (Guilty!) Have Venice, in a room full of strangers wearing weird I replaced physical connection for a cool digital name tags, and everything just felt so fun! I online persona? I hope not - I think that both this didn’t get super chatty with anyone (though a event and in the process of creating this magazine, stranger did paint a massive vine all down my I’ve realized even more the need to be present in arm), but people were laughing and smiling the now. and collectively trying to figure out how best to handle finicky typewriters so it all seemed very… communal. We were all having an experience.

unplug LA

internet slut

By: m . D.

he first time I posted a picture of myself in my underwear to the Internet, I was sixteen. New to the Tumblr community, I was desperate to build a popular following perhaps in an attempt to combat the aching

loneliness I felt when I wasn’t behind the glowing screen of my laptop. Missing from my life, I felt, were approval and fulfilling interaction with people my age. So I turned to the Internet.

When I first joined Tumblr, I sought to exercise my creative side by acting as

a curator of fashion and art that I found beautiful. I found fulfillment in the visual stimulation I came across on the site, but couldn’t seem to build a following. So I took a picture of myself in my underwear, tagged it appropriatvely, and uploaded it. Shortly after, the notes started building up, the followers started following, and I started building a severely skewed sense of self-worth.

The correlation didn’t take me long to figure out. The fewer clothes I had on,

the more notes I got, the more followers I attracted, and the more conversations I had. It took longer, however, for me to figure out that all of these things also lowered my perception of my own self-worth, and that the lightning-flash fulfillment of Internet attention invariably gave way to the vacuum-like darkness of constant sexual subjugation. I was sixteen and had only kissed one boy, but on Tumblr I had hundreds, approaching thousands, of admirers and no shortage of male attention. The differences between my real life and my Internet life were irreconcilable, and despite how horrible it felt to know the people I interacted with found worth only in my body, I grew addicted to the attention and began to bury myself deeper still into the Internet.

“My two identities were not mutually exclusive.” 26

Outside of my pixelated community, my love life was nonexistent to the point

where my friends called me “the nun.” I wanted desperately to tell them I could be sexy and that I knew more about my own sexuality than they thought. But I knew that telling them about my online sexcapades would inevitably be the end to my

internet slut

anonymity, and so maybe then it was that that I appreciated most about Tumblr; there, I could construct myself in any way I wanted and post whatever I wanted to while at the same time distancing who I felt I really was from the character I played online.

As it turns out, however, my two identities were not mutually exclusive. I couldn’t

leave my newfound sexuality in the digital world and develop a “real” one in human-to-human contact that was independent of my Internet experiences. The lines never have been, and never could be, distinct, and the consequences of the intense scrutiny my sexuality was subjugated to online have bubbled up in when I’m with men in the flesh. I need constant reassurance that I am worthy of attention and affection; each compliment lights me up in an eerily similar fashion to the way likes and reblogs illuminated the screen of my laptop.

I graduated from high school pretty much as inexperienced as when I started.

Sometime in the fall of my senior year, I stopped posting purposefully “sexy” photos on the Internet. The anonymous messages flooding into my Tumblr inbox made me feel unsafe and dirty as a side effect of my photos. People offered me money for time on Skype, asked how I liked to touch myself and if I would post a picture in the act, if I liked to be dominated in bed, and, over and over, whether or not I had a boyfriend. At this point, choosing to post photos or not no longer felt like my decision. I felt I had lost agency over my own sexuality.

The moment I decided to stop posting came about rather violently. In a moment

of clarity after close to a year of posting and one particularly obsessive close reading of an exceptionally explicit message, I sobbed for myself, devastated that after quite literally laying myself bare, I was still unable to be vulnerable enough to let others in. I had found the audience I thought I wanted, but I was still unquestionably and stingingly alone in both of my worlds.

The first time I had sex with someone, during my first semester at college, I gave

myself to a man as nothing but a body. The first night we were together, in a bed that smelled like cigarettes and his deodorant, I mentioned my Tumblr activities and he insisted that I show him my pictures. I did, feeling exposed by the glow of my cell phone and my nudes on its screen. From there it was clear that our relationship was not an emotionally healthy, loving one. I was available when and where he wanted me to be and ignored my own emotions when I was in bed with him. I needed so much more from him in order to feel safe and happy in our “relationship,” but all I knew about my sexuality was that I had a body that looked pretty good in black lace and thongs. And so that’s what I let myself be for the four months we were sleeping together. I was terrified that I wasn’t worthy beyond my body, so I tried desperately to at least pretend to be okay with our arrangement. Every day with him hurt, but I didn’t feel worthy of love beyond the cursory appreciation of my body. So I stayed and waited around until he left.

I joined Tumblr to fill a void I felt people in my physical world couldn’t. I sought

acceptance and validation, but the attention I received was a different beast entirely. The Internet let me be someone I thought I wanted to be, but that someone was a constant victim of unsolicited sexual approaches and lived in fear of being found out. In forming my sexuality online, I was destroying myself slowly in my real world. Today, intimacy is still hard for me to settle into, and sexual advances, even from people I am attracted to, are difficult for me to accept as genuine. I see an agenda in everything. I just hope that one day, I will be able to get in bed with a boy without showing him my selfies first. I am severing the technological umbilical cord that ties me to that sad girl on the Internet

who shed tears along with every article of clothing.

internet slut

personal space personal space

chelsee bergen

personal spaces personal spaces By: personal spaces

personal spaces

“My life basically revolves around my anxiety and depression right now,” I tell her. “Which isn’t a good place to start anything from.” It’s true, but also a short hand. It’s easier to say “I can’t because-” than simply that I can’t. That it’s not in me. I’m metaphysically unable. She asked me who I am. The first time I said, “someone trying to figure their shit out.” The second time I said, “that’s a good question.” The third, “I don’t know.” I realized a while ago that a lot of the things I thought to be true about myself weren’t true. Some because I had changed, some because I had never had the right idea at all. The thing is that in order to be something it means not being a lot of other things. But what if I want to be everything? And even if I accept the premise that to be someone I can only be somethings, how can I know what those things are except by saying “these are the things I am not”? That seems to be self in negative space. About absence more than presence. I want to be infinite. To be in every moment. I want my presence to fill every atom. I want the universe to have to grow to accommodate me. I want to push against every inch of everything and to feel it push back. Not on the spectrum but inside of it, breathing, exhaling. I want to be in the rain. I want to be a painter and the paint. I don’t want anyone to ever have to ask who I am, because they know. They feel me from a million miles away just like I feel them. Both beginning and ending but also doing neither, like waves on the ocean, constant I want to be equal parts tangible and intangible. I want to be the same and always changing. I want to be so intrinsically what I am that it feels like breathing, done without question. But I fold in on myself. I break myself down into fragments in an attempt to be a more manageable size. In an attempt to not be too much. To be less something, to leave room for more nothing.

personal spaces

lost

DES IGN ER

a social media identity

tions. I’m very awkward and love to bring

I’m incredibly indecisive. I can’t control my emo

adv en turer

I’m in love with the wrong people.

hum an bei ng 32

actions. I take everything personally even up this fact. I’m shy in overwhelming social inter

when it has nothing to do with me. I’m moody.

I’m easily confined to my own wo

i am me, i am she, i am her, i am a sum of everything. rld. I’m an overthinker. I’m easily put

down. I’m a downer. I have a shoppi

ng addiction. I let other people wa

lk all over me sometimes. I don’t spe

ak up when I should.

an “Artist”

identity collage

letters for elsewhere

p r o j e c t by: C h e l s e e b e r g e n

c o n t r i b u t i o n s by: j o e y h i n e s , e r i k a h a n g , kelseigh coombs, & timothy heidorn

Click on images to play videos.

In December of 2013 I put out a request for anonymous letters about what people are afraid of. I said it was part of a two part project, the letters could be in any format and in any style, and I would be accepting submissions until the end of January. I could not have anticipated the responses that would roll in— about love and death and bees and Rocky Road ice cream. These are those letters. So personal and relatable sometimes I feel like I wrote every single one of them. I knew that part two would involve creating visual representations/reimagining of the letters, but in all honesty no real idea how it would happen. But in the way that ideas sometimes do, it came together all on its own. I’m so pleased that Letters for Elsewhere could find a home in Umbrella Terms; I hope the project is as impactful to the people who submitted and to readers of the magazine as it has been to me.

I invite people into my life without question. O n c e I k n o w , I know completely and there’s not much that can make me change my mind. I don’t hold back and I don’t feel half way. But what if no one is buying what I’m selling? MORE AND MORE it feels like no one is really interested in what I have to offer and how do I know if the problem is me or them? Am I inviting the wrong people in, or am I expecting too much from them? Am I really just a walking wound, asking to be salted? I’m afraid no one will ever be as eager to have me in their life as

“I am afraid I have stopped recognizing when I should say no.”

I am to have them in mine.”

letters for elsewhere

letters for elsewhere continued

I’m afraid that I won’t reach my full potential in life.

l i fepaindeaththefuturebeesthedarkheights Alright let’s s l o w d o w n there and break it down a little. Life in a way is the most terrifying adventure there is. Other people on the way scare the ever-loving hell out of me. The idea that they might learn things about me that they shouldn’t know, and what they might do with that knowledge, is a waking nightmare.

That I’ll never b e th e

parent, c hi l d, fr i en d, spouse, p erson that I should or could b ecome.

That I won’t live out the purpose God has designed for my life. That I’ll never really

know, feel, accept, and give

true love, actual uncondi t ional love.

That my life will end and it won’t matter. That instead of a legacy of love and faith I will have left n o t h i n g .

Death, the end of the road of life, is a bit scary to all of us because no one knows what’s gonna happen after that. Personally I think nothing happens and that scares me even more sometimes. Bees are just fucking terrifying okay? So are heights. The dark is more a fear of the unknown, of what you can’t see. What you can’t see is often quite a bit more than you do and that’s scary. People suffer under the delusion that I am stoic, calm and collected individual. That’s mostly just a thin veneer hiding a mind that’s constantly abuzz with paranoia and anxiety, constantly worrying about things that are completely irrational. It kind of sucks. letters for elsewhere

letters for elsewhere continued

My mother and I just found out last week that she has about two years left to live.

“I’m afraid of what will happen if I try to run. I’m afraid I’ll lace up my sneakers with the intention of f l e e i n g f r e e a n d f a s t , but my lungs will fail me and I’ll be forced to a frustrating walk. I’m afraid I’m not as strong and capable as I imagine myself to be. I’m scared of letting go and trusting that whatever I am is enough. Enough to get me through my early twenties clothed, fed, and happy, but also enough to be really loved by someone else. I’m afraid that after some dull conversations about my family and a few nights in bed,

I am afraid of living without her.

there’s nothing left to figure out about me.

I am afraid of losing the person I love most.

I’m afraid I hold everyone back, and that I hold myself back even more.”

I am afraid that knowing this will keep her from living a happy life.

letters for elsewhere

letters for elsewhere continued

My body has a will of its own. I do everything in my power to keep it healthy, happy, and stress free. I work out and have a balanced diet. I tell it it’s beautifully and wonderfully made every day... but it does what it wants.

y earliest memories of being afraid have me at about two and a half. We each had our rooms and mine was the nursery (youngest gets to be in the nursery). I was convinced that the Big Bad Wolf would come and knock on my window. This is the cartoon Big Bad Wolf – floppy felt hat…the works. My mother would come in and assure me there was nothing there. She would check the wardrobe to add extra weight to the pronouncement. BUT, as I tried to explain (perhaps not well) that the wolf was outside the window trying to get in, not in the wardrobe. By concentrating, the memory is still quite strong. The feelings of fear, discomfort, concern are not harrowing as they used to be, but are nevertheless, there. In adult life, I understand peoples’ fear of actors dressed up in character disguises – especially clowns. Many clowns are presented as being of the “friendly variety” with an accompanying smile, and I am okay with that. But clearly, others are there to be more mischievous, and it is those clown faces that I find undesirable.

“Running out of Rocky Road Ice Cream ~ Keeps me up at night. Have to keep checking the freezer and tasting it to make sure it’s OK. 40

letters for elsewhere

letters for elsewhere continued

I fear many things.

Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m afraid of letting myself go. I know that I can do

great things but I consciously accidentally sabotage myself to prevent myself from doing what I am meant to do. there is uncertainty in

passions and that uncertainty scares the crap out of me so

I prolong w hat I must

eventually do.

Failure Success Change Static Bees Fear Itself Everyone discovering how awful a liar I am Abandonment Losing Love Finding Love and not knowing what to do with it

Bees Not having enough money Having too much money Never reaching my goals Accomplishing all my goals too early in life Death Uneventful life Bees The unknown The unchangeable known But mostly bees

letters for elsewhere

letters for elsewhere continued

Dear Late December, Ceci nâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;est pas une letter. Or I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want it to be at any rate. I am afraid of letters, and I am afraid they make me lose control. And what are letters if not aggregations of letters assembled together in some sort of cohesive discursive format. So letters are doubly perilous. I am afraid of confessing my liking for that girl and getting unrequited Sinatra songs in the bargain. I am afraid of writing glorious prose and have everyone reject it. I am afraid of the darkness that lets itself seep through the cracks everytime I write. I am afraid of being understood. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t write letters these days dear Late December. I just weave words with smoke from the cigarettes I have started to inhale. It is more transient that way. I am afraid of permanence too. I look forward to the end of a cold year. And I will write no letters when you turn to January. Sincerely, Me

letters for elsewhere

something eternal: “Are you ready? Because I want you to pay attention. This is the beginning of something.” I was face-to-face with this person who was talking, but not to me – at least, not directly to me. I was actually alone in a dark room, eyes fixed on the warm glow of the TV screen, and the person gazing at me – possibly looking right through me – was an adman named Freddie Rumsen. He was a TV character, pitching an idea for a watch commercial to another adwoman character. It was the beginning of something: this was the premiere of the final, seventh season of Mad Men. This was the beginning of the end. Just the night before, I was watching an episode from its third season. I’d successfully watched the entire series prior to a season premiere one time before, but trying to complete the series without binge-watching was impossible this second go; I made it half-way. But the timing of this particular third-season episode (“The Gypsy and the Hobo”) wrapped up my second attempt at revisiting the show perfectly: in it, the protagonist Don Draper divulges his past to his wife, Betty. By the episode’s end, another character asks a trick-or-treating Don, “And who are you supposed to be?” This was the question that drove Mad Men, a series about people trying to understand how they fit into the time and place they’d been born into. I had watched all of this before, and Don’s scene still moved me to tears. It was the moment the series had been building up to. How much had I invested into this story? Hundreds of hours watching and re-watching it. Hundreds of more hours spent dissecting it with friends and pursuing more information elsewhere. And hun-

dreds of more hours contemplating it by myself. Mad Men was not easy consumption and entertainment. I still don’t know if I’m prepared for the conclusion of a story whose characters I’ve become familiar with and rooted for these number of years. I wonder, “Will they come up floating?” I allowed its story, like all the other literature and media that came into my life, to teach, challenge, and engage me. I find that, on some level, there isn’t much distinction between experiences I’ve had and experiences I’ve heard. Often, these stories I encounter feel as vivid and valid as the ones in my tangible life. *** I know that, through stories, I’ve lived more lives than the expanse of space and time my human body will ever allow me to live. My body, your body, and all that is around us, are always in flux – fluid and fading, one day to be gone. I’ve acknowledged and moved past the gravity of the fact, but my thoughts frequently fall into contradiction and I believe there is a possibility for something eternal to exist in a universe that is anything but: that possibility lies in our stories. Much like the scientific findings that indicate our universe is one of tremendous other universes in our cosmos, stories humble us first with their size. How many stories are there? Enter a library, face a thousand volumes, pace through the stacks, grab and crack open a book, gauge its length, jump to the list of references, and discover a hundred more paths. And print is not the only measure: how many stories exist through music, radio, film, TV, and more recently, the internet? How many stories go untold?

The sheer size of stories is further compounded by their endurance. For instance, epics exceeded the decline of the Greco-Roman civilizations and the wizarding world of Harry Potter inspired and continues to inspire countless works of fanart and fanfiction – some addicting, others compelling, and most that are cringe-worthy, but all done with good, tributary intention. And consider the intimate ritual of viewing a movie in the theater or absorbing a show like Mad Men in your family room every week: the same narrative images flicker and thread into everyone’s minds, becoming – sometimes replacing – individual memories until transforming into a collective history that reveals shared emotions and values. Before or perhaps because our bodies grow old and dry up, we tacitly and/or explicitly hand these archetypes down to succeeding generations: this is your inheritance, we say, because in no way should time have any bearing on our memory. Identity is not only personal, but very universal. *** “Accutron: it’s not a time piece, it’s a conversation piece,” Freddie Rumsen concluded his pitch. Freddie was no longer talking about the watch – to me, he was talking about the show. In this deeply unfriendly world where some narratives force their ways to malign and numb when they should connect and excite, we realize our stories can converge and construct a more compassionate identity when we’re ready to listen, to pay attention. For every story that lasts as long as an hour of television or for infinity, we are less alone.

On Storytelling and identity by: k at i e p h a n

something eternal

LAST FOREVER

By: j o e y h i n e s

Thank you Dionysus for the instinct you allowed.

Was it our last kiss,

Her blood and mine

our last embrace,

is high alive

our last fuck,

though sometimes needs a little coaxing,

our last snuggle,

clever songs and bitter wine

our last forever?

before our cheeks shine red with pining. vi

I don't think it was pity that brought me to your knees, that unstrapped your folded wings and sent you flying back to me, spreading wildly with the fervor of an ancient hope believed, smiling widely for an evening. I got you to watch The Empire Strikes Back. I don't know why I thought that was important -except that the starscape is a reflection, and each burning c o n s t e l l a t i o n is an etching in the void of two lovers' combined shape as it appeared during their passions. We used to gaze at the stars from a staircase beneath a roof, in our goofy way of teasing each other and making a mockery of oblivion. But somehow I always knew that you and I were meant to join them, and we both got lost in the magic of myth: the history of love,

We sneak each other kisses and don’t let our gazes linger, as if we haven’t known every inch of each other

You’ve said before that now and then,

since before the world began,

in the heat of the moment,

as if there’s anything we could keep hidden in

at the height of physical bliss,

our bodies

you have an out-of-body experience,

with their corresponding tears

and you find yourself a girl again

where we were struck

a-journeyin’ through the American Frontier.

while we were young enough to walk

You chase the sun with a heart of gold

with arms hooked,

and your dreams on your face

noses in our books.

of a home

We shared a language

and a fortune

and we broke it

and a husband

and we smeared it on the wall

and children

and we laughed about it later

and all the other things a future can hold.

though it wasn’t funny at all.

But try as you might,

It was seeping through our skin,

spry though you may be,

like tangled roots of neighbor trees,

you can’t stop it from s i n k i n g

and every layer bears those memories,

anymore than you can stop your own weight

like shadow webs beneath the leaves.

from including the rapes of the Earth and its

Like that

women

I brought me to my knees,

by a hundred dirty outlaws and liars and thieves

and those took me to your thighs,

or figure out how you feel about the part of you

and your eyes met my eyes

that’s okay with relaxing into their hands.

as if it was the first time, io pe

we came together.

and as easy as life

the mystery of us.

My girl and I play a game of secrets.

last forever

To the disappointment of my generation, ge mi

I’m still rebelling against Jesse James.

hercules

But I’m just the same a slave; I am unquenchably Greek, and that night I saw you as a goddess birthed anew,

In our post-orgasmic splendor

ori on

an immortal I once knew but had been neglecting

I held you as hard as I could,

to pay tribute to.

and you fell asleep with a small smile on your

I was like Pan,

I can’t make love to you Olympically.

a goofy little goat-man

I can’t rock and roll

shamelessly strumming my lascivious lute,

and thrust you at that even rate,

tastlessly and gracelessly luring you to bed,

hit you in all your right spots,

inexplicably irresistible to you.

slowing at all the right moments, for hours on end. I have too short a fuse. (Maybe if you felt like working out more often…) Some people treat the beach like a joke. They are rotten actors.

And I told you

this is what you’re made for and you looked at me like I was crazy and said

…what? as if it had never crossed your mind. But I know

But if you want to see some real muscle, an impressive athletic feat, you should see me undressed, because my heart beats straight out of my chest, and it spills blood onto your skin, and it pleads you to take my love in, and let it course through your veins until you love You as much as I do. I wanted so badly to give you my disease, to make your heart beat eternal,

face. I stayed up to watch the sunrise. I basked in the dark’s decay, and I thought I heard Him laughing at the arrogance of day. Who could hold back all that sadness? But in my finer actions I have tried to be that way, and the truth is it’s been a very long time since I’ve admitted how much I l o v e y o u . I am ashamed of ever having hidden it. You keep coming back and I’ve realized you aren’t going away, and even when you go away you aren’t gone. I understand why this doesn’t thrill you – who could hold onto all that love? Ever since I spoke in my sleep and swore that I’d never leave, you knew you’d have to be the one to break.

so that we could run together along the infinite one-dimensional racetrack of Love, toward the wall of an expanding cosmos, Never Never Ever reaching a finish line.

last forever

Even if you could feel with perfect clarity every thought that works it way through me, you might never understand.

But you are the one who got it started.

We’ve made the same journey

You and I will always be

but not walked the same steps.

moving together in the dark.

After everything was over

You haven’t seen yourself from the same angles,

We will always be feeling,

with you and me,

and maybe there was something I missed,

filling and unfolding each other.

we came together,

a grimace on the passenger’s side of your smile.

We will always belong together

without shame,

But you taught me to love,

in our whispers of devotion,

without sadness,

wholly and undoubtedly,

in our frightening attraction

for the last time,

eternally and creatively.

and helpless, hopeful breaths.

for the first time,

You made it easy,

We will always be a legend

for ever and always

and now I overflow with it.

left hanging in the sky

and never again after that.

It’s pouring out of my pores

for young lovers to ridicule

and pounding hard that heart of mine.

and plan their futures by.

I don’t think it’s going to stop now --

We have always been married

you gave it too much to be excited about!

and sleeping in to cuddle

And I really must find a place to put all of this Love.

on a morning in May

If you won’t take it I suppose

and dying in each other’s arms.

there’s a world out there.

And you will always be

ursa

-maj

more beautiful than Aphrodite and wiser than Athena, but you wouldn’t believe it if the thunder itself declared so. pega

sus

Sometimes time is never time – in fact it’s almost always light -and you can always feel me burning if you catch the angle right.

last forever

the anxiety I attack By: c h e l s e e b e r g e n

s it possible to be a holistic and authentic self on the internet? I ask not as one of those alarmists that thinks the digital age is ruining ‘us’ or as someone who even believes in a single self, but as someone who leads a carefully curated digital life and is beginning to wonder what it is all for. I believe that people self edit. I believe that people are contradictory and complex. I believe that performativity is integrated into society and maybe more than that, maybe we’ve even been trying to keep up with the Joneses since the Paleolithic. Whether it’s learned or inherent I’m not qualiﬁed to say and I won’t hazard a guess. So I don’t believe that the internet has created or brought forth anything new in human interaction, it has only catalogued, and perhaps ampliﬁed, what already existed. But still I have to ask, can there be consistent and honest substance to the lives we lead on the internet? Or is it all surface?

social media & personal curation 54

As someone who remembers a time before the normalization of social media, but only barely, I am both the perfect and entirely wrong candidate to try and answer this question. I’ve been performing my identity digitally since I was 11 years old, with varying degrees

of awareness and self-reflexivity. I have grown up curating my self to maximize impact and attention, a reality which easily breeds passive aggression and a roller coaster of emotions. Of course, even the act of explaining such performativity is performative because it suggests a much greater deal of intentionality than actually exists. I have done things knowing that people will see them (sometimes people in general, sometimes people in specific), and sometimes I wanted those things to create an impression. If these words/photos/arrangements of information were not lies, does that make them true? I look back at this digital self sometimes— Facebook profile, twitter feed, Instagram photos. The girl, and the life, staring back at me are different every time. Sometimes I want to purge it all, to undo everything, sometimes I want to edit out the things I would rather not remember or be seen for. Ultimately, though, those specters have already been sent out into the world, and only so much can be done with retroactive curation. Are all of these digital selves facets of me, pieces of a large whole, or are they something else entirely? Is it possible that these profiles, these identities, have nothing to do with who I am in the real world at all? I don’t know, and I’m never really sure if I want to find out.

the anxiety attack

Click on the books to purchase them via Amazon.

a n I D E N T I T Y - R E L AT E D S U G G E ST I O N I’ve been a fan of Dave Eggers since ‘A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.’ Although, I hate to admit that I have yet to read ‘The Circle’, I feel it touches upon how identity will change with modern technology and gives a dystopian look at what will happen if we allow technology too much control over our lives. In this novel, the story follows Mae Holland, who begins working at ‘The Circle’ - an internet company that links all of your digital online identity onto one database including emails accounts, social media, banking, etc. Even more than present-day, this world is one embodied by transparency. But to what extent is this transparency good and what issues arise from a world lacking in the use of human memory or lacking in the ability to live a private life or the dynamics it will create for democracy and international relations? a n I D E N T I T Y - R E L AT E D S U G G E ST I O N Interestingly enough, I also stumbled upon this book that takes the same topic of ‘The Circle’ - but handles it in a more academic form. Eric Schmidt, Google Executive Chairman, and Jared Cohen, Director of Google Ideas, collaborated to create ‘The New Digital Age: Transforming Nations, Businesses, and Our Lives’ - a book about how the digital revolution will influence the future of the world from its impact on individuals to its impact on larger scale things such as revolution and terrorism. Schmidt and Cohen sought to understand what privacy and security issues will arise as more and more people become part of the online community - noting that in the next decade, 5 billion new people will join the Internet. From both an individual citizen’s perspective and a nation-state/business perspecitve, how will we deal with the ever-expanding and rapidly developing Internet that continues to create more access and less control? They offer interesting scenarios that paint both optimistic and pessimistic outcomes that stem from our ability as a society to educate the next generation of Internet users on navigating their online presence and how we as a society decide to harness the Internet’s transparency. 56

some REBECCA KLING SUGGESTIONs Rebecca pointed us to these young adult novels that deal with the transexperience, bothfor those interested in learning more about it or for those dealing with understanding their own trans-identity. t ra n s - f e m i n i n e c h a ra c t e r s

By: e r i k a h a n g

t ra n s - m a s c u l i n e c h a ra c t e r s