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It was quite the scene, the day the posters came out. There were only two— two unboasting little fliers, on regular eight by eleven printer paper, incredibly slight in comparison to the huge laminated pieces of posterboard advertising cheer tryouts or student council elections. I’d been thrown off guard walking into the crowded sixth-grade hallway that morning, finding my classmates gathered in one big clump by a wall, snickering and whispering amongst themselves, pointing at whatever was hung up that had caused such a commotion. I shoved through the wall of students, craning my neck until I finally saw what all the fuss was about— the paper, posted with scotch tape, reading Gay Straight Alliance, Wednesdays, Room 215, 2:00-3:15 PM. Underneath was a small icon of a rainbow flag. By second period, both posters were torn down. By that point, I’d started to understand how things worked. Kids like me were different, and there are a lot of people who don’t like that. I’d seen conservative billboards along interstates demanding people like me repent. I’d heard the talk of not supporting such “alternative lifestyles.” I caught some of what the politicians said about us in the news, and some of it was really, really nasty. Whoever made those billboards didn’t like us, those politicians didn’t like us, and God knows my parents didn’t like us. My classmates’ reactions aligned with what I’d seen in the world, though it disappointed me. They mocked and scorned us, laughed when the club was announced over the intercom, tore down and shredded the fliers. But the club’s existence— even though it was off to a rocky start— had planted within me a fresh seed of optimism. My entire life, the word “gay” had been treated with such hush and taboo that I didn’t know it was the kind of thing you could talk about at school. To see it displayed, out for everyone, to know that kind of club had been allowed to start, was a breath of fresh air. I came to the first meeting that Wednesday while my parents thought I was at “Craft Club.”It was held in an abandoned, cramped little classroom, one that had once been home to History of Pop Music or something of the sort. The room, though once barren, came alive that day. The turnout was wonderful; there had to have been over thirty of us bustling little preteens there for the very first time. All around me, desks and tables were covered by different pride flags of every color. The people around me all dressed like I did, all in flannels and short hair, regardless of gender identity. I was welcomed with grins and handshakes and pointing to pronoun pins. Sure, we were awkward, naive, sheltered, but we were with our community. For the first time, I felt whole and completely at home with who I was. I bonded quickly with the group. That little middle school GSA swooped in to fill the hole that had been left in my life when church stopped meaning family to me. We stuck together, even if numbers dwindled at times. We were brought even closer (forced to be, really) by the fact that the adversity never stopped. Our classmates, I hate to say, never let up. The very first meeting, in the midst of introductions and club mission statements, a group of boys opened the door to sneer a few colorful words (see: slurs) at us before running away. They’d repeat this throughout the year, our regular reminder that though we’d gotten away with the creation of the club, they’d never make things easy for us. Every Wednesday, when our club announced itself over the Student News, my first-period class would erupt into mocking laughter. I kept my head down during these times and just listened. I learned what people were safe, learned how to gauge who in my generation would learn to accept us and who would be clinging to the beliefs of our traditional-oriented parents. As I became a more core member of the group, I took to coming to school early every morning to print out a sizable stack of posters in the library. I made my rounds through each hallway before the first bell rang, disappointed every time to see the ripped scraps of the one I’d put up yesterday. I put up a new poster, prayed it survived through that day, rinse and repeat. I had to grow accustomed to seeing groups of people gathered around to point and laugh at each new addition. Nobody knew I was the one putting the posters up; in the club, I was out and proud, but the regular world was a different story. Nobody would know I was part of GSA except for my GSA friends themselves. Then came time for club pictures. When the sign up sheet came around to me, I froze. Was I willing to give up my anonymity here? I thought about what it would entail, thought about the day yearbooks would come out and everyone I knew would see me there, clear as day, surrounded by my friends with Gay Straight Alliance printed below. Once that photo was released, the secret would be out. I don’t know, really, what convinced me, what random surge of courage or streak of strength made itself known that day. All I know is I signed the sheet, passed it along, and was committed. I arrived dutifully on picture day, and though my heart was racing, and I could hear roaring in my ears, I sat in the front row and held the flag. Click— we were through. My fate was sealed. And when yearbooks finally were released, when confused peers walked up to me with their books opened to the picture and demanded, “Is this you?,” I glowed with pride. I’d done it: I’d bitten the bullet. With the help of my friends, with the help of a tiny middle school GSA, I’d made the first step in my long journey to total self-acceptance. So even though they narrowed their eyes and recoiled a bit, I was happy to point myself out in the front row of that photo. Our little club had endured a lot, and still we’d fought to exist, to hang our heads in shame. In that moment, more than the cross or the American flag ever had, that symbol— that rainbow cloth— felt like me.  Me, circa 2016 About the Author Samantha Reagan
Staff Writer Samantha is a Filipino-American high school student writing from Las Vegas, Nevada. Her work focuses on feminist and queer issues, social media, and pop culture. An avid reader, her favorite authors include Mary Shelley, E.M. Forster, Gillian Flynn, and Sylvia Plath. She hopes to one day attend Vassar College to study political science. In her spare time, she finds joy in drawing, writing letters, and cooking vegetarian cuisine.
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TW: ASSAULT, R*PE CULTURE, GRAPHIC CONTENT, TRAUMA, PATRIARCHY, VIOLENCE “If a woman is wearing very few clothes, it will have an impact on the men, unless they are robots.” — PM Khan At the beginning of July, Pakistan’s domestic violence bill was opposed after several right-wing fundamentalists raised objections and demanded that the bill be sent for a review by the Council of Islamic Ideology. According to the CII, the bill interferes with the Islamic way of life. The proposed bill had punishments and fines for domestic violence and extends the definition of domestic violence to cover emotional, psychological and verbal abuse which is in direct opposition to the CII’s views of domestic violence, according to which a husband should be allowed to beat his wife ‘lightly’ and what constitutes psychological abuse is necessary for disciplining children. There has been a brutal wave of patriarchal violence that seems to only rise with every passing day ever since the domestic violence bill faced resistance. As if the COVID-19 pandemic hadn’t worsened the domestic violence epidemic enough, victim blaming rhetoric preached by key government figures and officials has only served to encourage the perpetrators of these crimes. Femicide is the deep-set rot emerging from rape culture paired with a patriarchal mindset which is taking away precious lives from us everyday. Our mourning is declared vulgar because voyeuristic men can’t stop staring at our bodies when we protest. They deface murals of our dead sisters, and won’t stop treating murderers like champions of masculinity. Around a week ago, I woke up with a bad taste in my mouth, sweating and scared because I dreamt a man with more social capital and power harassed me and I couldn’t do anything about it; I felt like helpless prey. I logged onto Twitter to find another Pakistani woman’s tweet about waking up disoriented from a dream with sexual assault symbolism, and several others affirmed they were having similar nightmares. Someone in the U.S dreamt of their friend back home and had to call them in the middle of the night to check up on them. This is in the aftermath of yet another woman murdered by patriarchy. 27-year-old Noor Mukadam was found beheaded by Zahir Jaffer on 20 July. Noor, Quratulain, Naseem, Kanwal, Maham, and Andaleeb are some of the names who became “Justice For” hashtags in July. These were just the cases that got reported and picked up by news outlets, and there were countless others who suffered the same fate. In the wake of oppression, the internet has a tendency of becoming an echo chamber of trauma, where the voices of victims get amplified, and many more come out to talk about their similar experiences. Like #metoo, as much as these social media trends spread awareness and expose the extent to which such aggressions permeate our lives, it is important to remember the toll constant exposure and activism can take on our mental health. We feel responsible to stay in the loop, informed and updated about every new development. Such a thing is necessary but so is the need to take breaks and indulge in activities that build community and hope. The revelation that symptoms such as nightmares, anger, dissociation, flashbacks, intrusive thoughts, paranoia, hypervigilance, disturbed sleep, feeling unsafe, lethargy, fear, and uncommon body aches were being experienced collectively by women who are aware of the the femicide led me to research a little about collective trauma and patriarchal trauma. Patriarchy Stress Disorder (PSD) is a term coined by Dr. Valerie Rein. Based on her research of intergenerational transmission of trauma and her experience providing therapy to women, she came to define PSD as “intergenerational, collective, and personal trauma of oppression, the invisible inner barrier to women’s happiness and fulfilment”. Call it PSD, collective trauma, or intergenerational trauma, most women will affirm that they experience stress and trauma on a daily that their cishet male counterparts live oblivious to. “When I was studying transgenerational trauma as a PhD candidate, people inevitably asked what my thesis was about, and as I answered eyes often glazed over; the idea of trauma transmitting threw them. But the big picture that came to view through my years of research revealed socially structured cyclical traumata founded in patriarchy.” --Patriarchy Perpetuates Trauma by Meera Atkinson, The Guardian A few months ago, a male cousin of mine told me how sometimes women will doubt his intentions and treat him unfairly even though he is a nice guy. He relayed an incident of him offering help to a group of women in a parking lot, as they seemed to be having trouble with their car and he volunteered to look. He tells me how bothered he was by their immediate mistrust, so I asked him to evaluate what he has to risk versus what they have to risk. He feared being considered a creep, someone making fun of him, or rejecting his sincere help, whereas for women, talking to and asking help from a strange man risks their safety, their lives, and/or being abducted. At this point he realised the stark difference between our worldviews and went quiet. I think about this often, how the things we learn to fear every moment of our lives don’t even occur to most straight men. More often than not, it is not just a matter of them not being observant or considerate. Women grow up with this unspoken trauma and from the beginning learn that this fear of unprovoked violence against them is normal and to be expected. To a lot of us, it occurs too late in our lives that there is something deeply upsetting and wrong with this version of social reality. By the time we understand it, we’ve already learned to adapt and navigate, since it is our unspoken normal that we don’t talk to the men in our lives about these experiences. I see elder male relatives in family gatherings discussing everything from national politics to international sports, but I have never seen them talk once about femicide, rape culture, misogyny, domestic violence, or workplace sexism as social ills or as the national crisis it has become. Why do they not acknowledge these issues? Surely one reason is because they protect other men. Being friends with a man of social capital is more important than calling him out for his behaviour towards a woman you don’t even know. But what about the “good” men? They do not experience the collective trauma women around them do, but also because these issues are impersonal to them. Women who are gaslighted about their trauma their entire lives, who learn to accept these occurrences of harassment and violence as normal, who dissociate and minimise these issues to continue carrying on in a patriarchal society, culture and family, don’t talk to their fathers, brothers, sons, and male relatives about their collective experiences, which leads men to develop impersonal attitudes about these problems. “Internalized oppression is likely to consist of self-hatred, self concealment, fear of violence and feelings of inferiority, resignation, isolation, powerlessness, and gratefulness for being allowed to survive.” --Understanding Internalized Oppression by Teeomm K. Williams As we’re talking of male obliviousness, internalised oppression in women as a means of survival under patriarchy is also worth touching upon. As much as feminists dislike women who pander to sexist men and uphold patriarchal structures, I believe it is important to understand how these behaviours form. Owing it to their personal circumstance, different women develop different coping mechanisms and survival instincts. We mustn’t shun our sisters who suffer from internalised oppression, as it only further alienates them. In a system that already seeks to alienate women, keeping them from developing effective support systems that may help them heal and overcome, it is in no way moral or productive to reject them. Some are in a position to self-educate and oppose systems of oppression without directly endangering their lives, while some of us have to play by the rules and use these systems to our own benefit. Others face the threat of violence even at a familial level and have to conform in order to just survive. Building a strong femme-centric support environment based on the principles of empathy and with aims to educate and help women heal from the inside out should be one of our prime goals. “On a macro scale, internalized oppression (also known as self-directed oppression) is when a marginalised or oppressed population begins to accept and act on stereotypes and other inaccurate beliefs related to it. On a personal level, internalized oppression happens when we impose limits on ourselves in pursuit of safety.” –Internalized Oppression: Living Safe Means Living Stuck by Jeremy McAllister, GoodTherapy.org We can observe that as the international online communities for and by women grow stronger and increase in numbers, as more and more women who previously wouldn’t have thought of sharing their trauma or taking firm stands against sexism now feel safer, seen, and emboldened in doing so; this is the power of online safe spaces. In the Pakistani drama industry, rife with misogyny and problematic sexist tropes, we see actresses who in their personal lives enjoy the rights afforded to them by feminism. They get on TV and play insensitive stereotypes of womanhood for a male audience in serials like ‘Meray Paas Tum Ho’, ‘Jhooti’, ‘Durr-e-shahwar ’, ‘Zid’, ‘Laapata’, ‘Dunk’, ‘Jalan’ and ‘Zara Yaad Kar’. With being a woman, there comes a sense of alienation; men who want to sleep with you do not stand by you when you’re under fire, and most women’s platforms or movements aren’t louder than angry religious mobs that uphold patriarchal standards. I do not say this to take the blame away from women who choose to remain ignorant due to class privilege, but to bring to light the deep isolation women face which we must remedy. This sense of isolation is the obstacle in the path of self-actualisation for many, as survival instincts do not care for morality. If you speak up, you will lose your freedom and nobody will save you and you can die. That is how simple the thought process is, and we cannot force people out of such learned behaviours. I hope that with time women succeed in cultivating empathetic support circles and powerful movements that can really protect us and urge other sisters to be a part of. Until the required cultural revolution takes place, we have to make sure that we establish networks of support for victims of the patriarchy, and find strength in sisterhood while channeling our trauma into effective politics of change. We also must take the necessary steps towards collective healing. With the grief, rage, and survival instincts we have inherited, we have also gotten from our mothers perseverance and tactics to fool a system rigged against us, and above all the will to carry on. It falls largely upon the creative community to nurture safe spaces for women, where they can mourn, have access to group therapy, make art, volunteer, educate, heal, and connect. I believe that when we are overwhelmed by the injustices of oppressive systems working against us, it helps to collectively envision the beautiful future we are aiming for. About the Author Mashaal Sajid Staff Writer  Mashaal (she/her) is a Pakistani poet, writer and artist from Rawalpindi. Her poetry is centered around themes of lived experiences under capitalist patriarchy and women exploring identity, love and desire when their existence is highly politicized and their bodies policed. Most days you can find her writing poetry, reading for The Walled City Journal, volunteering art, admiring Mina Loy's 'Parturition' and listening to Sylvia Plath's audio recordings. She adores succulents, flowers and lepidoptera hence the recurring floral references in her Poems. Her work is forthcoming and published in Fahmidan, The Sutterville Review, Rigorous & The RIC Journal among others. It was a random Thursday morning when I walked into the back office of the school library that I worked at. The library assistants were running away from the office, talking about how the school was probably going to close down due to the virus. Student aides like me were wondering if we were going to be getting paid during what we thought then was going to be a two week break. During my dystopian literature class, students talked about how colleges in Chicago were already closing down because of the virus. In psychology, we talked about how it may affect our class projects. I was lucky enough to be doing my class project on the last day of school, so I didn’t have to write an essay at home. When I got done with my classes, my boss told me to write my timesheet for the next two pay periods. At the end of the day, I sat at a table in the back of the library with the rest of the student aides. All of us were talking about throwing a party, and what everyone was going to do with their new free time. I joked around with them, but all I could think about was how I was going to survive in the motel room my mom and I just moved into. Moving to the motel was like putting a band-aid on a bullet wound. Our last apartment wouldn’t renew the lease, and we couldn’t find a new place in time. We moved to a hotel first. When the hotel became too expensive, we moved to the motel. The day school closed down made me realize how scary our situation was. I knew I had to come up with a plan because now I was relying solely on my credit card. Everything felt like it was falling apart and begging for me to fix it. My mom’s license expired. She kept getting pulled over for driving too slow or driving all over the road. On the last day of school, I came to the motel to find her with the police. They kept telling me that she needed help and that she seemed like she was drunk. My mom didn’t want to go to the hospital because it would be another bill we would have to pay. We now know that these were signs of how bad my mom’s health was. At the time, it felt like I was losing my mother when I needed her the most. I didn’t want to face the reality of my situation, but I knew I had to get out of that crappy motel. I started calling all of my friends and family. No one would let me stay with them. The friends who did have room said that their parents wouldn’t allow it because of the virus. Most of my friends didn’t have the room, however. One of my friends said I could sleep on her couch for a couple of days, and another friend of mine said that I could stay at his place, but he had 6 people living with him at the time. I was scared to go there because of the virus going around. I cried so much that day; I felt so disgusted that all of my friends were witnessing how desperate I was. We had nowhere to go in Illinois. I started to reach out to people who lived out of the state. I called my grandmother earlier that day to get some advice. She told my aunt everything that was going on, and my aunt told me she would take care of me, and that she would help me pay for rent if I could find a friend to say yes. I told her that I couldn’t find anyone and asked if I could stay with her. She told me no because she had a roommate living with her at the time. It was heartbreaking to hear her say no, because I thought that she would instantly say yes to my question. I had only one person left to call. I’m going to call her “Gloria.” I knew her my whole life. She had a son around my age that I grew up with. She was funny and felt like a second mother to me, and knew how to do my hair and make me laugh. When I called her to see if I could stay with her, she immediately said yes, even though she was taking care of her mother and we were going through the start of a pandemic. She said yes, which is something my own flesh and blood wouldn’t do. When I arrived, I was full of nerves and excitement. When we got into Gloria’s car, my mom was so excited to see her old friend. However, I could tell from the expression on Gloria’s face that she wasn’t happy about us being there. Something felt off. I blamed it on how quickly everything was happening. I tried to ignore it and focus on how I could help Gloria. The second day was the first time I pissed her off, the first time I heard how loud she could scream, and the first time I felt the fear she could put in someone. As I write this, I try to think about what it was like, but all of the moments of her being angry at me have blended together. When the fight was over (or, more like when she was tired of yelling), she expected me to be over it as soon as she was. She wanted me to shake off her abuse like it was water when it felt like every fight was a step closer to me drowning. As I tried to figure out how to keep my head above water level, the world was turning into something I had never seen before. The news started to talk about a lockdown and how we were in a global pandemic. At that time, lockdown felt like it could be forever or two weeks. Nothing was for certain. Gloria was the same way. Some mornings she could be so kind and helpful, while other mornings she woke me up by screaming at me and telling me how much she regrets letting me come to stay with her. No one would believe me about her because she would change the way she talked when she addressed them. Gloria and my mom didn’t have as much of a friendship as I thought they did. Gloria had a lot of anger about the decisions my mom made in the past and hated that my mom wasn’t there for her when she was homeless. She thought my mom didn’t have enough sympathy for her. She screamed at my mom more than she did at me some days. You could see the effect it was having on my mom; she slept whenever she could and hid in the bedroom whenever she could. One time, my mother told Gloria how she was feeling depressed, and Gloria just laughed in her face. I tried to help them go back to the way they were when I was a kid. Gloria and my mom were one of the first models I had of female friendship. However, Gloria couldn’t let go of her anger over the past. My mom could never remember Gloria’s rules. I wanted to survive, and it felt impossible if I kept trying to protect my mom. The only way I could survive was if I pretended that Gloria was my mother and leave as soon as my aunt would allow me to come over to her house. My aunt wouldn’t let my mother come with me due to my dad’s side of the family’s dislike for my mother. When I left Gloria’s, it only got worse between she and my mom. It even got physical at some points. My mom decided to run away one night. With the help of nurses and social workers and a bus driver, my mom was able to get to Chicago to stay with her sister. When my mom moved back to Illinois, she learned that she had early onset dementia. She called me that night after her doctor's appointments. I remember crying to my aunt as she held me. Days later, I felt relieved that we had a name for it. I also felt guilty for not noticing it sooner. It helped her get disability income, which meant that she no longer had to work. Shortly after, I moved back to Chicago to help us get our own place. I now work as her home assistant. Things aren’t perfect, but we are fully independent. I no longer rely on abusive people like Gloria or for family members to come to save me. During the pandemic, many people had to move back to toxic homes or live with toxic people. Homes that took a lot of us emotionally and changed the way we act, and homes that didn’t let us feel safe or loved in. We were locked in these homes while we watched the world go mad. Some of us survived it, and some of us are still going through it. When I was living with Gloria, my safety depended on knowing how she would react and what would make her happy. I had to watch her face when she talked closely. I had to think over and over about what I would say before I would say it out loud. I had to be ready for anything I’d say to have the wrong effect on her. You can’t just turn this off once you exist in that situation, you bring this habit into the relationships you build after you exit that situation. When you are trying to predict what someone is going to say or trying to predict how they react, it makes communicating hard. I stopped replying to friends’ text messages because it took too much time and anxiety to figure out what to say back to them. I ghosted so many people because I thought I was getting on their nerves, even though most people don’t talk to people who get on their nerves. I don’t want to make people angry at me, however, I know now that my safety doesn’t depend on them liking me or being happy with me. I don’t have to please everyone. If they react badly, I can now protect myself and distance myself from those people. I am not a punching bag that anyone can use. I am a human being who can stand up for myself. I remember this when I need that extra boost of confidence in myself. I remind myself of how much control I have over my life. I am thankful that I had a place to stay, but I do not believe I stayed there for free. I didn’t pay with a monthly check. Instead, I paid with my love and my pain. I paid in emotional labor. During the pandemic, many of us were accepted into homes of people who didn’t know how to properly welcome someone into their homes. It could be extended family members, parents, old college friends, or romantic partners. They allowed us into their homes when we needed a place to stay. We stayed with them when they were scared about the world closing down and when they could no longer run away from their emotions. We sat next to them when they needed someone to talk to. I did that for Gloria. I sat next to her as she cried about her dead loved ones. I sat down looking at her as she yelled at me. I stood there next to her as she screamed, yelled, and cried, as she held the knife in her right hand. I sat across the table as I took slow bites of food as she kept looking over at me. Her face told me that she thought my fear of her made me a coward. The value of emotional labor isn’t understood in our society. We value money and power over emotions. We weren’t taught to realize how rare it is when someone listens to you cry or scream. We ignore how taxing it can be when you are giving a part of yourself to a person who doesn’t value your feelings. I wish I could cuss at Gloria over the phone and tell her how much I hate her. I wish I could tell her how much she took away from me. I wish I could call her and tell her how she hurt me, how much fear she made me live in. I imagine her telling me that I am in control of my emotions and that it isn't her fault I feel that way. She actually told me that one time. Gloria is a hurt person. Her life is filled with people who loved her while abusing her. People who were supposed to love her, but instead chose to take from her or run away from her. A lot of people say “hurt people hurt people.” I would like to add something to that iconic kinda-cheesy line: “people who don’t recognize their own hurt can’t recognize the ways they have hurt you”. So the phone call I wish I could have with her could never help me heal my scars because she doesn’t know how to aid her own. If someone can’t reflect on the pain they've caused, they will think you are insane when you open up to them about your pain that was caused by them. That’s why Gloria believes that only I am in control of how I let people make me feel. In some situations, what she said could be correct. However, if someone was kicking me in my stomach, it wouldn’t be my fault that my stomach hurts. It would be theirs. The same applies for emotional abuse. She reached out to me once to talk about some of my mail that came to her address. I felt like she was trying to see if I could accept her back into my life. She didn’t want to apologize for what she did, but I think she missed me. She missed the good moments. When I saw things from her side, there were good moments. From her side, it looked like we were forming some type of mother-daughter relationship. For me, I was just surviving. I was using words like “I love you,” and “thank you,” to avoid the terror and pain she could throw on me. I made sure to keep the conversation polite and didn’t send her my new address. We will most likely never speak again. My aunt once joked that Gloria and I will reconnect someday when I am older. People who weren’t in the situation may have a hard time understanding the way you may respond. I have decided that Gloria will not get anything out of me for the rest of my life. I don’t give any parts of myself to people who have abused me. Not even my anger. I can’t say that a part of me doesn’t want revenge, or that I haven’t imagined myself winning a Nobel Peace Prize and Gloria having to read about it on her iPad as she eats eggs that she knows will never be as good as mine. I think all of us want the people that hurt us to know what they did was wrong. You may even want them to miss you or be jealous of the life you are living. However these days, I am ready to leave Gloria and her pain behind me. I am working on bettering myself and properly healing and closing the wounds she caused. About the Author
Carla (she/her) is a Harper Community College student who loves fashion, reading, and writing. She is just starting to explore her spiritual side with tarot cards and crystals. She believes writing is one of the powerful tools we have in this world and can be used to tell the stories they are often hidden. She loves fashion and trying to learn to show her love in a way that doesn't hurt Mother Earth. Her main goal is to leave the world a safer place than when she came into it. Taurus Sun. Aquarius Moon. Sagittarius Rising.
Someone once said we hold the universe within us. If we have the capacity to hold an entire universe within, then imagine the different galaxies we can create. There are very few people on this Earth that I’ve loved, and many I’m no longer in communication with. This is my message to them. While we were guided in the direction of separation, I pray there is a reality in which we both exist together, in happiness and in love. I will never regret loving you, I will never regret the time we’ve spent, the gifts we shared, the vulnerability we held. I do not wish to hate the people I once loved because the truth is, that love still lingers in my bloodstream. I find myself caught up in the “what-ifs” but I am released of this pain as I create a galaxy just for us and the future that could never manifest. We were meant to meet for a divine reason, and it was in meeting these people that I was able to become the woman I am today; the woman writing this essay confessing my undying love for those I was once in contact with. I refuse to cut these cords, and I know they cling to these memories as well because I feel them guiding me everyday. Subconsciously, we are all still helping each other prosper and grow into the people we talked about being in the comfort of our warm sheets. We just never imagined we’d be those people without each other. Still, I smile at the fact that they’ve become the person they wished to be. I have an abundance of love. I am love. I have once loved, I am in love, and I will love again. I cherish these relationships I’ve made, platonic and romantic, because how lucky are we to have found each other in a world full of chaos to provide even a second of peace. Isn’t that divine? There are many things we will never understand as human beings. I will not stress over the ways we went wrong when the majority of our time was good. These people saved me; we saved each other, and we learned how to save ourselves. Together we rose and together we fell. I have a galaxy dedicated to our stories, ones I will share with my children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. I want to show them how beautiful both the storm clouds and the roses can be. I will always remember my capability to love, even when I’ve been burned so badly by the intensity of it all. About the Author
Ariel (she/her) is a latinx second generation American writer. As a witchcraft practitioner and spiritualist she focuses on diving into the world of the occult and sharing their stories. Along with that, she enjoys writing personal essays and short story fiction. Ariel is a certified bookworm, tree-hugger, and anime lover.
Characters: ARI- As we know. Current. 2021. DETECTIVE- Ari, Summer 2020. CLUELESS- Ari in eighth grade. JAMS- 80s Phase Ari. BALLERINA- Explanatory. HAIR PHASE- Pink haired Ari. Our scene sets itself. A dim light. A long table, seats for the most recent six, stands out in the middle of the room. The night was cold, air whistling through the cracked window. The snowflakes outside fell softly, creating the perfect enclosure for our characters to meet again. ARI turned on the fireplace. She picked at her nails. The nerve was a bit surprising, even for herself. The clones would arrive soon. A knock at the door. JAMS arrived first. A green and pink striped ribbon belted her baggy jeans, her hair in a fresh chop. She shook the hand of the girl in front of her. It was almost as if they hadn’t met. JAMS: Ayo! You got a speaker? She wasn’t the worst. She did have nice taste in music. CLUELESS rang the doorbell, her leg bouncing, combat boot thumping against the floor. She feared she was late, as someone else had arrived already. CLUELESS: Why, hello there. ARI: Hey. JAMS just arrived-- CLUELESS: Am I late? ARI: *shakes head no* CLUELESS: Great. CLUELESS smells like old books and rose petals and dried orange garlands. BALLERINA squeezed through the open door, spinning through the hallway. BALLERINA: *shrugs* She hadn’t been the weirdest of the guests. Though, the confidence that radiated from her was surprising, as we considered her one of the shyest ones. DETECTIVE entered unannounced and unnoticed. She made her way to the table as HAIR PHASE made her entrance. HAIR PHASE: C’mon dude. Was my entrance music not queued up? ARI: It wasn’t. Everyone else is inside. As it seemed all had arrived, ARI led the five clones to the table in the dining room. ARI: So. How have you guys all been? Not a word. ARI seemed to forget that these people were not her friends. They were practically strangers. And she knew that they didn’t care to speak to strangers. ARI: DETECTIVE? DETECTIVE hadn’t looked up from the table since she had arrived. It’s not so surprising. The dark circles painted themselves under her eyes, her hair hanging quite short after another impulsive trim. DETECTIVE had been the one to discover and conclude. That’s all she had existed for. A few months. DETECTIVE: I’m doing okay. It came out as a mumble, and it was quite hard to believe. But it did make sense. Her existence was during the Summer of Bummer. ARI: What have you all been up to? BALLERINA: Same old stuff. Dance. JAMS: Writing. CLUELESS: Same. DETECTIVE: Been listening to Elton John on repeat. ARI: Nice! JAMS: Good music choice. After a while, like clockwork, the clones began to warm up to each other. But that wasn’t always the greatest thing. DETECTIVE: *sits back in chair* I think you’re the one that caused that. CLUELESS: No, that was you. *furrows brows* DETECTIVE: Highly doubt it. CLUELESS: You’re the one who lost all of our friends. DETECTIVE: You’re the one who didn’t-- The anxiety that had consumed part of our life was now the topic of discussion. The argument was passive, for all the right reasons. Both of them were right. DETECTIVE was too quick. She made too many moves on impulse. She had, as CLUELESS stated, lost all of our friends. But it was only because CLUELESS hadn’t done that. Her name stands as a descriptor, for all the things she couldn’t see and couldn’t hear. ARI: Neither of you caused it. It was always there. You guys just made it worse. ARI was on edge. Way to be honest. It was getting a bit stressful, to say the least. ARI was trying to keep it under control, but the arguments between the clones were getting too intense. It was impossible to argue with them. All were so similar, yet so different. They had all seen different things. JAMS: I don’t know what you guys are talking about. And that was the worst bit. Each clone only knew of their own existence, and those before them. They knew nothing of the future. ARI: Good old mental health. JAMS: That’ll get you. ARI: Tell me about it. *sighs* CLUELESS: You put her through the ringer. *points at JAMS* JAMS: I thought it was a good decision. ARI: It was-- CLUELESS: You quit dance. BALLERINA: You what?! *shoots out of her seat* JAMS: Don’t be so surprised. You wanted to. *folds arms* BALLERINA: Only a little. But what about the benefits? What about the confidence that it gave you? JAMS: Not a problem-- ARI: I’m often told I should tone it down a little. Defeat. Somebody was wrong. The banter continues. BALLERINA: So, without dance, what are you doing now? ARI: Writing stuff, for the most part. CLUELESS: Yeah, remember the poem you wrote? BALLERINA: Yeah? We’re doing that now? DETECTIVE: I hope. Great passive expression. ARI: It’s not just for that. BALLERINA: So what about college? DETECTIVE: Poet-- BALLERINA: I was under the impression that we would be majoring in dance but I now understand that that’s not the case-- CLUELESS: You know that’s a lie. We want to be a teacher-- ARI: Yeah. We’re still confused about that, obviously. Probably journalism. JAMS: So we’re Andrea Zuckerman? ARI: Yes. JAMS: Very cool. BALLERINA: Who’s that? CLUELESS: Catch up on your television. And something as simple as that turned quickly into an argument. The clones, now arguing about which show was the best, began to turn against each other. Chaos. Could they agree on one thing? Never had ARI realized how different the group had been from each other. ARI: I didn’t bring us here to fight, really. JAMS: What are we here for? ARI: I guess I don’t know. Discussion? CLUELESS: Of what? ARI: I don’t know. Life. JAMS: We are the same person. ARI: Each of us rose to face some kind of challenge. CLUELESS: I think it is important to note that that challenge was likely caused by whoever we evolved from. JAMS: Way to be direct. ARI: Dude. ARI had taken quite enough of this. This whole night had been passive. ARI: It’s not about being better than someone before you, because you aren’t. BALLERINA: I’d like to say that I disagree with that statement. ARI: I’m not better than you, well. I might be better looking than you-- BALLERINA: That’s fair. ARI: You might be more attractive than the person before you. You might be nicer, you might have better jokes or better friends. But we’re still the same being. The same DNA. We branched from the same thing. The clones were finally starting to get it, or maybe ARI was. ARI truly didn’t know why she had invited the clones over. Was it actually for discussion, or was there something that was missing? Did they all need a realization? ARI: We’re all trying to get to the same thing. And we help build the path for each other. There shouldn’t be a reason to fight. Every one of us has a right to find new things and new people. JAMS: And we each knew it was right about the things that we left behind. DETECTIVE: Ditto to that. CLUELESS: It’s about the evolution of our person? ARI: Exactly. *pauses* So, we’ve fought. JAMS: Sure. ARI: We can now eat this bad pizza in peace. CLUELESS: I’m really glad I wasn’t the first person to say that this food sucks. And it was done. They’ve agreed. They won’t fight with each other—they will no longer fight themself. They’ve seen and they’ve heard. The evolution was recognizable, even to the stages. Now working in somewhat harmony, the clones felt the contentment that they secretly had wished for upon entry. But what they didn’t wish for, as it usually occurs, they received as well. Fresh mind, a glimpse into the future, a new look at the forgotten past. The clones began to understand each other. They understood themselves. The clones finally understood her—the body that they all had occupied. About the Author Ari Collins
Staff Writer Ari Collins (she/her) is a small-town teen writer and poet who loves soup, skirts, and sonnets. Her mind is swimming in a pool of poetry, journalism, art, Emily Dickinson, feminism, fashion, Edgar Allan Poe, and disposable cameras. She loves writing to inspire and express, but the majority of her published work has been more news related. Her work can be found on her school’s online news publication- eSomethin.com- or on her social media. When not writing, she can be found listening to Bikini Kill, re-reading Percy Shelley’s “The Daemon of the World,” or riding her bike in the wrong shoes. She thinks everyone should: read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, own a leather jacket, and wake up early to watch the sun rise. I have a love-hate relationship with the gym. I love to exercise, and I love the feeling of accomplishment when I reach a goal or have a great workout. But there’s one thing I hate about gyms: men. Their intimidation— although unintentional, I hope— can be overwhelming for me. Being surrounded by constant grunting and masculine energy and muscles bigger than my head makes me never want to go to the gym again. I find this ironic because I usually go to Planet Fitness, where they boast about being a welcoming, not at all intimidating environment. Walking in to see muscle tees and an uncomfortable amount of skin and veins makes me want to hide and give up. I really like Planet Fitness, so this is not intended to be a harsh critique. Their equipment and prices are better than the other gyms I looked into, but I just don’t like constantly being surrounded by such discouraging, masculine energy. The adrenaline and gratification after completing a set or pushing myself to a heavier weight makes it feel worth it, yet I catch myself questioning my belonging regardless. I know that many people can agree that being a woman or feminine person in a gym setting is uncomfortable because I have heard stories firsthand about constant harassment at the gym., such as women being recorded and gawked at while exercising, being asked out, or approached for other reasons, such as for unsolicited advice. I cautiously watched a woman get chatted up by a man at the gym just the other day to make sure they didn’t appear uncomfortable in any way. It turned out that the man was a trainer working with them, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. The guilt I would feel if I was unable to see the discomfort in them would be crushing, especially given that this discomfort is all too common for me as well. Being followed around, called out to, and harassed is a heavy burden to carry each day at the gym. The obstacles women face in fitness spaces range further than the expectations and goals they walk in with. My current gym experience parallels where I started. I was introduced to weight lifting in my senior year of high school, when I was placed in the strength training class for my physical education requirement. Being only one of three girls, I was mortified. The boys in my class all thought they were Arnold Schwarzenegger in the 70s and it was annoying and uncomfortable. I was insecure lifting ten pound dumbbells as they grunted and yelled while benching over 100. Despite this, I learned to enjoy weight lifting. I wouldn’t consider myself to be an expert by any means, as it’s just a hobby, but having a physical outlet to work on myself has made my life feel more whole. Having a sense of control is important to me, and being able to work my way up with dumbbells and adding intensity to various workouts overtime fulfills me. I can see my strength growing with however much work I put in to try. In terms of my body, I don’t have any goals for what I want to look like; I just want to get stronger. I have issues with feeling small and insignificant, so exercising to build strength gratifies me. The way I look at it is this: I’m only 5’0, and while I can’t control my height, I can control my strength and how I present myself. I just want to feel good, and exercise fulfills me in many ways, so I am on this journey to get stronger and feel better about myself. I think that’s just as valid as people who want to body build, but it feels intimidating to be surrounded by this crowd when I’m committing to this as a hobby and for my own goodwill. Something that actually guided me to focus on myself and not so much on other people’s fitness journeys was the pandemic. I didn’t have a gym membership pre-covid– at that time, I was still a senior in high school, so I used my school’s resources-- but it was still weird to suddenly stop weight training since I didn’t have equipment at home. For months, I didn’t exercise at all, which I think is understandable given the circumstances, and I just didn’t care about fitness to be honest. There was, and still is, a lot going on, so what does my body specifically mean relative to the rest of the world and current events? Somehow this mindset of realizing I don’t really matter that much in the grand scheme of things motivated me to start exercising again because, well, who cares? No self-righteous, puberty-ridden boys were in my room, so it was my space to claim. YouTube really helped me learn to strength build on my own time without any equipment, so I wouldn’t be where I am without some of these channels. I got really into yoga for a while, and I followed Yoga with Adriene’s videos. She’s the best, in my humble opinion, and her videos range from 5 minute beginner flows to hour-long, intense, full-body yoga workouts. It’s very flexible (no pun intended) regardless of what you may need for a workout. I realized I wanted more than yoga in my exercise routine, so I started looking toward other YouTubers for that sort of content. I really like Chloe Ting’s videos. I know she became really popular during the pandemic as well, and I understand the hype. I also used Mish Choi’s videos, particularly her pilates routines, and overall I had a lot of fun using video guides to exercise as opposed to using a physical gym space. Before I continue, I just want to give a content warning for the mention of weight loss and other potential triggers related to eating disorders. Skip three paragraphs if you are sensitive to these topics. One drawback to YouTube though is that when you subscribe to fitness channels, a lot of the recommended content you’ll get is about weight loss and getting skinny and lots of provocative content that is potentially triggering to people. Personally, it upset me to see this type of content constantly advertised to me in bold fonts because that just wasn’t what I wanted. Like I said before, I am on this journey just for fun and to feel good and confident. It distresses me to see that content aimed for women always contributes to becoming the patriarchy’s ideal woman: skinny, food-conscious, and conventionally attractive. I hate that exercise often has the association with “getting skinny,” particularly for women who want to “get in shape.” It makes me feel like my path is wrong, that I should also aspire to lose just a few pounds to better conform. Maybe just a bit of fat off my stomach could help? No. I have to remind myself to stay on my own course and try to avoid the perilous diet culture. Some people do exercise for the purpose of losing weight and that’s fine, as everyone is on their own path to whatever feels right for them. I just don’t think the assumption should be made that all people, especially women, who want to exercise do it for the sole purpose of weight loss or conformity to beauty standards. That’s a whole other can of worms, so I’ll just finish that thought with this: it made me really uncomfortable personally, so I ended up unsubscribing from most of the fitness pages I followed. Once things began to open up earlier this year with the vaccine rollout, I started to think about getting a gym membership. Working out from home was great and worked for me for a while, but I was considering upgrading to a gym for the purpose of having equipment and more space. My semester ended in May, so I decided to invest in a membership to Planet Fitness to keep during the summer before I leave for college in August. I try to get to the gym two to three times a week, which I find is a great schedule considering that I work part-time, and it feels like enough. I spend the majority of my gym time using the squat rack and the bench press, although I also enjoy smaller workouts like bicep curls and weighted sit ups. I go at a pace that feels comfortable while simultaneously pushing myself to use heavier weights or do just one more rep. I feel satisfied with this, and I’m excited to see what my college’s gym looks like this fall. It still feels discouraging, though, when I notice men scanning my body as I walk from machine to machine or when men stare at me while I squat down with a hundred plus pounds sitting on my shoulders. I tune everything out by listening to the pop-rap music the gym has blasting on the speakers, but sometimes this is not enough to ignore the unpleasant looks and the shrinking feeling I have. Fitness is an important part of my life, and I feel like being a woman who goes to the gym, especially a small woman, is an experience that’s not really talked about. I’m not trying to get into Chris-Hemsworth-as-Thor shape, but it would be nice to put on some muscle. Most of all, gym culture needs to be less intimidating and oppressive to women, both in online communities where weight loss is the coveted goal, and in person where men are more dominant in this area of interest. For more reading about the impact of fitness, and other topical ideas like athleisure and diet culture, on women, I recommend reading Jia Tolentino’s book Trick Mirror, particularly the chapter, “Always be Optimizing.” About the Author
Lola is a Latin American student based in New York City attending Smith College who loves to write about a variety of subjects. You can find their work in The Sophian, which is Smith’s newspaper, and Citrus, Smith’s fashion magazine. She loves to read as well, and currently loves memoirs like Broken by Jenny Lawson and Hunger by Roxane Gay. They are passionate about art history too, and are pursuing a bachelor’s degree double majoring in english and art history. She loves hugs, early mornings, YouTube binges, and fruit salads. Someday they want to publish their own book and you can always find them wandering around a museum in the city.
In just about every household in America, one is bound to find an ever-looming stack of books from the Barnes and Noble down the street, untouched since their purchase years ago. There are few people who actively dislike reading, and yet, everyone finds themselves too busy to pick up a book during the day, or too tired to attempt a chapter at night. But with offices, stores, and schools worldwide shuttering to stop the spread of COVID-19, people of all ages and backgrounds suddenly found an abundance of free time in which to pick up new hobbies. Chief among them: reading literature. Despite booksellers and storefronts being closed, fiction book sales went up 33% in the United Kingdom. In the U.S, general activity books for children saw a 128% rise. In a time where almost nothing could be said for certain, the public found solace in unwavering plots and fictional worlds dripping with escapism. When rumors and misinformation about the pandemic ran wild, readers focused on reassurance from mental health experts and advice authors. One of the genres with the most undeniable rise in readers was romance. With isolation and physical distance becoming a necessity, even the most introverted of people were craving the regular flow of social interaction that had been disrupted. Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs wasn’t wrong: once basic physiological needs and safety are accounted for, humanity seeks out feelings of love and belonging. Combine this with the influx of teens and young adults becoming more comfortable with their sexuality and the emphasized importance of Pride month in lockdown, and you get books like Song of Achilles by Madeline Miller, and They Both Die at the End by Adam Silvera. Both books tell tales of tragic love stories between ambitious young men, one couple in Ancient Greece and the other in modern-day New York City. Though both books became prominent conversational topics after their respective publishing dates in 2011 and 2017, their sales and reputations saw an exponential rise last year, quickly being established as classics for young LGBTQ+ teens. Over the summer of 2020, a national conversation began over the rise of the Black Lives Matter movement in response to the unjust deaths of people of color by the hands of the police nationwide, most notable among them George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. A national reckoning was, and still is, at hand. Regardless of age, race, identity, or religion, people felt an unprecedented urge to educate themselves on America’s racist history. This came in the form of nonfiction books such as Women, Race and Class by the renowned Angela Davis, and stories like The Vanishing Half by Brit Bennet. For allies, however, the movement sparked something entirely different: a reckoning with internalized racism. It’s no wonder books like White Fragility: Why It’s So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism by Dr. Robin DiAngelo reached the top of the New York Times Bestsellers List in 2020, despite being published two years prior. Also, in the nonfiction category of the list, was The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma by Bessel van der Kolk. With a majority of Americans working from home and students attending school online, a push for mental health awareness was entirely unsurprising. Things previously characterized as taboo, such as symptoms of depression and anxiety, as well as behavioral disorders like ADHD and Conduct Disorder, became a part of the conversation. The pressures of keeping communities safe combined with a need to upkeep social interaction, all under an umbrella of political turmoil, took a toll on even the most mentally balanced of people. This also meant that topics such as spirituality and psychology saw a rise in popularity as well, chief among those titles Think Like a Monk: Train Your Mind for Peace and Purpose Every Day by Jay Shetty. In a time with an unparalleled amount of ambiguity and confusion, turning to the constants of spiritual figures and teachings gave solace to people around the globe. At the end of the day, the titles of books that rose to the top over 2020 weren’t necessarily contrasting from years past– what changed were readers’ perspectives. Eyes became more cynical and yearning for a distraction or hope and advice. Where the pandemic stole spirit and optimism, it created a burgeoning fountain of creativity and artistic output. The reading industry will see the effects of it for years to come, both in reading trends and in the concepts of newly-published novels like Growing Up Online, perhaps, or Readjusting to a Social Life. In light of communities that were torn apart by the distance, the worldwide net of readers was brought together closer than ever. About the Author
Stella Garner (she/her) (also known by stella marie) is a high-school student and writer based in Las Vegas. Her work focuses on the music industry, film and literature, and politics, and can be found in local projects such as For the Culture Las Vegas. She is inspired by authors such as Haruki Murakami, Richard Siken, Mary Oliver, and Kurt Vonnegut. In her free time, Stella writes poetry (and hopes to publish a collection one day), plays piano and accordion, and rollerskates. Her other indulgences include: crosswords, 80s synthpop, oversized shirts with ironic messages, Coke Zero, and the novel Norweigan Wood.
Trigger Warning: Mentions self-harm and suicidal thoughts. Disclaimer: Grammatical errors are intentional and written exactly as it is in my journal. This is a collection of very vulnerable experiences I’ve had within my own mind and body. It’s not meant to make complete sense, as life is full of confusion, but instead it’s meant to show a small part of the reality of mental illness; in my case, Bipolar 2 disorder. The journal excerpts you are about to read come from some of the most confusing months of my life. I wrote them as they were written in my journal, grammatically incorrect and speaking to an invisible audience. If you are a person who is struggling, please reach out for help and know that you are loved and worthy… October 9, 2020 Things I am grateful for:
October 12, 2020 I want to live in a world where I don’t feel fragile. A world where I don’t have to rely on other people to bring me fulfilment. I want to live in a world where I don’t switch based on the words or actions of other people. This is why I’ve been fearful of relationships… friendships… why I’m in constant longing for another person. Why I am and have been riddled with loneliness for so long. I want a new life. October 23, 2020 Today I woke up with excitement for life. November 6, 2020 I feel myself dropping. Dropping into what could be a depressive episode. I’m having bad dreams, confidence issues, anxiety. I’ve been beating myself down and I don’t understand why. I’m trying to escape but these feelings will always follow and I know that. I’m scared. I’m scared about a lot of things. I’m scared that all of this will be for nothing. I’m scared I will spiral into bad habits. I’m scared that I won’t make it. I’m really scared. November 26? 2020 I don’t know what time it is. I don’t know what day it is. I woke up upset and feeling like I am holding on to my last strings. December 1, 2020 My journals are filled with hurt, pain, sorrow. I was filled with those feelings so I poured them out, rightfully so. But I no longer wish to only learn through pain. I need to shift my focus on things and beings that bring me peace. Here is an ode to the little things that bring me peace. Quiet mornings: Waking up in a state of tranquility, listening to the bird's song. I do not reach for my phone, instead I breathe. I breathe with gratitude for this peaceful moment. I start my day with a warm cup of peppermint tea, watching the sun rise higher and shine brighter. It's brisk so I throw on a sweater and socks. I sit in meditation to then stretch my body. I finish by staring out into the distance. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and think… “I am safe.” January 5, 2021 “And I don’t think I can ever shrink back to the illusion within me that told me I was small or separate.” - Hitomi Mochizuki, “Un Sueño” January 22, 2021 I laid on my yoga mat for an extra 20 minutes being swallowed by depression and intrusive thoughts. I’m scared because the thoughts that tell me to disappear are bringing me more relief. January 29, 2021 When you experience those moments of bliss, fucking run with it. Hold on to it so tight that you’ll be able to think back to that moment in a second. Life is about enjoying the little things like brief moments of serenity or the pulse of little deaths. You’ll need these memories because sometimes they pull you out the deep end when no one else can. They say we shouldn’t live in the past or the future and I understand why. Because the past is only a memory, and the future doesn’t exist so all we have is this present moment. I argue that we need those memories. We can’t throw away all the past because sometimes a recollection is your savior. No one will save you. You have to save yourself. Hold on to those memories when you don’t feel the weight of the world crushing you and nurture it with gratitude. Now the next time you crumble, you’ll be prepared. Search your memory box and remember what life could be like. It’s not all bad. It’s not all good. It simply just is. February 15, 2021 What am I doing? Who am I trying to be? Who won’t I let myself be? I thought I was doing okay. I thought I’d be happier this way. No matter where I go it’s all the same. It's like a thing … demon … cloud? Latched on to me, watching my every move. This cycle is exhausting. I thought about setting a date. You know what for. I think about the blissful release. I thought about writing the letters. February 21, 2021 I haven’t showered in 4 days. I cleaned the house and did laundry but now I wish to sleep. Well to be honest I wish to be free but I’m keeping myself in a cage. I am questioning it all. My life, my reality, my relationships, my purpose. The truth is I have no clue what I’m doing but I’m 19 and I’m just trying to live another day. Just another hour. Just another minute. Just another second. I don’t want to hate life, my position, myself. I want to live and love freely. February 24, 2021 Today is my first day on medication. March 1, 2021 I know I am young, but it feels like I’ve been here for an eternity … I am exhausted from all the tears I’ve shed the past 24 hours. I’m so tired. March 3, 2021 I still have so many pages left in this journal, I tend to wonder when will it end and how? I’ve always imagined someone finding my journals and being captivated by my being. They’ll wonder why I change so often or feel so much. They’ll wonder what I look like or if I’m even still alive. Sometimes I get caught up in thought that I go blind. I believe to be trapped in an inescapable illusion. I forget the meaning of life and my worth. Those moments get scary but a pen and paper save me. March 6, 2021 Today I was thinking about how polarizing I am. I am so many different beings in one body. Some days I want to hurt myself. Other days I honor myself. Some days I am free. Other days I’m trapped. I thought about this because I almost fell into the idea that I can fix or cure myself in a month. I know it doesn’t work this way but I fall into these thoughts. I want to hurt myself right now and go into yoga. Isn’t it ironic? March 11, 2021 Recently, life has felt like poetry. All the pain and all the joy, it feels poetic in my bones. March 25, 2021 I feel intune with myself. I know I need to reset so I give myself that. I know when I need movement so I do that. I know when I need to get work done so I make time for that. Falling into alignment is a beautiful thing to experience. I’m learning to not have a care in the world and fully be me. I will dance in the woods and walk barefoot. I don’t care who sees me anymore or who hears me sing, I am me. I will embrace the entirety of my being. P.S. I think I should get a hoola hoop April 4, 2021 I don’t believe all pain has meaning. I don’t think there is a reason for everything in your life, that's not to say that life is without reason. I also don’t believe the idea that God won’t give you something you can’t handle. I think, in fact, the divine source does give you pain and suffering that is bigger than you. But the end goal isn’t to see if you get through it but to experience it. I say this because that's what this all is, an experience. The human experience can be used to create reason and/or meaning but that is not the end goal. To be honest, no one truly knows what the goal is, if there is any end to it. The human experience is subjective. So with pain, sometimes it will make you or it will take you, and I’m not taking away anyone's meaning with pain. What I do want is to abolish the idea of “passing” or “failing” in this life. I hate the idea that if you can’t get through a deeply emotional state, you’ve failed. Life is not a test; your perfectionist ego has made it seem that way. Everything is an experience, with no right or wrong. This life is meant to be messy, fun, loving and painful, yet all we have to do is experience. June 20, 2021 I was born 20 years ago. I’m pretty emotional right now because these past 3-4 years have been my hardest and I truly didn’t know if I’d make it to 20. I made myself a birthday candle charged with love, to honor my 20th year of life. This is a whole new chapter and it’s going to be a good one. Happy birthday Ariel. July 24, 2021 I’m learning patience with myself above everybody else. I’m done questioning who I am, for real this time. I’m just allowing myself to be. Renaissance Woman. About the Author
Ariel Moscat (she/her) is a latinx second generation American writer. As a witchcraft practitioner and spiritualist she focuses on diving into the world of the occult and sharing their stories. Along with that, she enjoys writing personal essays and short story fiction. Ariel is a certified bookworm, tree-hugger, and anime lover.
I first read Laurie Halse Anderson’s Speak when my seventh grade English teacher offered me some of her books when cleaning out her classroom at the end of the year. I’ve never been the one to turn down books. I looked through the stack of novels after a month of summer, bored out of my mind. An intriguing title caught my attention: Speak. The initial read was quick and just as quickly, it became a favorite. The book still sits on my dresser, or in the hands of a friend who I’ve forced to read it. The annotations become messier as I read it again and again. The messages that it holds—about mental health, sexual assault, and expression—become closer to me with each word. It stings to know that Speak can no longer sit on the shelves in libraries or in classrooms like my seventh grade English room, robbing students of the experience I once had. Speak is banned in school libraries across the United States. Many of my favorite books are. It hurts my heart to know that the novels I treasure most are being hidden from students. Speak encourages expression through art and also discusses and spreads awareness of sexual assault and mental illness. Mental health and sexual assault are some of the most important things for teens to learn about as they grow up, especially while living in a society where these things aren’t uncommon. The main character is real in her narrations of her struggles. The relatable aspect of the story helps teens understand that they’re not alone. The protagonist is a friend and a teacher. Literature lovers all over the globe, myself included, are inspired and taught valuable lessons by books everyday. And yet, school administrations in the United States ban these books from their libraries, gradually eroding the impact of literature on students. What impact does literature have on students? Primarily, students receive historical, social, and ethical lessons. But, textbook learning isn’t enough anymore. Students can also learn vital lessons and create deep connections with history and society through characters and themes that aren’t in textbooks. Some students might enjoy learning about historical events with historical fiction instead of straight-forward and emotionless textbooks. Books can teach students about racism, sexism and other forms of discrimination, as well as the impact they have and why they should be dismantled within society. Students can also understand disabilities and mental illnesses, and can even gain empathy or view the world from another set of eyes. The possibilities are endless when books are left on shelves and uncensored. The Myths of Censorship Despite the great world that books open, dozens of parents and school administrators narrow-mindedly think that banning books will help students flourish. In actuality, taking certain books away from students is the worst thing that schools can do. Administrations come up with many reasons for book banning, such as when they include depictions of sexual assault, sexism, racism, LGBTQ+ characters, mental illness, different political and religious views, discussion of drugs, and even violence. However, these issues for censorship are often what needs to be taught the most. Harper Lee’s To Kill A Mockingbird was banned for racial slurs and mentions of rape after its release in 1960 but it’s now one of the most important books for students to read when learning about the impact of racism on the law. Although the racist content of the novel might make some people uncomfortable or upset, it accurately reflects history and can connect to current events. Kids can’t be sheltered from these situations in real life, so why prevent them from reading reality? Books with heavy themes of racism often spark inspiration in students, as they don't want their world polluted with hate. Despite the original ban, To Kill A Mockingbird is actually part of curriculum in many schools because it teaches prejudice, judgement and justice along with the anti-racist message. Because some banned books, like To Kill A Mockingbird, are being taught in schools, some people think that book censorship is a dying concept, but it really isn’t. Even in the last year, so many vital books have been challenged and banned, including one of favorite novels, Speak. But the list goes on: Alex Gino’s George, Stamped: Racism, Antiracism, and You by Ibram X. Kendi and Jason Reynolds, and The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian by Sherman Alexie are just a few of the titles that made the list. More recently, it’s the diverse characters that parents and administrations go after. Books with diverse characters make students more aware of the people around them, and sometimes even reveal something about themselves. Books like Drama by Raina Telgemeier and I am Jazz by Jazz Jennings and Jessica Herthel were challenged and banned in a number of schools for their inclusion of LGBTQ+ characters and stories. The religious or political views of the school shouldn't interfere with any student’s chance to learn about social issues like sexuality and gender identity. Open mindedness and acceptance are things that students need to learn, and books are one of the best ways to teach these concepts. Surprisingly, Diary of Anne Frank, Anne Frank’s diary of life during the Holocaust, is banned in many schools because it can be seen as “too depressing.” The Holocaust stands as one of the most depressing events in history, so it would make sense that a recollection of the time period would be as depressing as the event itself. But historical events shouldn’t have to be sugar coated when students learn about them. Students need to see the mistakes of the past to correct them in the future. A Final Thought When I found out that my favorite book was banned in school libraries I thought about the students who can’t receive the lessons and inspiration that the book gave me. I felt so upset, knowing that someone can no longer find my comfort novel in their school library. So, I recommend the book to everyone, sometimes forcing my worn-out copy into the hands of my peers. I make an effort to make sure that someone else reads the book because censoring the stories that teach students crucial lessons is not acceptable. Every student needs to learn from whichever source they can. Some students might prefer to learn from literature, making this issue all the more pressing. To ensure that students everywhere are receiving the quality literature that they deserve, one should petition and spread awareness of the issue, review and research the policies of schools around you, and read banned books. Read what your community doesn’t want you to see. The power is on the page. About the Author
Ari Collins (she/her) is a small-town teen writer and poet who loves soup, skirts, and sonnets. Her mind is swimming in a pool of poetry, journalism, art, Emily Dickinson, feminism, fashion, Edgar Allan Poe, and disposable cameras. She loves writing to inspire and express, but the majority of her published work has been more news related. Her work can be found on her school’s online news publication- eSomethin.com- or on her social media. When not writing, she can be found listening to Bikini Kill, re-reading Percy Shelley’s “The Daemon of the World,” or riding her bike in the wrong shoes. She thinks everyone should: read The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath, own a leather jacket, and wake up early to watch the sun rise. As someone who is almost constantly traveling through busy streets and subway cars on a day-to-day basis, I always make a mental note of the people around me. Noting what they’re wearing and what they look like, I am the type of person who enjoys people watching. Within these crowds of commuters, I see people around my age, the majority of them occupied with their phones. I use social media a lot myself, so it comes as no surprise to see hoards of Gen Z-ers and millennials scrolling mindlessly through Instagram and Twitter, or watching videos on YouTube and other streaming platforms. The pandemic has shifted people’s perspectives on social media in paradoxical ways, particularly younger generations who are more prevalent on these platforms. It encourages more intentional, nostalgic content on platforms like Instagram, while simultaneously pushing for more trendy content to cater to audiences on outlets such as YouTube. People want relatable content, which relieves creators of stress to capture the perfect photo. But in terms of video content, this is a more difficult standard to achieve, as it also must be fabricated for trends, such as the “that girl” morning routine, which depicts a strict schedule of an early wake-up time, a workout, mindfulness practice, and a healthy breakfast. Social media has taken a turning point and the last year and a half has changed our perspectives on how we use it. The pressure of catering to an audience with flawlessly Facetuned photos is out of date, as people now have opportunities to explore themselves in deeper ways with all of this time spent in isolation. This also corresponds to ideas such as the “cottagecore” aesthetic, which emphasizes living nonchalantly among nature and finding purpose in everyday life as opposed to being bound to standard work schedules. On the other hand, people also begin to see spaces like YouTube as a chance for financial prosperity instead of a mere hobby or a way to express their creativity. Capitalistic structures and goals have simultaneously become more and less important, and this contradictory shift is due to the pandemic. People are more motivated to find side-hustles, yet at the same time, many are discovering that money is not their top priority anymore, as love and care take the spotlight. The economy, particularly in America, has been suffering and people have been radicalized to understand that they are being paid unfair wages, to name an example of why a side-hustle would even be necessary. In addition, the philosophy of self-care has become more popular, thus people want to prioritize their well-being as opposed to just being cogs in the machine of their workplace. It is hard to imagine that these two ideas can co-exist, but the concept of functioning independently without a conventional job is what makes it work. Circling back to YouTube, there was a big boost in the early 2010s where people experimented and began broadcasting their lives for views and monetary gain. More modern uses of the platform have been to inspire and educate people in addition to these “day in the life” type of vlogs. An example of a YouTuber who balances both of these concepts is Amanda Maryanna. She has shown pieces of her life as a college student in videos like “trying to cure my phone addiction (a digital detox)”, and social commentary, such as her video, “the instagram infographic industrial complex.” She uses her platform as a thought-provoking activist and simultaneously to express herself in a casual and fun manner. I feel it is also important to note that while money provides a sense of security for people, we have been focused on finding a better balance between our jobs and harnessing our creative passions. The monetization of these passions, such as selling artwork or being a YouTuber full time, is a paradox in itself as well because while we now have more outlets for creative freedom, we also have to consider the practicality of making money for survival. Conventional jobs, especially in-person positions, now bring a sense of discomfort now that people have adapted to working from home and found new outlets and side-hustles. NBC reported earlier this year that, “49 percent of adults feel uneasy about returning to in-person interactions once the pandemic is over. Vaccination status did not affect that: 48 percent of those who have already been vaccinated say they, too, feel uncomfortable with in-person interactions.” But what does this have to do with social media? People are looking for new ways to work from home and generate an income in an independent way without risking their safety. YouTuber Kaiti Yoo released a video this past January about how she was able to gain over 100K subscribers in her first six months on the platform. Personally, as someone who also has aspirations to grow their own platform, I enjoy videos like these to see how people can become successful content creators. However, it is also revelatory of how YouTube’s purpose has evolved and now caters to young go-getters trying to make a living outside of structural systems of employment. YouTube used to be a place where people solely posted content like Vines and other purely funny and entertaining content as opposed to well-thought-out video essays and vlogs. Instagram, however, appears to be taking a different course of action. Aesthetically pleasing feeds and trends are no longer as favored as candids and raw footage full of memories and smiles which have been hard to find in the last year and a half. “Photo dumping” is a way to channel this relaxed energy–this is when people post “random” photos of a certain time period or day to commemorate their joy. These photos can be blurry or underexposed or, aesthetically speaking, flawed in some way based on previous Instagram trends. However, it is their character and the nostalgia they evoke which grabs our attention as we scroll through our feeds. Ashley, a.k.a. Best Dressed, a popular YouTuber and social media personality, has given us content in this style recently, with her post from June 27th, depicting her from multiple angles, each photo blurrier than the last. She comes off as carefree and relatable, especially with the caption: “you can feel me getting more drunk in every pic lmao.” Many other people have taken on this trend as well, with photo dumps featuring flics from their past semester or year of college. These images serve us comfort and the knowledge that we can still have fun and live somewhat normal lives, even under the circumstances of the pandemic. Aside from yearning for independence and individuality as a result of the pandemic, people are also in need of reminders that better times always provide a shoulder to lean on. Seeing people happy and with their friends on my feed, even with the most unflattering and candid photos, always made me feel refreshed–I had reassurance that there was still goodness out there even during the pain. Overall, it appears that social media during this time of crisis has brought out our independent spirits and our need for expression in new and innovative ways. It’s interesting how YouTube is thought to be a serious undertaking as opposed to Instagram, which is changing toward a more casual and fun environment for posting. Both are valid, and I commend anyone who actively creates video content and/or posts pictures that make them happy. Contentment is the bridge between these two purposes, and maybe it took a turn for the worse to bring out our values and a new form of creative expression. The missing piece is this paradox of how social media dictates how we use the respective platforms, as they simultaneously encourage pursuing a side-hustle while also creating an open space for sharing. The question to answer is: are we still catering to capitalistic structures by using creative outlets online, or are we breaking free from the system by following our passions? About the Author
Lola is a Latin American student based in New York City attending Smith College who loves to write about a variety of subjects. You can find their work in The Sophian, which is Smith’s newspaper, and Citrus, Smith’s fashion magazine. She loves to read as well, and currently loves memoirs like Broken by Jenny Lawson and Hunger by Roxane Gay. They are passionate about art history too, and are pursuing a bachelor’s degree double majoring in english and art history. She loves hugs, early mornings, YouTube binges, and fruit salads. Someday they want to publish their own book and you can always find them wandering around a museum in the city.
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