April 2022 by Counterpoint Magazine

COUNTERPOINT the wellesley college journal of campus life april 2022 volume 58 issue 2

SUBMISSION POLICY The magazine accepts non-fiction submissions that are respectful, are submitted with sufficient time for editing, and have not been published elsewhere. We encourage cooperation between writers and editors but reserve the right to edit all content for length and clarity. Email submissions, ideas, or questions to the Editors-in-Chief (zgeorge or ppiscite). The views expressed in Counterpoint do not necessarily reflect the views of the magazine staff or the Wellesley community. Counterpoint does not solicit specific pieces from students, rather we publish the pieces that we receive each month and do our best to publish all appropriate submissions that we receive. page 2

counterpoint / april 2022

Images: Rachel Wu ’23 (cover), Sarah Kimutai ’24

Submit to Counterpoint’s May 2022 SENIOR ISSUE by April 22 by 11:59PM! Any reflections or wisdom you want to pass on to the underclassmen? Any wild stories or confessions you want to make? Now’s your chance to leave your mark in these pages!

E D I TO R I A L S TA F F Editors-in-Chief

Parker Piscitello-Fay ’22 Zaria George ’22

Managing Editor

Stella Ho ’22

Features Editor

Aidan Reid ’24

Staff Editors

Parker Piscitello-Fay ’22 Stella Ho ’22 Harriet Martin ’24 Iris Martinez ’24 Sarah Meier ’24 Aidan Reid ’24 Noshin Saiyaara ’24 Alina Willis ’24 Lauren Witt ’24 Precious Kim ’25 Katie Manno ’25 Camille Newman ’25 edha Sing ’25

D E S I G N S TA F F Layout Editors

Zaria George ’22 Nerine Uyanik ’24 Jennifer Long ’25

B U S I N E S S S TA F F Art Director

Kelly Song '24

Publicity Chair

Hailey Cho ’23

Events Manager

Alice Mei ’23

Treasurer

COUNTERPOINT THE WELLESLEY COLLEGE JOURNAL OF CAMPUS LIFE APRIL 2022 Volume 58 / Issue 2

IDENTITY ZARIA GEORGE

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

LIZETTE MIER

BEREFT

NATALIE NIEVES

LEONCIA

SIDEWALK WORMS

TRINETTE HUNTER

CAMPUS LIFE COUNTERPOINT STAFF

Olivia Funderburg ’18, Allyson Larcom ’17, Hanna Day-Tenerowicz ’16, Cecilia Nowell ’16, Oset Babur ’15, Alison Lanier ’15, Kristina Costa ’09, Kara Hadge ’08

WELLESLEY MOODS SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

STUDENT ART EMILY LEVINE

SPOTLIGHT

ZARIA GEORGE

DOWN BY THE LAKE

ZARIA GEORGE

SUBURBIA

M E N TA L H E A LT H VAN AN TRINH

Lauren Witt ’24

TRUSTEES

WHEN PRETENSE FALLS SHORT

F E AT U R E S COUNTERPOINT STAFF

POLL: MAJORS

COUNTERPOINT STAFF

CROSSWORD: GUILTY PLEASURES

counterpoint / april 2022

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Images: pngitems.com, cutewallpapers.com

IDENTITY

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s a kid, whenever I asked my parents why they named me what they did, they would say they saw it in a book of baby names and thought it was beautiful. I think it was meant to be my middle name—with Simone as my first name—but Zaria Simone flowed better. I’ve always had a difficult relationship with Zaria. The name is pretty to me, and I've never thought of it as an unfortunate one. For the first 18 years of my life, though, it just felt completely pointless. My parents called me Simone as my first name, so I made all of my classmates do it, too. I had never known Zaria. My feelings towards its irrelevance had always been heightened by the fact that my brother was named after my dad. His name is also biblical in origin, so there’s an added significance for my Catholic mom and vaguely Christian father. Zaria had no cultural relevance. There are multiple origins of the name. It’s Arabic, Hebrew, and Slavic. I’m not too familiar with the etymology of it and which version came first and what was derived from where, but in Arabic, Zaria translates to “flower.” In Hebrew, it’s a variation of the name “Sara” (that name is from the Bible). And in Slavic languages, the goddess of the dawn is called Zaria. It’s also a city in Nigeria, although unfortunately it was named so by the British in the early 20th century upon their claiming of the city. There is no set spelling of Zaria in any of these languages. Zaria. Zaryah. Zorya. Zara (I don’t claim this version, though, because it’s not pronounced the same). Actually, I’m not even sure if there is a set pronunciation. I still remember the anxiety every new school year, though, and how I just knew I’d have to 1.) correct the teacher’s pronunciation and 2.) ask them to call me Simone. ZahREE-ah. Zahr-EYE-uh. Those are the two most common variations I’ve heard. I was always pleasantly surprised (and still am) when someone would get it right on the

first try. When I was younger, I remember someone once telling me that I looked like a Jasmine, which I took as a code for “relatively brown.” I never expected to see “Zaria” on souvenirs as a kid. Sometimes I was fortunate enough to see “Simone”—and that was fine by me because that’s who I thought I was. People would tell me that Zaria is a beautiful name and ask me why I never went by it. I always shrugged and just said that I grew up as Simone. I decided to go by Zaria the summer before coming to Wellesley College. Although the school made it easy to write down your preferred name on documents, I stuck with Zaria. If I didn’t start going by it at a new school, in a new state, in a new chapter of my life, I knew I never would. My legal name being Zaria would only be some cute little fact about me brought up in icebreakers. I didn’t want that to happen, most importantly because, even though my parents themselves still call me Simone, it seemed disappointing to me to let their chosen name slip by. My parents chose it for a reason, and, though the reason may seem bland to me, it’s who I am. Although I’ve become more comfortable with being called Zaria, there is still the internal dilemma that I have about its origins. In a community where I’m surrounded by friends and family with culturally significant names that reflect their heritage, I grapple with being “Zaria.” It’s ironic how when you’re younger you want a generic name to fit in, but as you get older you wish your name would truly reflect your culture. Zaria is a beautiful name, but I belong to none of its cultures. It’s different from being called something as common as Simone, which has by now become a globalized, multicultural name. My mom’s side of the family is Mexican, with names and nicknames proudly reclaimed from the Spanish and reflective

of the country’s culture. My dad and his family are Black and from the South, also with proudly reclaimed (Anglo) names that remind me of home. I’m not really sure how to resolve this dilemma. I know that Zaria as a name specifically continues to grow in the Black community, and in that context I am proud of it. I still go by Simone when I’m at home; my history with the name and with certain people who have spoken it are pieces of me that I don’t ever want to forget. I do, however, constantly get whiplash coming and going from Wellesley and being called this or that. I believe that Zaria has slowly started to rise in popularity. I’ve come across more Zarias in my life. Will it ever be popular enough to be on a souvenir? Unfortunately for seven-year-old me, I don’t think it will. But twenty-one-yearold me is actively hoping that it never will. Recently, I saw an outfit set online labeled Zaria, and I’ve never been so thrown off. I’m not sure how to feel about it. I’ve become a little possessive of the name. Anyways, I leave you with the irony of my first name being so unique—Zaria— but my last name just being George. Regardless, and as far as I know, I am the only Zaria George. Zaria George ’22 (zgeorge) wishes you all a happy Latinx Month!

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IDENTITY

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BY M

LIZETTE I E R

Images: Jennifer Long '25

his past spring break, I sat in the recording room of Washington D.C.’s newest language museum, Planet Word. I glossed over the themes of what to talk about. Planet Word had a recording studio where anyone could share a story for their archives, and I knew I had been waiting so long to come to this museum that I couldn’t leave without leaving a mark behind. Breadcrumbs of my existence. “What is my favorite word?” I said out loud. That seems fitting. One of my favorite words is the word “bereft”, which derives from the word bereavement. It means something that is lacking, a sense that there is something that is lost. I first heard this word on the show Young Justice—it is the name of one of my favorite episodes. The show is a cartoon about young DC superhero sidekicks that form their own team, so they don’t have to live in the shadows of their mentors. In this episode, the team finds themselves lost in the desert, their memories of the last six months erased. This also erases their sense of identity because they had grown so much as a team together. Later in this episode, we see them revert to their old bad habits they had unlearned. Because of this, I connect “bereft” to loss of memory and loss of identity. It’s one of my favorite words because I feel like I’ve had a lot of loss in my life in

terms of missed opportunities, and missed sense of joy, and just not having access to things because of how I grew up… growing up as low-income and often in survival mode. “Bereft” connects to my identity as well. Growing up in survival mode deprives you of the things that give you comfort, that build your identity. To get high grades in high school and participate in the activities that got me to Wellesley, my nose was buried in books. I couldn’t tell you my favorite movies or music or sports. I have no concrete recollection of what I liked. I barely had the time and energy to explore these interests, let alone the money to finance them. Here, “bereft” just meant lacking. It meant that I was lacking the one element that I assumed made you human: simple pleasure.

Under the shadow of the pandemic, the word bereft grows stronger in meaning to me. As a senior, I think about all the loss these last few years have brought me and the collective healing we are all bereft of. As one of the first people in my family to go to college, I feel robbed of the college experience: what I saw in movies, and what I heard from upperclassmen, and from mentors I look up to. The sense of loss towards all the people I could have met, all the connections I could have made, and all the people that might have already graduated. I even wonder if people from my Wellesley experience prepandemic might find it weird if I reached out to them after two years of being MIA. I have come to realize that loss is just such a big part of life. You just have to get used to losing things and living with those missed opportunities. For better or for worse, change is the only constant of life, meaning that we inevitably lose track of friends, of time, of interests. Loss is inescapable. Loss is something you deal with all the time, and there’s not a good way to address all of it. There’s not a coping mechanism that works for everyone— you always have to find your own way. The weird thing about coping with loss is that you may not even have the same coping mechanisms for yourself between situations. When a mentor of mine died my first-year, I ran and ran on the treadmill blasting “Help!” by the Beatles. When March 2020 hit and Wellesley shut down, I hastily texted friends and gave hugs goodbye and lied to myself by saying I would see everyone a g a i n whenever I felt sad. When my experiences studying

abroad were more difficult than I expected under the new pandemic life, I wrote letters and journaled. The coping mechanism changes, but the sense of loss is always there. Part of me wants to spin this article to be more cheery, like, oh, yes, loss is a part of life and it helps you grow into a new person. Where would you be if you did not have to change? But the other part of me just wants these feelings to sink in. Loss sucks. Yes, it can be an opportunity to change, but a lot of the time it just sucks. It makes you feel isolated while we are told by our culture to just move on. Remember how everyone jumped to saying that this pandemic is our “new normal” so let’s go back to in-person life? No, fuck that. Let me grieve. Let me grieve the lost time and connections I could have had. Let me grieve the sense of stability I was finally adjusting to. Let us all grieve the alternative lives we could have had with the people, places, and experiences that didn’t have to leave us this abruptly… and not just in a global pandemic, but in every sense of change. The job you lost, the person that passed, the home you had to leave because you could no longer afford to stay there, the favorite clothes that you don’t fit into anymore or were otherwise ruined, the food you can no longer eat, the major you couldn’t fulfill. Let yourself grieve. One poetry line has been stuck in my head for some time now:

you lose sight of that hope you lose a piece of yourself. I think about my immigrant parents. Is this the American dream they were hoping for? To leave the struggle in one country only to struggle again in the next? Do they feel like their dreams are lost? What hopes do they have now? “Bereft” and “dreams deferred” weigh on my mind as I approach graduation. A sense of loss for experience on one hand and dreams pushed out on another. I

have dreams of traveling and painting, but as one fellowship after another falls through, my dreams are deferred until the next cycle of applicants or until my bank account can support my dreams. While I know I am satisfied with the opportunities I laid out for myself post-grad, I still have that bereft feeling. Something is missing. Something is off. The sad thing is that I don’t know if I’ll ever figure out that nagging feeling that something is lacking. These are sorrows I must come to terms with, maybe a lesson in life that we must all accept. Maybe there comes a time in our lives where we feel that there will always be something missing and realize that living life means learning to fill these sorrows with adapted dreams and new What happens to a dream deferred? - beginnings. Langston Hughes Lizette Mier (she) ’22 (lmier) has been What does happen to a dream reflecting a lot on her Wellesley years and deferred? A dream pushed away, so far is happy to pass on any wisdom or hardaway that maybe it’s lost now… maybe it learned lessons to others. She would also love weighs you down. Maybe that dream was to speak with anyone who watches the show so connected to your identity that once Young Justice. counterpoint / april 2022

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IDENTITY

y Abuela has always been a stoic woman. I look into her eyes and see a lifetime of pain and endurance but also glimmers of joy. I knew better than to ever ask her about her life. She

Chicago this time? Did she know that she would build a home and family in Chicago only for it to be demolished? Did she know she would give life to children, grandchildren, and greatgrandchildren? Did she have a

would dismiss the question and tell me to ask someone else. But when I found her graduation photo from beauty school, looking ahead at her possible future, it only left me with more questions. Did she know that she would leave Puerto Rico to go to New York City, only to return to Puerto Rico, then to go back to the states, but to

better life? Did she feel loved? Does she feel loved? I dedicate this piece to the woman who helped my mother raise me. A woman who has always been there for me but still feels so distant. Using various images of the places my Abuela has called home, I tell a part of her story of displacement, femininity, and self-love.

Images: Natalie Nieves ’22

LEONCIA

BY NATALIE NIEVES

Natalie Nieves ’22 (nnieves) is a soon-to-be Wellesley graduate. page 8

counterpoint / april 2022

IDENTITY

Sidewalk Worms

on the sidewalk in the rain.

by Trinette H u n t e r

I stop to pick some up, move them into the dirt so that when it dries out they will have somewhere safe to dig.

But there are too many for me to save them all—

Images: kindpng.com, pngfind.com

orms look like leaf stems & wet sticks

too many more haplessly crushed by a rain boot or two.

They squirm to get away from my hand and I try to show them that I’m here to help…

I grab them by their broken parts.

counterpoint / april 2022

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CAMPUS LIFE

Images: kindpng.com, spotify.com

wellesley moods spotify playlist

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counterpoint / april 2022

BY STAFF

Fool - Frankie Cosmos Paper Bag - Fiona Apple A Thousand Miles - Vanessa Carlton Don't Look Back In Anger - Oasis Oxford Comma - Vampire Weekend

OPEN A WINDOW - Rex Orange County, Tyler, the Creator Ain't It Fun - Paramore Paperbacks - Arlo Parks The Bug Collector - Haley Henderickx Bye Bye Bye - *NSYNC Save Your Tears - The Weeknd, Ariana Grande Close To You - Dayglow Forever Young - Alphaville Seventeen - Sjowgren Walden Pond - Atta Boy Feel This Moment - Pitbull, Christina Aguilera I Drink Wine - Adele Loner - Kali Uchis Cold Apartment - Vagabon Presumary Dead Arms (617 Sessions) - Sidney Gish counterpoint / april 2022

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MENTAL HEALTH

ack when the school year was still ripe with promise, my roommate and I planned our Wednesday evenings around each other and something fun. We thought of lowenergy, high-company plans from the comfort of our hallway: movie nights, baking cookies, and the like. While those plans remain in limbo—life, schoolwork, and diverging commitments got in the way—we stumbled into the smaller habit of conversing before breakfast or bedtime. Doing so has been a strangely domestic act for me, having grown up with parents who worked—or argued—late into the night. These conversations are something I appreciate about having a roommate, and about this one in particular. My friendship with Eugenie predates our choice to room together. When we’re alone amid our sparkling lights, I feel compelled to be radically honest with them, like I’m talking to an ancestral ghost. Like I’m talking to myself. As with many things in my life, having this space feels like an unearned blessing. I tend to ramble my thoughts away, minutes at a time, about the small joys or annoyances I’d gone through that day. In recent weeks, this ethic of radical honesty has meant that I constantly say I haven’t been doing well lately, because I haven’t. Admitting this, even when asked, has been a growing source of shame—and it shows. “Anyway,” I once said after a

B Y VA N A N T R I N H

particularly long rant, “thanks for pretending to be interested in all of this. I know it’s a lot.” Eugenie frowned and stared at me, their face almost stricken by hurt. “Why do you always think that I’m pretending?” I faltered. “I don’t know,” I said. “Never mind. I guess it must have been some kind of joke in my head.” “You know, Van An, sometimes I can’t really tell when you’re joking or not.” “Oh?” “You always sound so serious when you’re saying stuff like this; it’s kind of worrying.” “I’m sorry.” I paused. “I obviously don’t want to hurt you, or anyone else, when I say these things. It’s just— almost—borderline automatic. I’m sorry. I’m working on it.”

“And for the record, in all seriousness, what I genuinely, sincerely meant was to thank you for listening. Really.” My I kept going.

voice rushed and tripped over those words. “It really does mean a lot to me. And—just—sorry again!” “That’s okay,” they replied, unplugging our string lights from an outlet by the wall. “Good night! Good luck with class

tomorrow.” I promptly sunk my face into my pillow. • Like many others, 2022 greeted me with a depression I wasn’t sure was merely seasonal. Getting a single thought out of my mouth felt like biting through stale bread. Speaking to others only drew my attention to the metastasising, hollow void between my ribs—which existed even through the best of times. Now that I spent my days rotting into my bed alone, it was downright easy to think this ache was everlasting. I’ve always felt like I was a first draft of a person. Every environment I’ve been in has highlighted an unbridgeable difference between myself and the richness of others—like I should have contained a self, somewhere, that was lost in the gap between my actions and their bearing on who I was. As college students, we greet others with a standard introduction that’s damn near memorized in the back of our heads: name, pronouns (if desired), class year, and major(s). Sometimes we’ll talk about the places we call home, or frantically spit out a fun fact—one I find myself constantly searching for. Regardless, these introductions work because they assume that said characteristics roughly, but accurately, sketch out our full selves. They assume, not incorrectly, that our major choices and experiences say something about who

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Image: wallpaperaccess.com

When Pretense Falls Short

reconcile myself with who I can factually claim to be. That hurts. It hurts worse when I deceive others by doing so, on paper, anyway. Perhaps in response to this lack of self, I’ve always sought to imitate the friends and peers who inspire me. If I asked, they could tangibly cite specific awards and experiences that catalyzed their excellence. It was then natural for me to view my life as a bucket list, checking off credentials that others had proved page 16

themselves through. I primarily thought of myself as a lamer, knockoff version of my friends. On top of the stage, or the podium, or a class roster of perfect scores, they seemed divine while collecting their

achievements. In the end, no matter how I lived or didn’t live, I never seemed to capture the raw, effervescent humanity that I saw glowing in others. Theirs was an affect that shone in their brilliance, in their warmth, in the infectious humor and love that emanated from their presence. Conversely, the best I could muster up was a mockery of their personhood. When I received any form of academic accolade, I was relieved to keep pretending I was smart enough to hang out with them. When I finally found a group of classmates to eat lunch with during high school, I was relieved to save face, to not feel the humiliation of being alone. Only recently have I begun

counterpoint / april 2022

to see this as a cognitive distortion, instead of a plain truth that was naturally consequent from my own inabilities. Self-loathing was, irrationally, a linchpin on my worldview. When I felt like I didn’t belong, those feelings seemed to confirm my lack of humanity. When I did feel happiness or belonging, I hated myself for it. Surely no one cared about me in return, when my presence was an eyesore that was too impolite to evict. To this particular self of mine, being seen meant being hated. Remaining unseen meant being left for dead. No wonder I barely spoke to anybody. In the depths of my isolation, I fell into a rabbit hole rereading the conversations I had, via text or in my memory, during my mental health crises. Without saying too much about them, understand that these crises happened over the course of months, and I faced them mostly alone. Throughout them all, however, I am grateful to have had people, no matter how distant, who professed to care for me regardless. Reading their memes and text messages created bearable moments in an everyday life that was largely consumed by depression and paranoia.

Image: freeiconspng.com

we fundamentally are as human beings. While any proxy measure is inherently imperfect, I find myself breaking down under their weight entirely. When I make myself known to others—Van An, Hong Kong, Political Science and CS-in-some-form—I find myself constructing a person with an implied cultural and academic depth to them, when I barely do or think anything all day. In short, I find myself pretending. I can’t

It’s hard to reconcile these messages with who I thought I was at the time. “I am always in awe of you,” a friend once told

night. There is power in clarity. There is power in explicit recognition. My chest clutches when I see others address me directly, without pretense, their words

“You do deserve good things,” another said, “because sharp with electricity: I love you. I you are a beautiful person.” want to see you again. I’ll Though I still look back upon that past always be proud of you self with shameful pity, it was incredibly heartening to know that the people in for trying. Crucially, these words me.

my life, in all of their brilliance and love, once saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself. In doing so, they helped construct a version of myself that shifted who I genuinely thought I was. I don’t hold a monopoly on who I am. We are how we are perceived, just as we are how we perceive ourselves. It is still frightening to grant others any power to define me when I have spent a long time presuming their worst intentions. Operating otherwise feels naive, even when I rationally know that I’m justified in doing so. It reeks of a coping mechanism. However, the humanity that I aspire to is of a fundamentally relational quality. It is difficult to be kind or exuberant without people to show that kindness or exuberance towards. It is difficult to find passion in new things without seeing anyone who embodies that passion. This helps explain why I primarily think of myself as perceptive and neurotic: those are the qualities I express most when I’m alone. My assessment isn’t necessarily wrong per se—just incomplete. Identity is largely shaped by context, and I want to be more than a walking apology. I want to be more than a confession in human form. Doing so is an inherently collaborative process: it necessitates that I trust the honest feedback from the people who know me best. In some ways, I have always understood the power that others have over me. Perhaps that’s why I have a photographic memory for praise; I bottle compliments like fireflies on a summer

carry their fullest potential when they strike during moments of frank, radical sincerity. I’ll listen to you when my guard is down. In a quiet meal, or a late-night walk, or a call running long past midnight, I can’t be anyone but my honest self. Those moments are framed, in my mind, with the tenderness of a museum antique. As they happen, I can’t help but be moved by the basic empathy of others—not when it has been so glaringly absent in the way I see myself. My self-disappointment will not fossilize anytime soon. That’s okay. A change in ethic, radical honesty or otherwise, can only be a starting point in my recovery from an eventful, tumultuous adolescence. This recovery will probably last for the rest of my life. • Here is an unspoken contract of

myself. Eugenie fell ill with Covid; they’re recovering in the hotel over the next five days. Even in absence, when I am alone on a Friday night, I can feel their humanity inside a space that we cultivated together. I want to tuck it, for safekeeping, between my heart and my spine. To channel it as I cultivate my own personhood. To carry it with me when I write, or speak, or create new spaces of my own. This piece was an invitation. I’m most myself when I am with you. Come watch me break, with no mirror in sight, into a smile I’ll never see. Van An Trinh ’24 (vt100) has finally found a fun fact about herself – and, no, you are not allowed to know what it is.

I will be my candid self with you, and you will tell me the truth about who (you think) I am. Where others see it as default, many conversations:

this pact feels fresh and intentional in my eyes. It is the root of a political ethic of vulnerability—where solidarity is built upon an understanding of the struggles we share—but is also deeply personal. Within my own life, this promise is evident in how I foolishly, failingly try to care for others and the world while showing all of my own dimensions. As I write this, I have the room to

counterpoint / april 2022

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POLL SECTION TITLE

TITLE Content warnings: x; y his is the start of the article wow!

MAJORS

BY XYZ

This is the start of a normal paragraph (no drop cap)

By the numbers: 116 total responses

Coolest major (top 15)?

Images:

Of the 114 respondents who answered both questions:

ASTROPHYSICS CAMS ASTRONOMY MAS ARCHITECTURE ANTHRO LINGUISTICS PHILOSOPHY WGST ES GEOSCIENCES SOCIOLOGY BIOLOGY COMP. LIT. CS

0 page 18

counterpoint 2022 2018 counterpoint/ /april september

Dude Bro ’00 (bro@wellesley.edu) XYZ

Psychology Sociology

Political Science

English CS

CAMS Education

59 (51.75%) are double majors

Economics

WGST

44 (38.60%) think that American Studies their major is the coolest 14 (25.45%) single majors think that their own major is the coolest 30 (50.85%) double majors think that one of their own majors is the coolest

Biology Neuroscience

Top 10 majors of respondents

counterpoint / september 2018 counterpoint / april 2022

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CROSSWORD

GUILTY PLEASURES

SECTION TITLE

TITLE BY XYZ

Content warnings: x; y his is the start of the article wow!

Image:Images: freesvg.com

This is the start of a normal paragraph (no drop cap)

ACROSS 3 Vampires and werewolves somehow getting into love triangles 4 This dating competition show ends (sometimes) with an engagement and (always) tears 7 Maddie Ziegler’s original claim to fame 8 Forced abstinence on a tropical island 11 “Where’s the beach?” Snooki 15 The greatest movie ever made that parodies fairytales and stars an ogre 16 “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird” 17 A dysfunctional family founded on a Sex Tape 20 Anne Hathaway takes on San Francisco in a tiara

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counterpoint / september 2018

21 Hot people “couple up” at a luxury villa on an island 22 America’s Next Top 23 A human being is stung with love for an insect 24 Jessica is only 10 year older than Mark! It’s not a big deal! 25 Remember when Drake was Jimmy Brooks? 26 Don’t stop believin’ in this comedy-drama about students in a show choir DOWN 1 They’re kinda rock and roll for people who don’t like rock and roll, rap for people who don’t like rap, and pop for people who don’t like pop 2 Disgraced FBI agents go way undercover to protect the Wilson sisters

5 Unfortunately, I don’t think any of us are young and sweet and seventeen anymore, like the protagonist from this song 6 Song from number 2 and featured in our Wellesley Moods playlist 9 “What’s it like in New York City?” 10 Funk band who like to remind us that they’re from California 12 These two brothers hunt things and save people, the family business 13 Eight bloody seasons of this supernatural love triangle 14 It’s 1984, we are flys on the wall watching houseguests’ every move Dude ’00 who (bro@wellesley.edu) XYZ 18 A Bro ginger drowned