04.08.21

34st.com | April 8, 2021

TA B L E O F C O N T E N T S

Letter from the Editor On self–criticism, unbalanced friendships, and learning to take no bullshit 3 WORD ON THE STREET

Food Shame during COVID–19

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Charmaine Giles on Self–Care

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12 FEATURE

Dreaming of Jerusalem

19 ARTS

Cherry Blossoms in Philadelphia

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"A

cceptance" is a funny word. I’ve been thinking a lot about it as quarantine inevitably forced the introspection I used to reserve for quiet, empty Sunday mornings into an everyday occurrence.

What will I accept from myself? What will I accept from others? And why do those two end up feeling drastically different?

I’m known for being hard (read: unkind) on myself, yet paradoxically, too forgiving of the people that cycle in and out of my life. Sometimes, this manifests in seemingly harmless ways. I’ll force myself to show up to parties 20 minutes early and take anxious laps around the block, but I’ll let my friends cancel ten minutes before dinner reservations—no questions asked. Or I’ll answer a text instantaneously because the thought of branding myself as a chronic ghoster gives me stomach aches, yet pine after men who leave me on read for days at a time. These are the hallmarks of the Disney Channel Original Movie sidekick; sure, I can be a doormat, but in the quirky and relatively normal way.

Other times, however, it feels like I’m constantly challenging myself to overcompensate for the ways others have failed me.

I’ll lambast myself over forgetting the little things—responding to an Instagram meme, sending over notes from yesterday’s lecture, wishing your dog or boyfriend a happy birthday—while apologizing to myself on the behalf of friends who never managed to read a copy of Street, keep a plan, or show up when I need extra comfort. Friendship has always looked like a point system in my head. And I need to accrue all of them always, or else people won’t find me worthy of the bare minimum.

So, I’m giving myself grace, and tightening up my circle, even if it means I go a couple of months without the ping of a text from someone other than my mom and do a lot of public dining alone. As trite as it may sound, being alone is a whole lot less lonely than accepting emptiness from others. In learning what I won’t accept from friendships and relationships, I’ve

22 UNDER THE BUTTON

Beatrice Forman, Editor–in–Chief Chelsey Zhu, Campus Editor Mehek Boparai, Culture Editor Karin Hananel, Assignments Editor Lily Stein, Features Editor Denali Sagner, Features Editor Hannah Lonser, Special Issues Editor Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Kyle Whiting, Music Editor Peyton Toups, Deputy Music Editor Kaliyah Dorsey, Focus Editor Emily White, Style Editor Eva Ingber, Ego Editor Aakruti Ganeshan, Arts Editor Harshita Gupta, Film & TV Editor Isabel Liang, Design Editor Alice Heyeh, Street Design Editor Mia Kim, Deputy Design Editor Jesse Zhang, Street Multimedia Editor Caylen David, Street Audience Engagement Editor

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learned that I need to be a lot more accepting of myself. For the first time in what feels like my entire college journey, I have the space to forgive myself for coming up short—and that's because I'm not forcing myself to forgive everyone else.

This week’s issue is about what it means to ask for acceptance, both from ourselves and from the institutions that surround us.

It opens with a personal essay about the challenges of accepting our quarantine bodies, which are somehow both stronger and weaker than they were last April. We interview a teacher about combating burnout and unveil Penn Non–Cis’ language guide, a winding document designed to encourage Penn administrators and organizations to use language that is gender inclusive.

Mostly, we’re acknowledging that acceptance is a non–linear process, and that it’s okay to take a couple of steps back before you plod forward.

Illustration by Alice Heyeh SSSF,

Bea

Features Staff Writers: Sejal Sangani, Angela Shen, Lindsey Perlman, Mira Sydow, Amy Xiang, Pranav Mishra Focus Beat Writers: Rema Bhat, Kira Wang, Jean Paik, Gabriella Raffetto Style Beat Writers: Naomi Kim, Matthew Sheeler Ego Beat Writers: Maddie Muldoon, Nick Plante, Fernanda Brizuela, Saranya Das Sharma, Lily Suh Music Beat Writers: Emily Moon, Allison Stillman, Nora Youn, Evan Qiang, Walden Green Arts Beat Writers: Jessa Glassman and Avneet Randhawa Film & TV Beat Writer: Arielle Stanger Staff Writers: Meg Gladieux, Aidah Qureshi, Jillian Lombardi, Kathryn Xu, Alice Heyeh, Phuong Ngo, Aria Vyas Multimedia Associates: Dhivya Arasappan, Sage Levine, Sophia Dai, Sophie Huang, Samantha Turner, Sudeep Bhargava, Sukhmani Kaur, Alexandra Morgan Lindo Audience Engagement Associates: Kira Wang, Samara Kleiman, Stephanie Nam, Yamila Frej

Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow Cover Design by Alice Heyeh

Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Bea Forman, Editor-In-Chief, at forman@34st. com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com ©2021 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Thursday.

The em dash gets me every time - chelsey zhu

WORD ON THE STREET

Not Measuring Up

Illustration by Isabel Liang

Fighting food–shame and self–blame during COVID–19 | GABRIELLA RAFFETTO Content warning: The following text describes eating disorders and can be disturbing or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.

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t’s a Friday night, and I’m in my dorm, eyeing my to–go tempeh from Hill House. I check my makeup in the mirror and reorganize all the things on my desk for the umpteenth time— silicone food container, plastic utensils, one–subject notebooks, lemon water, baby bonsai tree, multi–colored pens, crumpled sticky notes—before I flip open my laptop and browse through my most recent FaceTimes. After calling every one of my immediate family members to no avail, I grab my Himalayan sea salt from the spare desk

that has become my makeshift food pantry/piano keyboard stand, and start eating.

Five minutes later, my mom calls me back. I’ve finished my dinner by then and move on to my stash of Thin Mints while lounging on my couch— the extra mattress that was meant for a roommate.

After we hang up, I eat two more cookies, reveling in the fact that they’re called 'Thin' Mints.

It’s 8:30 p.m. I move on to my pint of dairy–free ice cream in the freezer, the kind that only has 300 calories total so you don’t hate yourself too much if you accidentally binge. I take my vitamins, watch a Disney princess movie to keep me company—all while trying to ignore the sounds of intoxicated first years outside my window, whose voices will keep me up all night. I try to work on my paper for my writing seminar but instead es-

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WORD ON THE STREET

cape to Netflix to watch Gilmore Girls, which brings my appetite back to sweets. By midnight, I’m out of Thin Mints.

I’ve always invested more in my relationship with food than with most people. For many, food is something you worry about when you’re hungry. But it’s never been that way for me. Throughout high school, I planned my breakfasts, snacks, and lunches in meticulous detail, measuring exactly one tablespoon of peanut butter for my PB&J sandwiches and counting exactly how many almond–flour crackers I’d eat as a snack. I would take out all the ingredients for my morning smoothie the night before, leaving a pink sticky note next to the blender that lists the ingredients and their exact measurements, along with corresponding calorie counts.

During the school day, I found myself writing in the margins of my notebooks, adding everything up: 250–calorie smoothie + 200– calorie homemade trail mix + 250 calories for hummus and chips + 60 calories of grapes + 30 calories for my afternoon coffee with almond milk and zero–calorie stevia. With two–thirds of my meals planned out, I was less stingy in the evenings, but I still made sure to brush my teeth and put on my retainer at 8 p.m. to prevent myself from acting on any late–night cravings.

Then I came to college, and my structured eating routine went down the drain. I was on a dining plan, for one thing, which meant I couldn’t meticulously measure out and calorie–count most of my meals. Instead of going to my hometown pure–roots coffee shop, I began frequenting Starbucks for their sugar–filled, hyper–caffeinated beverages. And worst of all was my dorm, which was not only my bedroom, but also my classroom, yoga studio, music practice room, dining hall, and food pantry. I couldn’t escape food.

Since the day I got accepted into college, I’ve been paranoid of gaining the notorious 'Freshman 15.' But on top of my changing eating habits, another curveball to my daily routine was the fast–paced, city–school lifestyle. I didn’t realize it at first, but every take–out excursion to Hill House and back was nearly a mile walk. This, along with all the other reasons I would have for going outside, would quickly add up in my step count.

I started waking up to aching legs, not know-

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ing what was wrong with me, only to check my Health App and realize I had been taking 10,000–20,000 steps a day since arriving at Penn. Some of those days included four–mile runs to the Rocky Steps and back.

I stopped counting my calories when I got mad at myself for exceeding what I used to consider 'normal.' I was actually hungrier all the time, thanks to my dramatic increase in daily steps. Instead, I invested my energy into

I’m struggling to maintain my sanity in this strange COVID–19 existence, stuck between a limbo of binge–eating snacks that I can’t run from and walking to the point of exhaustion just to escape my 10–by–12 cell.

trying not to lose my mind. I wanted to go home. I spent most of my time in my 10–by– 12–foot dorm that was meant for two people but was suffocating for just one. I would open my snack drawer and finish a sleeve of Thin Mints. Then maybe peruse my refrigerator. Then find myself scrutinizing my reflection in the mirror above my sink, which also served as my kitchen counter. Then go back to watching Disney+. Then FaceTime my sister, who’d remind me that college is hard during a normal year, let alone a year where you can’t socially eat in dining halls or escape your snack–filled room to attend class.

My body has been extremely overwhelmed and confused since I set foot on campus in January. Every day, it asks, "What the fuck are you doing to me?" I have never walked or eaten so much in my life. And on top of all the physical strain that my 5–foot–4 frame has taken on, my mental psyche feels as if it's been thrown into a garbage disposal and spit out again. An infinity of insecurities play on repeat in my head: How am I going to make friends when I’m not even allowed to sit in-

side to have a cup of coffee with someone?

How am I going to keep up with schoolwork when life is normal again if I can hardly keep up now? When am I going to start figuring out college? Next semester? The semester after that? And please, no one else ask me what I want to major in—I don’t even know what I want for lunch!

I’m struggling to maintain my sanity in this strange COVID–19 existence, stuck between a limbo of binge–eating snacks that I can’t run from and walking to the point of exhaustion just to escape my 10–by–12 cell.

But both my overeating and over-exercising are coping mechanisms for the isolation and underlying stressors that have impacted all of us this year. I, like many, comfort myself by binge-eating, binge-watching, and refusing to stay still.

It’s a Saturday night, and I’m currently writing this piece in my dorm, trying to ignore the sounds of music blasting downstairs and kids laughing outside. I don’t have to stop calorie–counting out of frustration, since I never started today to begin with.

After browsing my pantry, I find something sweet to eat. Out loud, I say, “It’s okay,” even though there’s no one but myself listening. I take a bite, and then another. I don’t regret it.

Campus Resources: The HELP Line: 215-898-HELP: A 24–hour–a–day phone number for members of the Penn community who seek help in navigating Penn's resources for health and wellness.

Counseling and Psychological Services: 215-898-7021 (active 24/7): The counseling center for the University of Pennsylvania.

Student Health Service: 215-7463535: Student Health Service can provide medical evaluations and treatment to victims/survivors of eating disorders, regardless of whether they make a report or seek additional resources.

Reach–A–Peer Hotline: 215-5732727 (every day from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m., texting available 24/7): A peer hotline to provide peer support, information, and referrals to Penn students.

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Charmaine Giles on Self–Care and Teaching During a Pandemic A sixth grade teacher turned school leader, Giles is using hard work and self–compassion to teach her students in quarantine. | LILY SUH

Photo By Laurence Kesterson

A

fter a year of online learning, everyone is simply exhausted. It’s difficult to imagine school without Zoom fatigue, Wi–Fi crashes, and awkward breakout rooms. Yet, if there's one group of people dedicated to turning remote learning into something salvageable, it's teachers.

Take Charmaine Giles. After starting as a sixth grade teacher, she's transitioned into a leader at Mastery Schools.

Although teaching has its normal challenges—like talking with parents and ensuring that students can focus on their education without other worries—the pandemic has triggered an onslaught of uncharted responsibilities.

Some days, Giles spends hours contact tracing and communicating with parents in English and Spanish to help them access online health information.

“I'm learning Spanish, but I'm not fluent. With something as simple as the lab's website only coming in English, I'm helping in my best Spanglish to translate for them and make them feel comfortable," she says.

Giles is constantly adjusting to the ever–changing nature of teaching amid a pandemic, which has forced her to think practically about the long term ramifications of every decision. “I thought, ‘Can we do this for months? Is this sustainable? As the science changes, does this still make sense?’” she says.

Unfortunately, extensive planning doesn't always pan out well due to the unpredictability of COVID–19, so she and her staff must solve problems at a moment's notice. The Friday before students were scheduled to return to school after summer break, Giles was told that they needed to switch to an entirely virtual model. After a summer of preparation, the charter school had to change weeks of lesson plans

in one weekend.

The nature of the pandemic has naturally transformed the educational system with the potential of technology and online learning. However, Giles also believes that attending school virtually isn't ideal.

“It's not the quality education that I can give when we're in person, and I won't pretend like it is,” she says. “It's a very convenient Band–Aid that I think went well for eight out of ten kids, and they'll be able to succeed. But so many of our kids learn from each other, and technology is a barrier.”

As Giles' sixth-grade classroom exemplifies, the COVID–19 pandemic keeps exposing inequities beyond the schoolhouse, like the lack of access to health care and food insecurity that severely impact many students and their families.

“I have a crazy amount of students that we serve meals every day to [for] breakfast, lunch, and sometimes a snack or dinner because they're here for after care. We're not just talking about COVID–19, but we're talking about food access,” she says. “If one of my students is to get sick, their ability to get quality medical care is way different than if you go three miles that way to Pennsauken. I had kids missing whole days, waiting in line in the clinic because they had an earache.”

However, Giles prides her student body for their resilience. “I have older siblings that are in fifth grade helping their kindergartener brother or sister because their mom or dad are working,” she says.

“Some of them weren't even learning because they were babysitting the whole time, or they're holding their infant brother and sister as they're learning long division."

Although students feel the heavy weight of the pandemic, they're not the only ones. Teachers must

also cope with this traumatic time. Some are losing family members and dealing with illness while also reassuring their own students, which leaves them little room for self–care.

Because of these newfound tensions, teacher burnout has only increased. Giles says that one program has been vital among her colleagues in helping to mitigate this fatigue: the Burn–In Mindset.

Burn–In Mindset provides personalized coaching sessions for teachers to learn and apply positive psychology so they can support and uplift one another. Through methods like identifying signature strengths and starting each day with morning huddles and inspirational videos, Burn–In Mindset has become a game changer for Giles and her staff.

“I think [the] Burn–In Mindset is how you truly shift from burning out to burning in in a way that is sustainable. If I want to do this work, I have to take care of myself,” Giles says. “I think that teaching these strategies to your teaching staff is the only way that you can have teachers retain and stay in the work of something as difficult as being a teacher in an underserved community during a global pandemic.”

As Giles looks forward to the future as both an educator and a mother to a toddler, she hopes for a more equitable world that is free from the effects of redlining, gerrymandering, and racism for her students and daughter.

In her quest for language, racial, and socioeconomic diversity in education, Giles says, “I'm not running a school that reflects that wish right now, so what I try with my co–leaders is to create that space through activities, books, and experiences that really foster the love of learning about difference, but also the love of learning about ourselves. I just hope that it doesn't just exist in the corner that I live in."

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ANDREW LAM HOMETOWN: Wappingers Falls, N.Y. MAJOR:

Meet the chief of MERT who worked to make its services available during the pandemic. | FERNANDA BRIZUELA

34TH STREET MAGAZINE: Tell us about your decision to pursue the Vagelos MLS Program as well as a master’s in chemistry.

ANDREW LAM: I decided to give [MLS] a shot my [first] year. In the program, one has to take different science classes across all the different disciplines, like biology, chemistry, and physics. I think a good theme for the program is that all the sciences are connected. So you'll notice that through my majors—I have three majors, but there's so much overlap. All the classes I take capture all the different majors because science is interrelated … and that's why I stuck through it, because I really wanted to have a deeper understanding of biology and medicine.

My decision to pursue the master’s was that I always knew I wanted to do research. I'm doing research at Penn—it’s a big part of the Vagelos program. I've spent a lot of time in the lab, really late at night—I'm a really big night owl—so research is a big part of my life here.

I study neurodegenerative diseases, and I always knew I wanted to do research on neurodegeneration. That's what got me interested in neuroscience, because my grandfather had Parkinson's disease

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Biochemistry, biophysics, and neurobiology through the Vagelos Scholars Program in the Molecular Life Sciences (MLS), master’s in chemistry

ACTIVITES: Penn Medical Emergency Response Team (MERT), Alzheimer’s Buddies, research in the Biochemistry and Biophysics Departments, Vagelos Happiness Project

when I was a child. Growing up, watching him suffer [through the] disease—not being able to walk or feed himself and not remembering who I was—[it] really had a big impact on me. That's what made me realize that I want to study neuroscience and do research here. The Vagelos program actually helped me accomplish all those things and more.

STREET: You're involved in Alzheimer's Buddies.

What does that entail, and what does it mean to you?

AL: Growing up, I watched my grandfather have Parkinson's disease, and that had a big impact in my life. I've been part of Alzheimer’s Buddies since [my first] year. I would visit my buddy in this nursing home nearby, like all the other volunteers do, and we would do activities with them to try to get their mind off things and alleviate the social and cognitive parts of the disease.

I had a really close relationship with my buddy.

His name was Jim. It was really challenging at first trying to relate to someone very different from you and also someone experiencing dementia. For Jim, I found out that he really loved old movies. That's what would get him talking. So I sort of latched on to that. I took a class at Penn called CIMS 101,

which focuses on movies made from the beginning of cinematic history until 1945. I would go to this class, and I would watch these movies, and then I would have material to go talk to my buddy about.

His eyes would light up when I mentioned a movie, and he would tell me all about it.

Unfortunately, he passed away, which I was really sad to hear about. But what really heartened me was that I found out that he left me a copy of this VCR tape from his favorite director that he really loved and that we talked about. I still have it with me in my apartment.

I had a really positive experience with the club, and I saw what good it could do. That motivated me to want to be more involved, so now I'm the co–director. It's really weird because I became co–director at the start of COVID–19, and we couldn't visit the nursing home. But we could still video chat with residents of the nursing home during this time. So a big part of this year was trying to get these calls set up and running, and trying to continue the mission of the club even through COVID–19. Thanks to a really great board, we were able to do that.

STREET: You're also the chief of MERT. How was

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your experience being chief during the pandemic?

AL: It's definitely been a challenge. Last spring break, for the first time in MERT’s history, we had to go out of service when classes were happening because of the pandemic. Over the summer, we knew we really wanted to work to get back into serving the community. So a lot of the work was done to figure out a set of protocols that would help us be safe—protecting our EMTs [emergency medical technicians] as well as protecting the patients we serve.

It took a lot of work, developing that set of protocols. I did a lot of research on CDC [Centers for Disease Control and Prevention] protocols, Department of Health protocols, and guidelines from the Pennsylvania Department of Health. I took all that information, and I wrote a bullet point list of a bunch of protocols that we knew we wanted to do. MERT is very lucky to have a lot of advisors at Penn who are very invested and put a lot of work into keeping it running. A major one is our medical director, Dr. Josh Glick, so we consulted him on all the protocols. He helped us develop them and flesh them out. The whole MERT board got it approved and fully written, and we decided to operate on those.

It's been a really big success so far. We haven't had any cases of [COVID–19] transmission within MERT EMTs or between patients. We're really lucky that the University approved us to come back to service and allow us to operate during the pandemic, even though we're all still students.

STREET: What has been your most memorable Penn experience?

AL: Coming into Penn, I never really expected to be involved in community health and public health.

What changed that was actually interacting with the Philadelphia community a lot. It sounds really weird, but my [first] year, I saw the Eagles win the Super Bowl, and I remember going down to Broad Street and seeing all of Philadelphia there. I got to learn a lot about the city. It's so weird that that was an experience that sort of drove me to that—that got me interested in the Philadelphia community.

My sophomore year, I had a chance to apply to the MERT board, and I applied to be the community outreach officer. In addition to learning more about the city, I learned a lot about the health disparities in the city and how the opioid crisis is affecting Philadelphia. The main goal of the community outreach position is to provide trainings for the Penn community. But when I joined the position, I knew I wanted to expand these trainings to the

LIGHTNING ROUND STREET: Last song you listened to?

VS: “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac.

STREET: If you were a building on campus, which one would you be and why?

VS: I would probably say the chemistry building. There's always something there for whatever mood I'm feeling.

STREET: What's your hair routine?

VS: I like to keep it natural. So what I do to make it stay up is, at night, I wet my hair, and I comb it, and then I just go to sleep on my back.

It just stays up throughout the whole day. I don't know anybody else who does that, but it keeps it nice and soft without the gel from hair products.

STREET: There are two types of people at Penn…

VS: Those that sign their email with "Best," and those that don't.

STREET: And which one are you?

VS: I don't. My proudest accomplishment is that I've gone all four years without signing one single email with "Best."

Philadelphia community. The major project that I took up was an opioid overdose and reversal training project.

Basically, opioid overdoses cause a significant amount of deaths in America and in Philadelphia.

And these opiate overdoses are easily reversible through Narcan, which is a medication. As EMTs on MERT, we were trained to give Narcan. In my time, I've been to a lot of opiate overdose calls, and I've met a lot of people in Philadelphia who have had friends and family overdose on opioids. Hearing all these stories had a really big effect on me.

This inspired [MERT] to develop an opioid overdose training program, training people how to detect an opioid overdose and how to respond to it.

A big part of my time in that job was securing a grant from the Philadelphia Department of Public Health. So we got this grant, and we were able to distribute Narcan for free at our trainings. We’ve trained over a hundred people by now and given free doses of Narcan to make sure there's some op-

tions to handle the opioid crisis in Philadelphia. I was really proud of all this. I never, ever expected to do all this when I first came to Penn, and that whole experience got me interested in public health, community, and community health. I know that's something I want to do in my future when I'm a physician—being able to continue to do public health stuff.

STREET: What’s next for you after Penn?

AL: I'm going to medical school. I don't know where yet, but hopefully I’ll become a doctor one day. I don't know what specialty I want to go into yet. But I know there are a couple things I want to continue doing in medical school and beyond.

Being in Vagelos and working in my lab confirmed that I really love to do research. So I want to continue to research as a physician, and I also want to be really involved in the community and public health.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

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Illustration by Isabel Liang, Original Image by Neil Krug

MUSIC

LANA DEL REY GRASPS AT AUTHENTICIT Y ON

Chemtrails Over the

Country Club On the singer’s insular seventh album, some experiments turn out better than others. | WALDEN GREEN

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t often feels as though Lana Del Rey lives in two different worlds. In her music, she’s “the poet laureate of a world on fire.” But in the harsh light of real life she can be, as Street’s Kyle Whiting puts it, “a bumbling fool.” Take an excerpt from her interview with Annie Mac earlier this year: “It’s like, we don’t know how to find the ways to be wild in our world … and at the same time, the world is so wild.” In reference to the seditionists who stormed the Capitol, this remark dangerously minimized that the riots were foremost a hateful and violent demonstration of white supremacy.

A similar sentiment crops up on “Wild At Heart,” midway through the tracklist of Del Rey’s seventh studio album Chemtrails Over the Country Club. But when she sings, “If you love me, you’ll love me / 'Cause I’m wild, wild at heart,” the sentiment is elevated from lower back tattoo fodder to dissociative poetry. Musically, her new album is a study in blurred boundaries, rather than being concrete or self–contained. This benefits songs like “Chemtrails Over the Country Club,” which felt slight as a single, but spreads its ominous overcast across the entire record.

“Wild At Heart” stitches together two melodies that feel pulled straight from the annals of Norman Fucking Rockwell!.

While some may gripe with this record’s similarities to Del Rey’s end–of–the–decade masterpiece, they disregard that her 8

focus has always been on developing a single and singular aesthetic. On “Dark But Just A Game,” she explains, “We keep changing all the time / The best ones lost their minds / So I’m not gonna change / I’ll stay the same.” Lana Del Rey is one of the few celebrity musicians who consistently doubles down on her artistic choices and political stances alike, regardless of public response.

The most compelling moments on the album come when Del Rey and frequent collaborator Jack Antonoff choose to move outside their comfort zone.

“Tulsa Jesus Freak” and “Dark But Just A Game” both build on the shuffling rhythms of trip–hop, and the latter is a prime example of how the album employs texture. Antonoff composes with a perfumer’s ear, creating an ever–shifting, smog–shrouded stage out of base notes and top notes. He also showcases his jazz–influenced improvisational playing on the guitar, recalling country–adjacent virtuosos like the legendary Les Paul.

Lana Del Rey works harder than ever on Chemtrails to incorporate the sounds of Americana into her music. At times, she produces engaging apocrypha; the scintillating bluegrass harmonies that close out “Wild At Heart” and “Let Me Love You Like A Woman,” which cribs a chord progression from “Look At Miss Ohio,” are some of the record’s highest highs. The hymnlike “Not All Who Wander Are Lost” also recalls selections from

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the Great American Songbook. That track successfully distills and bottles the wistfulness of a road trip. Other gestures at country music are less credible, like the jarring inclusion of country singer Nikki Lane on album low point “Breaking Up Slowly,” which includes the lyric, “I don’t want to end up like Tammy Wynette.”

Del Rey cited her as an influence during the record’s press cycle, but that inspiration is sadly lacking in all but name.

On Norman Fucking Rockwell!, Lana Del Rey focused her wide–eyed gaze on 'the culture' at large, but Chemtrails Over the Country Club turns inwards. The album’s opening track, “White Dress,” has immediately become a new highlight in her oeuvre. Part of this can be attributed to its engrossing vocal timbre: a strained and haunting falsetto, something unexpected for an artist often typified as lackadaisical or disaffected. Perhaps this has to do with Del Rey’s lingering frustration toward the asinine critiques that labeled her music as inauthentic and retrofetishistic.

The lyrics on “White Dress” are peppered with such specificity, like the “Men in Music Business Conference,” that they infuse the entire song with irrefutable sincerity. The American dream has long been Lana Del Rey’s provenance, but here she manages to intertwine it with her own self–mythologization. She reflects on her years working as “a waitress wearing a tight dress,” but with the

caveat that “It kinda makes me feel, like maybe I was better off.” Chemtrails Over the Country Club has almost none of its predecessor’s obligation to the present moment; even the album cover is a snapshot of a bygone era.

Beginning with “Yosemite,” Chemtrails Over the Country Step enters a spotty run.

This is in tandem with Del Rey’s attempt to harness the musical legacy of other female singers, rather than focusing on herself. The record’s last third includes the aforementioned “Breaking Up Slowly,” as well as “For Free,” which elucidates that Weyes Blood’s Natalie Mering is a much more capable Joni Mitchell impressionist than Del Rey herself.

“Dance Till We Die” also opens with a full litany of influences. However, the song is rescued by one of the album’s best instrumentals, which ebbs and flows like the Pacific Ocean. That is, until the haze parts and reveals what sounds like a rollicking pastiche of Led Zeppelin’s “What Is and What Should Never Be.” This moment is thrilling less because of its execution, and more because of how foreign it sounds compared to anything Del Rey has ever released. Chemtrails Over the Country Club showcases the panoply of ideas remaining to power the albums that will follow in its wake. For better or worse, Lana Del Rey won’t be going away any time soon; she still has plenty to say.

EGO OF THE WEEK

Illustration by Isabel LIang, Original Image by Jon Kopaloff

JUSTIN BIEBER MISSES THE MARK WITH NEW ALBUM

JUSTICE Bieber's latest studio effort aims for relevance and falls into performative activism. | ALLISON STILLMAN

“I

njustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”

Civil rights activist Martin Luther King Jr. declares this acclaimed statement in the opening lines of Justin Bieber’s new album, Justice. This quote is powerful and resonates with global citizens looking to take action. Later, in "MLK Interlude," the voice of MLK from a 1967 sermon preaches to Bieber fans, “If you have never found something so dear and so precious to you that you will die for it, then you aren’t fit to live.”

On first listen, one might assume Bieber’s new album would have a tremendous activist agenda. During a time of civil dissension and inequality permeating the headspace of youth advocates, the album title Justice and the double feature of MLK—the face of the American civil rights movement and leader of seismic, yet peaceful protests—would suggest Bieber was taking a stance on such relevant issues.

Instead, the album ultimately takes a sharp turn down Bieber’s classic, chart– topping pop sound that has, well, not much to do with civil justice at all.

The tracks on the album are catchy but inapplicable to any of these fundamental problems. Many fans online have accused Bieber of "performative white nonsense," exploiting activism for a greater number of streams. However, when isolated from this inexplicable

connection, Justice represents an exciting progression in Bieber’s growth as an artist and a figure in the public eye.

The album itself focuses on Bieber’s evolved sentiments regarding love and marriage. He digs into his 2015 roots in a similar fashion to Purpose. Bieber brings together a cast of several big–time artists, targeting a widespread audience

"JUSTICE REPRESENTS AN EXCITING PROGRESSION IN BIEBER’S GROWTH AS AN ARTIST AND A FIGURE IN THE PUBLIC EYE." with industry players like Dominic Fike, Khalid, Chance the Rapper, and Daniel Caesar.

Following MLK’s monumental statement in Justice’s opening track "2 Much," Bieber breaks out into a heartfelt ballad about being madly in love.

He passionately reveals his feelings, belting, “Don't wanna fall asleep / I'd rather fall in love.” This love song is irresistibly captivating, with a soft cascade of piano accompanied by Bieber’s intimate voice.

The connection between King’s message and the implications of “2 Much” is elusive. However, aside from this disparate feature, the track is a perfect window into the album’s comprehensive thematic ideas of marriage and loyalty.

Justice reveals a new side of Bieber’s music, showcasing the provisional pop landscape with hints of emotional ballads that foster an intimate experience.

Rising hit "Peaches" brings in traces of R&B with the dual feature of Daniel Caesar and GIVEON, gaining traction on social media platforms like TikTok. In “Peaches,” Bieber pays homage to his house in Georgia, while imprinting comments about his wife. It’s a sun– kissed track that feels like driving down the West Coast, embracing listeners in the sweet aura of summer.

Sustaining this feel–good energy is "Somebody," which is produced by Skrillex and anchored by a relentless backbeat with a simplistic, yet catchy chorus. It pairs well with the jubilance of "Love You Different," featuring Jamaican pop star BEAM. Next, Bieber unites with Burna Boy on "Loved By You." This song, imbued with tropical beats, is introspective as Bieber reflects on his deep need for external validation: “Oh, I hate the way I need to be loved by you.” This is not the only track where Bieber pensively ruminates on his past self and his emotional maturity. In "As I Am,” Khalid joins Bieber against a

slow–building melody that explodes in a buoyant chorus where the two artists preach lessons of love and value.

This somewhat surprising side of Justice that is vulnerable and raw exhibits a maturity in Bieber’s music and motive as a songwriter. He enters a realm of heartfelt, honest themes in "Lonely" and "Unstable," respectively featuring benny blanco and The Kid Laroi. These tracks open fans up to the concealed struggles that Bieber has dealt with while being in the spotlight since 2007, and under constant scrutiny by the media. He reveals the truth about his mental health in "Unstable," divulging, “Sometimes I think I overthink / And I start to feel anxiety / There were times I couldn't even breathe.”

Although the final product, drenched in pop soundscapes and notable features, does not necessarily match Bieber’s intent to create a civil rights project, Justice is ultimately indicative of his maturity and evolution as an artist and as a person. He manages to envelop myriad genres—from electronic pop to smooth R&B—and cover a wide range of themes within the 16 song soundtrack. Hits like "Anyone" and "Die For You" celebrate Bieber’s wife, Hailey Baldwin, and her positive influence on his life can be contrasted with ballads that encompass his previous downfalls. Justice represents the peak of Bieber’s discography in its natural diversity of genre and thematic authenticity.

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MUSIC

Lessons from Fiona Apple's

"Criminal " The artist's groundbreaking music video continues to redefine womanhood, over a decade after its release. | EMILY MOON

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iona Apple is an entertainment industry's nightmare, a stubborn embodiment of unyielding originality—even when it raises eyebrows. Decades after she first rose to fame for her debut album Tidal, Apple's critically acclaimed fifth studio album, Fetch the Bolt Cutters, garnered three nominations at the 2021 Grammys. Besting the likes of indie darling Phoebe Bridgers to win Best Alternative Music Album, Apple emerged from an eight year music hiatus with a bang—and yet decided to skip the ceremony altogether.

Apple has long resisted the more traditional frills of fame during her illustrious career, most notably with her 1997 VMA acceptance speech in which she literally called bullshit on the idea of "coolness" and conformity. It was shocking at the time to say the least, and if the triple–platinum buzz for Tidal created the ripples that led to her VMA Best New Artist win, her acceptance speech created a tsunami.

Public perception turned viciously to attack the then 19–year–old fledgling star, as it so often does with young women in the entertainment industry. Publications labeled her ungrateful and faux– deep, with NY Rock calling it "One of the most ridiculous soliloquies ever to be witnessed at an MTV Awards event."

Comedian Janeane Garofalo even went as far as to write a scorching parody in which she skewered Apple's speech, love life, and eating disorder.

Reactions to Apple's speech came on the heels of controversy about her music video for "Criminal," and at first glance, comparing her music video and her speech seems hypocritical. How could Apple call bullshit on the entertain-

ment world and then produce a video so deeply entrenched in typical standards for women in the music industry?

"Criminal" is both similar to many music videos and to none at all. Apple slinks around a grungy house, starts undressing in a dimly lit kitchen, and poses with different anonymous bodies.

She croons, “I’ve been a bad, bad girl” to bluesy bass riffs, and paints a subverted narrative in which she doesn't reject the archetype of a luring seductress—she embraces it. We're used to seeing women portrayed this way in music videos, but Apple attempts to regain agency over this age–old role, explaining that, "If I was going to be exploited, then I would do the exploiting myself."

Even though Apple made this self– referential decision on her own, public reception to the video still stifled her attempted expression of autonomy. The same way her message at the VMAs was overshadowed by unrelated critiques, especially those about her body, the public chose to focus on her appearance. Critics of "Criminal" labeled Apple an "underfed Calvin Klein model," sparking comments on her slight figure.

Apple was only barely a legal adult when she released the music video, just a handful of years older than she was when she was sexually assaulted outside of her home. The traumatic incident led to an eating disorder, which she said wasn't "about getting thin, it was about getting rid of the bait that was attached to my body."

Food had become distorted from a source of nourishment to a liability, something that could potentially make her body more appealing to the predatory male gaze. Apple walks the line of

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purposefully playing into the male fantasy, but her audience saw it as an invitation to prey on the contentiously raw and painful topic of her body image.

"Criminal" is fearless in this way.

Apple recognizes the confined box that limits many women in entertainment and runs with it: She is a seductress, a siren–like nymph. Her music video exudes an uncomfortably seedy quality that makes viewers squirm in their seats. We feel voyeuristic, put on the spot. We watch off–putting close and personal scenes saturated with obvious tones of sexuality. We're uncomfortable and Apple knows it—she's engineered it to be this way. She snaps a photo of the viewer at the very start of the music video: We see her, watch her, consume her—but she sees us too.

Throughout the music video, male figures are presented only as body parts, a complete role reversal of the way MTV relegated countless female artists to the background where they danced, faceless, for the majority of the late '80s and '90s. Halfway through the video, Apple poses with a shirtless man, the camera only capturing his body.

He is headless and anonymous; this simple, seconds–long shot effectively reduces this man into a body prop for our viewing enjoyment, a subversion of the genre we have come to expect with sexualized music videos.

Apple's lyrics serve as a self–directed warning, a guilty reminder that she doesn't have to wield her sexuality like a weapon or play into the male gaze in order to get what she wants. She's apologetic for her actions but simultaneously hints that it's a compulsive, desperate bid for power: "It's a sad, sad,

world / When a girl will break a boy just because she can."

The complexities of Apple's seemingly irreconcilable music video, song lyrics, and VMA speech drew the ire of many and reduced her to a Lolita fantasy. But Apple is sexualizing herself while also taking up space, defiantly proving sexuality doesn't take away from the power of being a whole person, one who is multidimensional and complicated. Seductress and feminist are not mutually exclusive.

“Criminal” exposes the darkest voyeuristic nature within all of us as consumers. Years after Apple broke into the mainstream, we can see major examples of music videos that display sexuality at the forefront—but there's a difference between male authority figures reducing women to their bodies and women choosing to reclaim their bodies or make a statement.

Even with years of experience in the public eye, Apple hasn't strayed from her roots with Fetch the Bolt Cutters, sharply writing about her assault and commenting on the same world she lambasted back in her 1997 VMA speech. "Relay" pushes the cyclical nature of hurt against a frantic, intense rhythm while touching on topics like the Brett Kavanaugh hearings, her own assault, and the insincerity of social media and coolness. Apple's issues with social media manifested in a low profile and relatively reclusive life, but her impact is still present and tangible.

Countless people who saw and understood her messages are now living through a time of reckoning within the music industry and beyond—and we're still calling bullshit.

FILM & TV

Growing Pains of a Grown–Up Riverdale Can a time jump usher in a Riverdale renaissance? | MEG GLADIEUX

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few years ago, Riverdale was one of the most popular teen shows on network television. It made huge stars out of its lead actors, became loved and hated by many for its ridiculous storylines and generally memeable moments. Then the show fell apart, the wild plotlines made less and less sense, and it escalated to a level of cringe and confusion that made it harder and harder to follow.

But in Season 5, the main characters not only graduate high school, but the show also launches into a seven–year time jump, the main characters now in their mid–20s, having all parted ways for college and now living wholly separate lives. And it might be just the revival the show needs in its second act.

While Riverdale was initially setting itself up to follow characters through college—Betty and Jughead setting their sights on Yale, Archie struggling to get enough credits to graduate, Veronica grappling with leaving Archie—the show then pivoted, forgetting the college years altogether.

So many shows end at high school and glamorize the idea of going to college; Riverdale skips it entirely, treating it as a forgettable, unimportant period rather than something pivotal and transformative. It’s a means to an end: to get a career, to get through, to get a job, to build a life, and to escape a small town. The characters go to the schools of their dreams and end up back in their small town anyway.

Archie is a discharged Army sergeant, reeling from the aftermath of a botched mission. Veronica’s trapped in a loveless and controlling marriage, not unlike her ever– dysfunctional relationship with her father. Betty’s an FBI agent at Quantico dealing with the trauma of being held hostage while in pursuit of a serial killer. And Jughead’s a washed–up writer with a drinking problem struggling to write his next masterpiece after the brief success of his first novel. They all converge back in Riverdale where they’re reunited with the rest of the cast who have stayed in town and have been privy to its slow deca Speaking to Entertainment Weekly, creator Roberto Aguirre–Sacasa said that “college is a less appealing version of high school stories.” Grown–up Riverdale says it’s not a high school show. Maybe it never was.

The time jump has given the show into a totally new tone, still equally dark, but also more mature: sex scenes no longer feel so awkward, the grown–up issues the show dealt with no longer feel so misplaced, and the

Illustration by Isabel Liang show is diving into deep political commentary.

So, is it the future, the present, or neither? Hard to say—Riverdale has always situated itself in this strange liminal space between surrealism and non–existent parallel universe. With plotlines centered around aliens, serial killer genes, and unqualified twenty–somethings running a high school, enjoying Riverdale requires a certain willing suspension of disbelief. But if you let yourself indulge in its ridiculousness, it’s actually good. The best way to watch Riverdale is not to lament its insanity, but to indulge in it, invest yourself in the complexity of the characters, and let the show pull you through its pretentious and grandiose melodrama.

Riverdale is also inching closer and closer to the paranormal undertones that it’s always hovered around but never quite embraced. Rather than shying away from the show’s off–kilter strangeness, it’s leaned into it instead. It’s daring, becoming more reminiscent of its sister show in the Archie Comics universe, Netflix’s The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (sometimes known as CHAOS).

Riverdale always tried to touch on political issues— there was gang violence, poverty, homophobia, homelessness. It always pitched itself as a political, modern take on the classic innocence of the Archie Comics. But the time jump asks its audience to consider what happens to the teen show after its characters leave. It is a strange meditation on the idea of community and absolute loyalty to a place, packed with Americana, kitsch, and off–kilter references to mainstream modern pop culture.

The dialogue is predictable as always, the outfits perfectly jewel–toned, the characters thoroughly manicured to fit the comic–esque stereotype each of them inhabits.

They are always caricatures, but that’s the beauty of the show—it lays out archetypes and cartoonish expectations for its characters, then gives them the space to subvert their own meta–fictional boxes. Our beloved characters can’t escape Riverdale, but watching them certainly provides a dark and ridiculous escape from our own reality.

Riverdale has always been figuring itself out: the novelty that comes with a live–action teen mystery show based on a beloved Boomer–era comic strip was never a perfect translation. Riverdale always battled the caricatures laid out by the comics, but in some ways that tension was the best part. Jughead ditched the beanie; Betty took down her ponytail. The show is subverting its own kitschy tokens that once seemed to be the only thing holding it together. And it’s working. The enigmatic quality of each of Riverdale’s characters beyond their comic– strip personas is and always has been the show’s central intrigue.

Riverdale is growing up, still in all of its campy, kitschy, ’50s–esque glory, but slowly returning to the small–town Americana and murder mystery plotlines that recalled its comic strip roots and made it so watchable in its early–season prime. As serious as it is at times, Riverdale is not meant to be taken seriously.

It is still, all and all, a teen show, even if its central characters aren’t teens anymore.

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Dreaming of Jerusalem: Showcasing the Universal Within the Specific Learn how this Discovery+ documentary short on the Ethiopian Jewish community became a symbol for shared humanity. | MADDIE MULDOON

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itotaw is the head of a synagogue. Getu is the coach of a winning soccer team. Inoa is a middle school student, a teen activist, and one of the founding members of a circus troupe.

They’re different ages and have different interests and personalities. But the minute we see stories about people from faraway countries on social media or learn about them from headlines, their identities become negligible. We lump them together into one collective tragedy, a community to be pitied for their stories rather than individuals with voices and aspirations.

The documentary short Dreaming of Jerusalem shows audiences that there’s more to the Ethiopian Jewish population in Gondar and Addis Ababa than a sob story. ··· For 2,000 years until the mid–1800s, the Jewish population in Ethiopia was largely exiled from the global Jewish community. Due to Israel’s Law of Return, which allows Jews across the world to move to the country and gain citizenship if they can prove their Jewish heritage, over 85,000 members of the Ethiopian Jewish community have immigrated to Israel in the last half–century—excluding 14,000 Ethiopians in Gondar and Addis Ababa.

In the late 19th century, Christian missionaries converted a large portion of the population in Gondar and Addis Ababa to Christianity. Though the community returned to the prac-

tice of Judaism long ago, many still can't move to Israel due to the conversion of their ancestors, which has led some in the global Jewish community to question their Judaism.

Ethiopian Jews face discrimination from all sides: They’re isolated within Ethiopia due to their Jewish identity, and they’re also separated from the Jewish community in Israel.

Jewish people in Gondar and Addis Ababa have dreamed of immigrating to Jerusalem, the Holy Land, for thousands of years. Eighty percent of the community have family in Israel that they hope to one day be reunited with.

In Dreaming of Jerusalem, tears stream down Sitotaw’s face as he tells his story: “When parents and family call from Israel, the people are in tears. Their troubles are very harsh. My mother and father are both in Israel. Earlier this year, my dad called me and told me he was really sick. My father is still sick and bedridden.” ··· Dreaming of Jerusalem is co–directed by Peter Decherney and Sosena Solomon, and it premiered on March 30 on Discovery+.

Decherney is the director of the Cinema and Media Studies Program at Penn and a professor in the Department of English. The award–winning filmmaker, author, and teacher worked for a program in Israel during his first year of college, where he met many Ethiopian Jews who had recently immigrated. He’s been following the story of the

"So many debates about immigration often become big political stories about demographics, economics, and policy. We wanted to learn more about the people that are affected by this policy."

- Peter Decherney

Ethiopian Jewish population ever since.

Solomon is an award–winning social documentary film and multimedia visual artist from Ethiopia. She’s a freelancer who lectures in the Fine Arts Department at Penn’s Stuart Weitzman School of Design.

“Being Ethiopian, I grew up hearing stories about this community. It’s really a part of our history,” says Solomon.

“I'm not Jewish, but my grandmother was born in Gondar, where we were during filming. I have a growing interest in how they’ve been able to preserve their spirituality for so long … Their togetherness and ability to maintain such a powerful spiritual practice is the core of their joy.” She’s made several documentaries in Ethiopia in the past, and she had wanted to film the Ethiopian Jewish community’s story for her graduate school thesis years ago.

When Decherney and Solomon met at Penn, they quickly discovered their shared interests. “We realized how hard it is to learn more about the people at the center of this story who are actually living in Gondar and Addis Ababa right now. So many debates about immigration often become big political stories about demographics, economics, and policy. We wanted to learn more about the people that are affected by this policy,” Decherney says. ··· Decherney and Solomon began seeking funding and planning the film in the spring of 2019. They traveled to Ethiopia for several weeks that summer to research, gather a few clips, and build trust with the community.

They returned to Ethiopia in January 2020 to shoot the film.

Filming lasted several weeks, allowing them to form close relationships.

“We stood out. They looked at us all the time—it took a while for them to be comfortable with

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us, and for them to think of us as just flies on the wall there to observe them,” Decherney says. “It was the unexpected things that really drew us … It was the experience of getting to know people and following the stories as they unfolded.”

One of these unexpected aspects is the circus troupe that Inoa co–founded. In the film, the young students dance, jump, and flip across the screen to applause, their enthusiasm written across their faces in smiles. They perform acrobatics, walk on stilts, juggle, and train with other circus equipment every day of the week aside from the Sabbath on Friday and Saturday.

“I enjoy the circus and want to take it seriously, just like I take my faith seriously,” Inoa says during the film.

“The longer we stayed there and became more a part of the fabric of the space, the more we discovered just how unique this community was," says Solomon. "We didn't know that we were going to encounter such amazing and vibrant different aspects of their livelihood."

Both were amazed by the stories of many members of the community, but they were limited by the short length of the film, which runs at 25 minutes. The filmmakers had so much material—the challenge was consolidating it into a product that would keep audiences’ attention, which they ultimately did through the stories of five individuals during the film.

The directors still follow the lives of many people they spoke to, though Decherney explains that this is difficult since they don’t have cell phones or email. Their local producer in Gondar, Hailu Fantahun, helps them stay in touch. ··· Rich Ross (C '83), former chairman of Walt Disney Studios and former group president of the Discovery Channel, was in his car in February 2020 when he received a call from Decherney. Decherney asked if Ross might be interested in being the executive producer for Dreaming of Jerusalem. They’d recently finished filming and were looking for help with funding, editing, distribution, and marketing.

Ross didn’t hesitate to join Dreaming of Jerusalem’s team. The moment he saw the first assembly of the film, he knew he’d made the right decision.

“This is very much an issue film. Those are perilous to work on because they often don’t work—they require a storytelling that activates, but activating sympathy is really not enough. You have to activate for action,” Ross says. “It’s one thing to talk about something and another to actually do something about it. I think the film is certainly effective in that it makes people feel something, but it also creates a path that makes them want to do something.”

Ross, Decherney, and Solomon brought different talents and perspectives to the film. Melisande McLaughlin (C '20), the co–producer and sound director, explains that though both Decherney and Solomon have experimental filmmaking backgrounds, Solomon’s style is more impressionistic. Their collaboration ultimately created a film that feels both free and structured: It lacks 14 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E A P R I L 8 , 2 0 21

“This is very much an issue film. Those are perilous to work on because they often don’t work–they require a storytelling that activates, but activating sympathy is really not enough. You have to activate for action."

- Rich Ross the voiceovers and clear narrative direction of traditional documentaries, but the unified stories of the Ethiopian Jews they interviewed create a "through–line in the film," according to McLaughlin.

McLaughlin also notes Decherney’s drive to show the lives of the Ethiopian Jewish community in a new light.

“So many documentaries decide that despair sells, so they go with that. This film … gives [the Ethiopian Jewish population] value as people beyond their story and allows you to see them as more than just people in despair,” McLaughlin says. “That is something that Peter brings—he doesn’t want it to necessarily be an argument.

He wants it to be about getting to know the community and see the people.”

Part of the film that demonstrates this is the story of the soccer coach Getu, who has led the children’s soccer team to several victories and two trophies, despite blatant discrimination in tournaments. As the camera chases the young soccer players across the field, Getu explains that had one of their games not been scheduled on the Sabbath, the team would have had three trophies: “We forfeited that game because we cannot play on a Saturday. It was published in newspapers, and on TV here, and even in Israel."

"The other teams know we are Jews. Some of them call us names or throw stones. When we won our second trophy, our team was beaten up," he says. "But we go through these challenges as a team."

In post–production, Ross brought a sense of candor to the process.

“Peter would say I’m brutally honest, which is because I care deeply about getting it right. That is why it worked out well having all three of us,” Ross says. “I’m not the director of the film—they are two really talented directors, and my job is to make sure that their voice is understood and then heard.” ··· Before its March 30 premier on Discovery+, the documentary had a brief run at festivals like the Halifax Black Film Festival. Ross notes that the film is unique in that it qualifies for both Black and Jewish film festivals.

Just as the Ethiopian Jewish community stands in the middle of two nations, Dreaming of Jerusalem bridges the divisions that typically separate film.

“Film has a certain power to connect us to other

people, to bring individuals to life, and to put flesh on what seem like abstract debates about religion, politics, or policy,” Decherney says. “These debates about immigration within Israel are really active, and I think there’s an opportunity to allow the film to make an impact in these discussions.”

“I want this film to facilitate powerful dialogue, curiosity, and knowledge. I want it to have an afterlife so that people know that this community does exist, they are valid, and they are real Jews. I want there to be intellectual discussion that can promote inspiration, understanding, and compassion,” says Solomon. ··· Much has changed in Gondar and Addis Ababa in the short time since the Dreaming of Jerusalem team traveled there. The COVID–19 pandemic, as well as a violent push for secession in the Tigray Region of Ethiopia, has left the entire country in upheaval.

But not everything has been dire for Ethiopia’s Jewish population. In the time since the documentary was filmed, Pnina Tamano–Shata became the first Ethiopian–born minister of immigration in Israel. In 2020, she passed legislation permitting 2,000 members of the community to immigrate to Israel.

Sitotaw, the synagogue leader, was on the first plane.

“As an optimist, I guess [the film] is about individuals who create change and create movements," Ross says.

"No one in a million years thought that an Ethiopian Jew would be in the Knesset, running the immigration program. That was impossible. But it is possible. Change happens because individuals believe they can make it happen, and enough people believe in them."

When asked to describe the film in a singular phrase, McLaughlin answers, “The universal within the specific.”

“Everyone, everywhere, is the same fundamentally.

They’re just people, like you or me. There are universal things about everyone no matter where you go, no matter what their story is,” she explains.

Sitotaw is the head of a synagogue. Getu is the coach of a winning soccer team. Inoa is a middle school student, a teen activist, and one of the founding members of a circus troupe.

They are part of a community united by a shared desire to immigrate and be reunited with their families, but also by shared faith and joy.

FILM & TV

Jewish Nominees in the Upcoming 2021 Oscar Awards After the antisemitic controversies faced by SNL and NBC, the positive representation of Jewish people in entertainment comes with a sigh of relief. | ARIELLE STANGER Illustration by Alice Heyeh

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ewish representation in entertainment is a slippery slope. Religious rituals are often portrayed inaccurately, stereotypes are perpetuated, and values are misconstrued. Every once in a while, though, a series or movie comes along that highlights the triumphs and talents of the Jewish community. The upcoming Oscars shine the spotlight on a handful of Jewish icons, in the wake of several antisemitic "jokes" that recently aired in popular shows.

In a February Saturday Night Live “Weekend Update," co–anchor and co–head writer Michael Che joked about Israel’s vaccination rollout: “Israel is reporting that they vaccinated half of their population, and I’m going to guess it’s the Jewish half.”

It’s true that Israel, though vaccinating its citizens at a rapid rate since December, has left Palestinians from the West Bank and Gaza in the dust. Only in the last month or so has Israel begun to provide vaccines to Palestinian workers. However, the whole truth is that Israeli citizens, of all religions and ethnicities, have been able to get vaccinated. Che’s joke, in poor taste, conflates antisemitic ideas with criticism of Israeli policy. If he truly wanted to point at the disparity between Israeli and Palestinian vaccine access, he should’ve taken that one back to the drawing board.

Whether or not you find Che’s comment offensive, there’s no way around the incident on NBC’s medical drama series Nurses. In an episode that has since been pulled from air and screening platforms, an Orthodox patient is admitted to the hospital after an accident. The nurse informs him and his father that he’ll require a bone graft. In horror, his father realizes that this will come from “a dead goyim leg—from anyone.

An Arab, a woman…”

The entire scene is an inaccurate portrayal of Orthodox Jews and their values, which is already enough to spark outrage. To add insult to injury, the patient’s name is Israel. Like Che’s joke, Nurses intertwines an

antisemitic trope with anti–Israel sentiment, and demonizes the State of Israel by name association. It’s not a good look for NBC, and an insult to the Orthodox Jewish community.

The 2021 Oscar nominations came out shortly after the two incidents, and represent a more positive turn of events for Jewish representation. Mank, the black and white biopic of Jewish screenwriter Herman Mankiewicz available for streaming on Netflix, dominates the nominations with ten potential awards. Directed by David Fincher, the film stars Gary Oldman as Mankiewicz as he rushes to complete Citizen Kane. Among Mank’s nominations are those for Best Director, Best Actor, Best Supporting Actress, Best Cinematography, Best Sound, and the ever–coveted Best Picture.

Everyone’s favorite Kazakh reporter, Borat, aka Sacha Baron Cohen, has also gained recognition at the Academy Awards. Cohen's hysterical film Borat Subsequent Moviefilm is nominated for Best Adapted Screenplay. However, in a role that proves he can do much more than comedy, Cohen is also nominated for best supporting actor as Jewish activist Abbie Hoffman in The Trial of the Chicago 7. The film itself has six total nominations, including Best Original Screenplay—thanks to Jewish writer and director Aaron Sorkin—and Best Picture.

The spotlight is also shining on another Jewish activist: Judy Heumann. Heumann plays herself in the Best Documentary Feature–nominated Crip Camp, which follows the campers and counselors of Camp Jened in the summer of 1971 as they become activists for the disability rights movement. This nomination is a milestone for the disabled community, and Heumann hopes the Oscars will continue to be accessible and inclusive.

Though Sophia Loren’s Italian Holocaust film The Life Ahead received no nominations for its acting or screenplay, Diane Warren’s original song “Io

Sì (Seen)” is up for a potential award. This marks the Jewish songwriter’s 12th Best Original Song nomination. She won a Golden Globe in February, though she has yet to bring home an Oscar.

The Best Live Action Short Film nominees feature both an Israeli film and a Palestinian one. White Eye is based on a true story from the life of Israeli writer and director Tomer Shushan. He wrote the entire script in about 40 minutes just after his bike was stolen. In the film, protagonist Omer sees his stolen bike outside a factory and calls the cops on African migrant worker Yunes, but the situation spirals beyond Omer’s control. White Eye demonstrates the challenges faced by African immigrants in Tel Aviv.

Palestinian British filmmaker Farah Nabulsi’s The Present tells the story of a father navigating Israeli checkpoints with his daughter by his side, just to buy a gift for his wife. The storyline was inspired by her own trips to Palestine as a child to visit family, and then going back as an adult and visiting checkpoints herself.

Each nominated film artistically shares struggles faced by many, painting a greater picture of life in the Middle East. The fact that these two shorts are competing next to each other, recognized equally, is a small but significant stride toward listening to both sides of the story. Perhaps this would make a better joke for the next segment of “Weekend Update.”

Though it's heartening to see so much Jewish representation at the Oscars, awards shows are merely the surface of the greater film and entertainment industry.

Inclusivity and diversity, especially in the grand scheme, require consistent effort from both the storytellers and the audience. Just because this year's Academy Awards have taken necessary forward–facing steps doesn't mean we can be complacent about representation in the future. However, for right now, we should watch, celebrate, and support these films and their crews.

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Introducing Penn Non–Cis and PAGE's New Trans–Inclusive Language Guide

These two activist organizations on campus have joined forces to promote trans– inclusive language on campus and beyond. | KATHRYN XU

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hen the creators of a new, Penn–specific trans–inclusive language guide talk about their work, it is with a mixture of pride, exhaustion, and a fierce desire to do even more.

The trans–inclusive language guide emerged from a collaboration between Penn Non–Cis and the Penn Association for Gender Equity (PAGE), after multiple frustrating experiences regarding language at Penn that was not trans–inclusive, in classes, clubs, and reporting, including that done by Street and The Daily Pennsylvanian. It outlines definitions of descriptive terms, transphobia, systems of power, common cissexist language

mistakes, and dated, exclusionary, or offensive terminology to avoid.

At the forefront of this project is Lia Thomas (C ’22, she/her) and Claire Medina (C ’22, they/them), the co– chairs of Penn Non–Cis, as well as Sam Pancoe (C ’22, she/they), the chair of PAGE. Sam suggested the guide as a collaborative effort between PAGE and Penn Non– Cis, especially with a growing number of non–cisgender people on PAGE's board.

Lia, Claire, and Sam created the guide along with five other key contributors—Brennan Burns (C ’20 she/ her), Amanpreet Singh, a former Street Arts writer (C ’21, they/them), Favor Idika (C ’23, they/them), Serena Martinez (C ’23, they/them), and Emily White, Street's current Style Editor (C ’23, they/she)—and many other people who read the guide pre–release. Through constant working and reworking, they came to the guide as it stands: 19 pages of information, specifically addressing trans–inclusive language in a Penn context.

“This is not a new idea. There are obviously a lot of things that are on the internet. But people don’t really

take the time to look for these resources, unless it's presented to them in a way that is for them,” Claire says.

Claire notes that while the DP and Street do have a trans journalist language guide, these guidelines are often not followed, so there’s a need for this kind of learning to be Penn–specific.

The first step came when Claire and Lia worked to revitalize Penn Non–Cis during the pandemic, creating an affinity space for non–cis students at Penn, as well as hosting events, panels, and speakers. But they soon found that Penn spaces that target women and LGBTQ people, like the Penn Women’s Center and the LGBT center, often lack trans staffing.

Motivated by their personal experiences with transphobia at Penn, the guide quickly became a larger, more activist, and more intense labor. The creators went back and forth on whether the information presented was too complicated, but also whether it was right to simplify inherently complex issues. There were conversations about whether certain portions of the guide should have been included or not, such as the section on transphobic

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“There are people who don't live in America or have been colonized, and the way that their gender is perceived is siphoned into this very Western binary.”

- Sam Pancoe (C ’22) terms and slurs.

“The section on slurs and transphobic language was probably the hardest part to put together because we went back and forth on ‘Should we include this?’ ‘Is this something we want to have in there?’” Lia says. “And we decided on including it because these things get said, and you want to warn and tell people.”

Many of the conversations, both in the guide and out of it, were carefully centered on such material realities.

Something important to the creators was emphasizing how transphobia is not an issue that could be discussed on its own and is instead inextricable from other issues such as racism and imperialism. Claire and Lia, as the co–chairs of Penn Non–Cis, are both white, and everyone involved in creating the guide came from a Western framework. The creators were aware of their positioning, noting in the guide itself that it comes from “a specific U.S.–dominant framework of gender.”

“We really want to acknowledge that because there's so many different trans experiences,” says Lia. “And I'd be cognizant of your own experiences, and you can certainly share those, but those are not necessarily overarching.”

“There are people who don't live in America or have been colonized, and the way that their gender is perceived is siphoned into this very Western binary,” says Sam. “And we didn't feel like we have the time or the space to really adequately address that specifically when talking to Penn students in America … We tried to con-

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dense a lot of things. I know it's really long, but we tried to pare it down to the bare essentials. So that's why that’s in there but not in a full way.”

At the end of the guide is a short list of additional educational materials that strive to go beyond the limitations of space, digging further into race and transphobia.

The educational materials stemmed from resources all the creators had engaged with themselves, including material from Gender, Sexuality, and Women's Studies classes taken by Serena and a syllabus Claire made for a project in a seminar where they tried to center trans women and trans women of color who are often both excluded from academia and are hyper–visible in society.

The project blossomed into a deeply collaborative effort that drew from the creators’ own lived experiences for much of the terminology, reflecting a diverse group of voices behind it.

“Everything in the guide is an attempt to explain why these things matter in the way that they're presented. But it definitely took a lot of conversations,” Claire says. “And there are a lot of people who were involved in this. People wrote different sections.”

Lia hopes that there can be updates and developments beyond this year’s release of the trans language guide. In particular, she hopes that there can be yearly updates and revisions after more feedback from the release of the language guide to a broader audience.

However, the creators make clear that the guide is not the be–all and end–all for trans activism at Penn. As the guide

“Everything in the guide is an attempt to explain why these things matter in the way that they're presented.

But it definitely took a lot of conversations.”

- Claire Medina (C ’22)

mentions, “The use of inclusive language is not what makes a space trans–friendly or safe.” The next question becomes, ‘What happens now?’

Lia, Claire, and Sam all acknowledge the different changes and next steps that might take place, either from the language guide or from other reforms, such as encouraging the Women’s Center and LGBT Center to hire more trans staff, especially trans women, sharing the language guide and engaging with Penn organizations such as Counseling and Psychological Services and Penn Violence Prevention, and working alongside the revamp of PennInTouch.

“One of the biggest things that’ll be helpful [is] gender neutral bathrooms being more spread throughout campus and more widely available,” Lia says. “More support from faculty, if they're more aware of trans issues.”

“On my end, I'm working a lot with the Women's Center and roll–out to student groups. So we're doing presentations to PAGE constituents who are interested, and then we're also doing presentations to Penn Violence Prevention educators,” Sam says. “So just as a starting point, getting people talking about trans issues. And then also working, like Claire said, to make the centers themselves more inclusive and representative.

And for Claire especially, it’s difficult to wrangle with the sheer scope of activism that they wish to happen in the face of various limitations, and the work that there is still to do.

“I mean, something something abolish Penn, right?

Where does it end—land back, trans faculty?” Claire says. “I'm hoping we can actually make a change and figure out the most safe way to do it … I want things to be better.”

The trans–inclusive language guide is only the first step, and Claire hopes for the realization of much, much more: to abolish the Penn Police Department as Police– Free Penn advocates for, to move fraternities off campus along with many other reforms suggested by the Council Against Fraternity Sexual Assault, and ultimately, to achieve all justice that is firmly intertwined with the justice they seek.

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Get Cheery with Cherry Blossoms How to experience peak bloom at Penn and beyond

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he days of trudging through mounds of snow when crossing the street and trying to avoid slipping down the Generational Bridge are past us. As the weather warms up, we’ll be SABSing in front of the High Rises, tossing a frisbee like we’re being photographed for an admissions brochure, and playing Spikeball like nobody’s business. While on–campus seasonal changes have very typical quintessential Penn markers, there’s one symbol of spring Penn students and non–Quakers alike associate with the season. Typically blooming sometime in March or April, cherry blossoms are a traditional Japanese symbol of renewal and delight that can be found on campus, in Philadelphia, and all over the world.

Peak bloom dates in the City of Brotherly Love are from roughly April 9 to 16 this year. Gifted to Philadelphia by the Japanese government to commemorate the 150th anniversary of the United States, the original 1600 cherry blossom trees across the city have become a springtime staple.

The number of cherry blossoms across the city has only grown since then — from 1998 to 2007, the Japan America Society of Greater Philadelphia planted an additional 1000 annually. Some prime locations students should scope out to see some of these trees include Kelly Drive, Drexel Park, and Fitler Square. The annual Cherry Blossom Festival, or Ohanami, typically takes place at Fairmount Park’s Horticultural Center— although it will be virtual this year. It usually includes performances and other family–friendly activities.

This year, all of these activities will be replaced by virtual tours, educational videos about Japanese culture, and flower arranging. Designed like a 17th–century Japanese home, the Shofuso Japanese House and Garden offers visitors the chance to appreciate Sakura, the cherry blossom, as it appears in its home country. As one of Japan’s most well–known tourist attractions and a deeply entrenched part of Japanese culture, the cherry blossom can be found all over the nation during peak bloom time. For students not looking to travel thousands of miles, the Shofuso Garden or any of the public spaces dotted with these blooming cherry trees offer a pretty incredible alternative.

The University's Morris Arboretum is only a 30 minute drive from campus, and offers free admission to all Penn Card holders.

With 167 acres of nature including more than 2,500 plant species, visitors can explore paths, ponds, gardens, and, in the spring, stretches of cherry blossom trees. Luckily, for Penn students, the excitement of these magnificent trees can be experienced without ever stepping foot off campus. Officially accredited as an arboretum in April of 2017, Penn’s campus is now home to upwards of 6,500 trees. In 2018, Anthony Aiello, the Gayle E. Maloney Director of Horticulture and Curator of the Morris Arboretum, stated that there were roughly

| JESSA GLASSMAN

150 cherry blossom trees on campus, from 20–25 varietals. These beautiful trees can be spotted at various locations throughout Penn, including near the famed LOVE sign and College Hall.

The beauty of the cherry blossom tree is fleeting, as the bloom period only lasts a max of 14 days. Take advantage of their natural magnificence by visiting one of these locations before it’s too late.

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Imposter Syndrome is a Structural Problem— and I’m Sick of It. We need to address the foundations of imposter syndrome at Penn, especially for FGLI students. | MATTHEW SHEELER

Illustration by Isabel Liang

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or many people, especially Penn students, imposter syndrome—feelings of self–doubt and equating yourself to a fraud—is not a novel concept. In fact, it’s been recognized by psychologists since 1978. Imposter syndrome can present itself at any time, whether you're in college or well into your career: A review published by the International Journal of Behavioral Science estimates that around 70% of people will deal with it at some point in their lives.

My experience with imposter syndrome began practically as soon as I stepped foot on Penn’s campus.

Having taken an economics course before coming to Penn, I was ignorantly confident as I entered my first lecture for the infamous ECON 001 class. I didn't know what to expect, but I convinced myself that the course wouldn’t be that bad. I quickly realized that the econ course I took at my tiny, rural high school wasn’t exactly the adequate preparation I thought it was—apparently economics is a lot more complex than playing a virtual stock market simulation with your classmates.

From daunting recitation sessions with my seemingly all–knowing classmates to cut–throat midterm exams on which I received the worst grades of my life, I quickly began to question my Penn acceptance. I wasn’t alone, though. Many Penn students can attest to experiencing imposter syndrome. However, campus conversations about it often portray it as an individual, psychological burden that many will have to overcome at some point during college. The resulting conclusion is that we should just try to be more confident because these feelings are irrational, but this hurried solution isn’t doing anyone justice. We need to acknowledge the

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structural influences that promote imposter syndrome at institutions like Penn.

One challenge that many of my friends and I have experienced is inequity in prior education. For first– generation, low–income (FGLI) students like myself, there's an uneven playing field as soon as we get to campus. So many students went to the most advanced high schools in the country and have already taken a diverse set of courses with challenging educators—so it's difficult to feel like we aren't already behind when we start class in the fall. And that feeling of helplessness can't be easily erased.

Describing the impact of my underfunded high school experience on my time at Penn is difficult— to be blunt, it really does suck. 71% of Penn students come from the top 20% of America’s income distribution and have access to exceptional preparation and resources, yet it feels like we're all expected to be equally ready for the challenges Penn presents. And when that assumption proves to be false, and we don’t do as well as our wealthier peers, it can spark feelings of inadequacy.

Though quickly solving this inequity isn’t realistic, recognizing its existence is vital to combatting imposter syndrome. Penn and its professors should acknowledge that an upper–class student with two college– graduate parents will likely have a better experience transitioning to college academics than a first–generation student from a working–class background.

COVID–19 has made awareness of socioeconomic factors even more vital to equitable teaching, as FGLI students across the country have struggled

with access to the internet, sick family members, increased financial burdens, and unstable living situations.

Penn already has a landing page of resources for professors to learn about inclusive teaching, but the school can go a step further and mandate that all faculty attend trainings on how to teach students from different socioeconomic backgrounds.

But imposter syndrome also extends into the social sphere of college life, making it even more difficult to overcome. With the prominence of social scenes like Greek life, where members regularly spend hundreds of dollars on events like downtowns or Big–Little Week for sororities, being comfortable with your social identity when you can't afford to participate is difficult. It's no secret that these organizations create a sense of class separation on campus, but this directly contributes to imposter syndrome, too. There should be institutionalized methods of helping FGLI students beyond the classroom. One example of this could be financial aid to account for the cost of social activities like Greek life and clubs that require dues.

A message to FGLI students: Just because you're structurally disadvantaged doesn't mean you won’t achieve your version of success. It's important to remember that, but we do need to shift the conversation about imposter syndrome away from mere acknowledgements that a lot of people don’t feel confident in their achievements and abilities. We must start recognizing that there are institutional causes of this phenomenon, and they disproportionately affect low–income and marginalized communities.

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It’s Time To

Break Up

With Celeb Breakups We're all too invested in relationships that aren't even our own. | AIDAH QURESHI Illustration by Amy Krimm

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he planet is dying, the COVID–19 pandemic is raging on, and we’re still knee–deep in political turmoil. Celebrity breakups still manage to make headlines regardless.

There was a time when rough patches in relationships weren’t broadcasted into the world, with people choosing to scribble their frustrations into a diary or venting to a friend. However, as technology has evolved, so has the way we interact in and with relationships. Private diary entries turned into tweets and status updates. We yearned to be 'Facebook official' and even shared when things got “complicated.”

Oversharing has become the new normal, and for public figures who have less privacy than the average person, the scope of what remains private has shrunk gradually over time. The public breakup was subtle at first, an example being when Johnny Depp quietly covered his "Winona Forever" tattoo in tribute to his ex, Winona Ryder. It has now escalated into the tumultuous train wrecks that many of us witnessed on the internet over the last few weeks, including the breakup of hip­­–hop’s 'it couple' Saweetie and Quavo as well as self–professed relationship expert Derrick Jaxn’s embarrassing confession of infidelity.

Information that was once passed down and filtered through both the paparazzi and tabloids is now being disseminated straight from the source. As much as celebs overshare and are too forthcoming with the details of their relationships, frankly, we are equally as guilty for getting caught up in them.

Last week, a clip from the show Respectfully Justin, hosted by Justin Laboy, went viral, featuring Saweetie sitting in the hot seat of the talk show. Not only did the questions, as well as Saweetie’s answers, make the crowd go wild, but it made extensive rounds on the internet as well.

Two days after the clip aired, Saweetie and Quavo announced their breakup on Twitter. “I’m single,” she tweeted. “I’ve endured too much betrayal and hurt behind the scenes for a false narrative to be circulating that degrades my character. Presents don’t band aid scars and the love isn’t real when the intimacy is given to other women.”

In response to Saweetie’s subtweets, Quavo responded, “I had love for you and [I’m] disappointed you did all that,” and “You are not the woman I thought you were. I wish you nothing but the best.”

This brief exchange was enough to get what seems like everybody on social media riled up due to the fact that so many of us were invested in their relationship.

We watched their relationship unfold from the DM that started it all to their endearing GQ "Couples Quiz" video. All in all, they seemed to be the perfect couple.

Fans may never know the real cause of their breakup, but this doesn’t stop speculation. Reading between the lines of Saweetie’s tweets implies that Quavo cheated, something both parties denied last year. Others think that the breakup was the result of the flirtatious nature of Saweetie’s interview on Respectfully Justin, as the show's executive producer, Justin Combs and Saweetie had allegedly dated. We only know as much as Quavo and Saweetie share, which in this case is quite a lot.

Even though Derrick Jaxn and his wife Da’Naia Jackson have nowhere near the level of status that Saweetie and Quavo do, around three million people tuned in to watch Jaxn’s online admission that he did, in fact, cheat on his wife. "The truth is Derrick Jaxn was involved with other women— outside the marriage," he admitted in a now–de-

leted Instagram video. “By involved, I want to be clear, I’m not talking about casually kicking it, or maybe a lunch … I’m talking about something as serious as sex to sexual flirtation.”

The whole irony and intrigue of the situation is that Jaxn had built his career upon being an expert on how to maintain healthy and happy relationships and has even written books on the subject.

“I cannot build a platform preaching about certain things and then in my real life live contrary to that,” he says in the post.

Something that seems as arbitrary and normal as sharing relationship statuses online, whether this is through Facebook or other social media platforms, can actually tell a lot about human behavior. In 2014, Facebook Data Science revealed that people who changed their Facebook status to “single” had on average a 225% increase in their number of Facebook interactions the next day. The volume of interactions then tended to stabilize over the next week, while still maintaining a level higher than the number of interactions pre–separation. Regardless of the stabilization, the immediate increase could be indicative of how social media use has influenced the way we handle breakups.

At this point in time, public relationships serve more as fodder for timelines and group chats than anything else, making them hard to tune out. Our interest in watching others’ relationships fall apart doesn’t just exist in our consumption of gossip via Twitter, but also in films like Marriage Story and Malcolm & Marie, both of which were widely watched. It is difficult to say what or who is to blame for the fascination and mania that these conversations induce, but one thing is for certain—we just can’t get enough.

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It's Alive!

Contemporary Writing House Sprouts Neck Bolts, Rises From Crypt IAN ONG

Terrifying! This morning, the Center for Programs in Contemporary Writing sprouted neck bolts as it continued its ascent into the world of the living.

Students and passersby were both shocked and amazed to see two-ton, solid steel nails emerge from the lateral facades of the newly renovated building.

Georgi Tenderson (C '22) witnessed lightning bolts rain down from the heavens above, chemically fusing the traditional Tudor-style cottage with its sleek, newly built posterior.

“What an amazing testament to Mary Shelley, my God,” Tenderson remarked, shaking his head. “Wait, she was contemporary, right? Shit.”

This has all been horrifying enough. But unfortunately, it gets worse: Not only does the building look like

it was pieced together from a child’s crayon drawing, but it appears to have developed a nasty scar right next to its front porch.

“I wasn’t impressed at first, but after I saw that necrotic, oozing gash, I knew that this was no ordinary building,” Casey Standart (C '23) said with a shudder.

“Folks, we are about to have a Monster House situation on our hands real soon.”

Construction continues on the now living architectural monstrosity known as the Contemporary Writing House. Let’s hope they can evacuate the area before its green, undead legs grow in.

“Tradition, modernity … is it all some kind of metaphor? I don’t know,” Standart mused. “All I know is that it’s currently dripping blood all over the pavement.”

Gutmann Rejects "New Normal," Accepts Usual Paycheck ALICIA LOPEZ

Given the widespread financial hardship due to COVID-19, many university presidents are taking pay cuts, allowing their schools to use the extra money to cover the costs of COVID-19-induced expenses and deficits. However, Penn's primary news source, UTB, has just been informed that Amy Gutmann, the country's highest-paid college president, will, in fact, not be following suit.

"Everything's changing due to COVID-19. I just want it to go back to the way it was!" Gutmann exclaimed when pressed. "I have to wear a mask everywhere. I can't meet up with my friends.

My vacation plans were canceled. I'm not allowed to visit my summer estate … it's all too much for me. And what's worse: Everyone is talking about this 'new normal' like we are never going to be able to go back to how life was before. I'm putting my foot down. I won't accept it."

Confused by this response, we asked

Graphic (with edits) by Georgia Ray / The Daily Pennsylvanian

a few follow-up questions, which helped us connect the dots between Gutmann's salary and the coronavirus.

With a little investigating, we discovered that accepting her usual paycheck

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is Gutmann's form of rebellion against COVID-19 and its related restrictions.

"This is my little vendetta. I may not be able to live my life how I want to, but at least I can be paid for my misery in cold

hard cash," reflected Gutmann. "I can't change how the world is running, but I can demand my usual salary!"

After a moment, Gutmann suddenly grew somber. "But even this isn't what I would have had in normal times," whined the university president. "Usually, my salary increases annually. I have a little game I play with myself where I guess how many million dollars I'll earn. This year, the game isn't very fun since my salary is the same as last year's ($3.6 million), so I already know."

Life is hard for everyone during these times, but truly, some are affected more than others. Amy Gutmann bears the brunt of hardship in these confusing and terrible times. UTB lauds Gutmann's bravery as she stands up to COVID-19 by refusing to accept the so-called "new normal." No matter what everyone else is doing, stay strong! Our thoughts and prayers are with you, Amy!

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ITEMS FROM URBAN OUTFITTERS CLEARANCE RACK THAT SAY:

My Parents Were Absent During My Developmental Years LIWA SUN

Known for its undying commitment to the skinny Caucasian female population and its penchant for playing Frank Ocean’s 2012 album channel ORANGE in stores 24/7, Urban Outfitters, Inc. is a retail fashion chain store based in Philadelphia. The store’s target customers range from prepubescent, portly young adults who recently put the links to their VSCO pages in their Instagram bios to mentally ill second-year grad students who are considering applying for jobs at CoStar. Take a walk in Rittenhouse Square and you will spot many a young woman sporting head-to-toe Urban

1.

2.

This marked-down, XS longsleeved dress looks proper for church in the front but absolutely whorish in the back, with the hollowed-out design. The light blue tone suggests a remnant of innocence, yet the print of roses suggests a ferocious sexual appetite. This dress, with its full coverage of the chest area and its heinous texture, will have your parents saying, "Liwa, baby, this looks OK, but please stop buying clearance clothes, if it’s money you need …"

4.

This pair of heart-shaped sunglasses is deeply redolent of the Nabokov novel as well as Lana Del Rey’s song of the same name. It says, "Feel free to sexualize me because my mother failed to impart a healthy sense of sexuality because I was too young back then, and I spent my major developmental years away from my parents, and during the limited amount of time I actually got to spend with my mother she realized I had acquired a sex education on my own time, and she didn’t feel comfortable discussing the topic with me due to the coy nature of Chinese people so we never talked about it.

This is the reason why I overplay my sexuality, even though I'm not even that horny. I just want to be loved for once.

Outfitters attire, and you will think to yourself, “Girllll!”

Every piece of clothing in Urban Outfitters tells a story. Some say, "I just moved from Rural Virginia to Philly, and boy do I need to stop wearing skinny jeans." Some say, "My average screen time every day is nine hours, and six of those are for TikTok." Others say, "I just deleted Hinge for the sixth time, but this Saturday night I will redownload it." Here are four items from the Urban Outfitters clearance rack that say, "My parents were absent during my major developmental years."

This skirt screams, "What you’ve heard is true — I did go to Catholic school for a year, and it gave me an eating disorder and a sex addiction." You can style various tops with this skirt: a white button up, or a white tank top, or a white polo shirt.

Any of these choices will be guaranteed to bring back fond memories of freshman year, when you hid in the bathroom to avoid going to Mass in the gym. Your parents were in a different country, and you hadn't seen them in six months. You took German. No one spoke to you in biology. You had a crush on Jason Ziegler. His friends made fun of you in the cafeteria, so you spent lunch periods in the library for the next two weeks, starving and lonely.

3.

This fluffy pink jacket says, "This was what kept me warm during rush, and I felt the need to join a Greek organization because I was an only child and spent many weekends of my childhood alone in the living room, reading the same book over and over again, and I often wonder what it would be like to have siblings, and I think it would even be good for my parents because they would be less obsessed with me, and they really gotta stop being so obsessed with me since I have been gone for four years now, and it’s time for them to realize that this will be a fact of our family dynamic for the rest of our lives, and they need to get a life somehow."

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As 34th Street keeps growing, we’re interested in hearing from you.

Sign up for a 1 hour focus group to let your voice shape our campus magazine.

Time spots available: Mon., April 12 at 11am Tues., April 13 at 4pm Wed., April 14 at 4pm Each participate will be paid with a $10 Amazon gift card. bit.ly/StreetFocusGroup

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