January 18, 2022

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

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR 6 Steven Chen and queer health education

10 Reflecting on Betty White’s career

12 Dispatches from isolation

18 Inside r/antiwork

20 Waiting to Exhale turns 30

On pop culture, mystery novels, and inclusive journalism

A

s a child, I was never particularly immersed in pop culture. I didn’t consume mainstream music or kids’ TV shows, instead opting for a steady diet of vintage Hardy Boys novels handed down to me by my grandparents.

Something about watching a story unfold page by page, the whole time feeling like you too had a stake in solving the puzzle, was infinitely more satisfying.

I spent most of my childhood with a book in my hand, something I can hardly imagine doing now. I read the Encyclopedia Britannica (yes, really), my fifth grade biology textbook, and nearly every book in the bargain bin of Borders with equal fervor, hoping that one of them would unlock some hidden corner of my mind that would make the world make sense.

But as I entered middle school, my love for reading shifted from mystery novels to magazines, and stacks of Seventeen and Girl’s Life began piling up on my nightstand. I’d imagine life as editor–in–chief of a fashion magazine the same way I’d imagine it as a dolphin trainer or astrophysicist: beautifully unattainable.

I was convinced I’d never make up for the pop culture void that was the first 12 years of my life, and that caring about social justice was irreconcilable with writing about makeup tips.

It often felt like my then–closeted queer and nonbinary self would never find a lifestyle magazine that published the things I wanted to read.

Street is where I learned that these ideas could coexist.

Watching Bea work tirelessly to make this magazine more inclusive while also unapologetically indulging in the most frivo-

lous pop culture scandals taught me that I didn’t have to sacrifice any part of myself to be a journalist. We can laugh at blind items about Drake putting hot sauce in a condom while also investigating the problems with our university’s COVID–19 isolation process. I can write a roundup of ice cream shops one week and profile a trans fitness instructor the next.

I can’t promise that we’ll always get it right. Being a student journalist means preparing to make mistakes, and pushing for big changes means learning what works by trial and error.

What I can promise is that we will take our mistakes seriously and commit to uplifting the voices and concerns of marginalized students on this campus, so that someday everyone can see themself reflected in our pages.

Photo by Sukhmani Kaur

SSSF, Emily

34TH STREET EXECUTIVE BOARD Emily White, Editor–in–Chief: white@34st.com Eva Ingber, Campus Editor: ingber@34st.com Walden Green, Culture Editor: green@34st.com Arielle Stanger, Assignments Editor: stanger@34st. com 34TH STREET EDITORS Mira Sydow, Features Editor Meg Gladieux, Features Editor Julia Esposito, Word on the Street Editor Jean Paik, Focus Editor Kira Wang, Style Editor Alana Bess, Ego Editor Evan Qiang, Music Editor Irma Kiss–Barath, Arts Editor Cindy Zhang, Film & TV Editor Andrew Yang, Multimedia Editor Kira Wang, Audience Engagement Editor

34TH STREET STAFF Features Staff Writers: Sejal Sangani, Angela Shen, Emilee Gu, Avalon Hinchman Focus Beat Writers: Gabrielle Galchen, Sheil Desai Style Beat Writers: W. Anthony Pérez, Anna Hochman, Shelby Abayie, Naima Small Music Beat Writers: Derek Wong, Grayson Catlett, Kate Ratner Arts Beat Writers: Jessa Glassman, Kaliyah Dorsey Film & TV Beat Writers: Jacob A. Pollack, Kayla Cotter Ego Beat Writers: Anjali Kishore, Vidur Saigal

Multimedia Associates: Roger Ge, Max Mester, Derek Wong, Andrea Barajas, Rachel Zhang Audience Engagement Associates: Kayla Cotter, Yamila Frej, Vidur Saigal, Caleb Crain, Katherine Han THIS ISSUE Copy Editor: Brittany Darrow Design Editor: Tyler Kliem Cover Design by Collin Wang

CONTACTING 34TH STREET MAGAZINE If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Emily White, Editor– in–Chief, at white@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 Tuesday.

Staff Writers: John Nycz, Mame Balde glossy mag!

2

34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

WORD ON THE STREET

My Immigrant Dad Wrote a Memoir— And I Didn’t Like It. At first, I struggled with the simplistic way my dad portrayed my family in his book. But soon his words won me over. | JULIA KAFOZOFF

L

ike many immigrant dads, my father is not a man of many words.

A brief scroll through our text messages is evidence enough. Flooding us with old family photos and videos, and forwarding us jokes and songs only Eastern Europeans would recognize, he usually only messages us directly to ask how we are doing, or confirm which groceries we’re missing. Otherwise, he mostly lets music and memories do the talking.

Having always preferred athletics to academics, my dad is not the most verbal person, especially not in English, which he learned in his late twenties when he and my mom immigrated to the United States from Bulgaria.

He’s good–natured about it, though. Whenever I point out that he’s said “got” instead of “get” again, he jokes that he’s still learning, that English is his fifth language (when it’s only his third).

There was a time, however, when jokes were in short supply. When I was in high school, my dad experienced kidney failure. That’s when my family learned that, on average, 13 people die each day waiting for a kidney transplant.

Lying in bed connected to a dialysis machine for months,

Illustration by Tyler Kliem forbidden from going to his favorite places (church and the grocery store, in that order), he suddenly had a lot of extra time on his hands. Unsure of what the future held, he began contemplating his past. Reflecting on his life, he did something he seldom ever did—he wrote.

More than a mere journal, in an effort to redirect the existential turbulence of coping with kidney disease, he had expanded his daily reflections into what was essentially a memoir, compiling recollections of his upbringing and early adulthood, family genealogy, and experience emigrating to the United States following the fall of the Berlin Wall.

After months of indefinite waiting, my mother saved my father from becoming part of a statistic. When we found out she was a match, she donated one of her kidneys, saving his life.

Weeks after the transplant, he proudly printed out all of his notes. This, he said, was for future generations of our family to remember us by.

Briefly reading through the sparse descriptions he had given each of us, I couldn’t help but secretly take issue with his insistence on designating the book as an enduring history of our family. Since this was a

personal account that helped my dad get through a grave time in his life, I felt it wasn’t my place to comment on it, and so I tried not to mind.

But all the same, the more he touted the book’s permanence for years to come, the more I bristled at the prospect of a great–granddaughter reading it and remembering me by nothing more than the details of my birth, high school hobbies, and acceptance to college. I had my gripes with the book and sooner or later—sometimes jokingly, sometimes not—made them known.

In the midst of my complaints, he invited us to amend the narrative wherever we wanted. Wincing, I knew that if I were to begin, I would have to rewrite the entire thing.

If it were up to me, I thought, I would put my heart in the details, focusing on my sister’s wide blue eyes, how she leaves her hair curly and wears her glasses only at home; how it’s only in these moments that she sheds her outward sophistication and looks just like she did as a child. I would share my brother’s relentless love for history, his capacity to transform any scene into a dramatic documentary, how he finds it pointless to go anywhere

that doesn’t have a timeline.

My visionary mother would get her own chapter—not to mention her parents, my dutiful Baba and inventive Dyado. I understood that my dad’s intentions were to write a history, not a novel, but, in skipping over these details, I felt he was skipping over our family itself.

Overcome by the undertaking to perfectly and permanently describe both myself and the members of my family, I didn’t know where to begin. So I didn’t at all.

But it was in my frustration itself that I found the answer. It was in revisiting his meandering reflections and descriptions that I realized the obvious: My dad is not a perfectionist.

My father doesn’t preoccupy himself with the specific details of an undertaking, and that’s what allows him to succeed. If he had concentrated on the adversity and grief awaiting him and his wife as immigrants in a new land, he would have convinced himself to never leave. If, when writing, he had gotten bogged down by the responsibility of detail, feeling obligated to get everything ‘right,’ as I had, he would have never gotten beyond the first page. After all, in writing the memoir, his intent wasn’t simply to write

a book. Faced with his own mortality, it was to reclaim control over his past, present, and somehow, future.

In my irritation, arrogance, or both, I realized I had never actually read the document in its entirety. The more I read about his early life and upbringing, the more I stepped out of my own perspective and into my dad’s. Reading his account of life through his own words, I realized that rather than describing each one of us in detail, he instead focused his narrative on events that intertwined or intersected with the trajectory of our family and were meant as a homage to our heritage and resilience.

Although simply expressed, many descriptions bled with emotion and purpose. I realized that his insistence on making it a family history did not come from a place of owning or controlling our legacy, but rather from the desire that future generations— myself included—know the story of which they are a part.

Ironically, reading my dad’s nearly hundred–page memoir was what made me appreciate his wordless acts of love: long car rides, exuberant flag–waving, routine grocery shopping.

It was a moving reminder that some things are better off left implied.

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

3

EGO

EMILY SAPERSTEIN HOMETOWN: Livingston, N.J. MAJOR:

Computer science with minors in fine arts and math

ACTIVITES:

Penn Glee Club, Penn Sirens, Penn Hillel, CIS 110 TA, Penn Women in Computer Science, Shamash Senior Society, Penn Student Design

Meet the Penn senior who has mastered balancing her passion for art and music with her love for numbers and code. | ALANA BESS 34th STREET: Tell us about your unique combination of STEM and the arts.

EMILY SAPERSTEIN: I guess first of all I would say I’m definitely a person that likes to do a little bit of everything. I’m grateful that I’ve been able to do that at Penn, and I’ve tried to create a balance so that I’m actually able to do a little bit of everything. But I also like to be extra involved in the pieces that I do really like a lot. So on the STEM side, one of the things I really love is being a CIS 110 TA. I really liked being able to give back in that academic setting, and also to act as a role model for other students—especially because CIS 110 is the intro class at Penn. When I came in, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to do computer science, and that class really solidified it for me.

So I really like being able to help others in that way, and I do the same thing as a Women in Computer Science mentor. That’s

4

sort of the STEM side.

On the arts side, I’ve always been a big music person and a big visual arts person too. I’ve done graphic design for a long time, so I love continuing to do

just look for op“Iportunities to do

the things that I like in whatever situation I’m in at a given time.”

that through my fine arts minor. On the music side, being in Glee and Sirens and being able to sing is really important to me.

I get to do that kind of outside of academics too, which is really nice. It’s definitely a big mix.

34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

STREET: Did you plan all of this out before arriving at Penn?

ES: I knew I wanted some elements. But for example, I had no idea I wanted to be a TA until I took my first college class. I also guess I just sort of knew I wanted to prioritize music because music has always been really important to me. I was in choirs in high school, but I didn’t really know that I wanted to get more involved in other things. I was sort of more like, “You know, what I do for STEM in my classes is great, but outside of class, I really want to do music.” I was pleasantly surprised that I’m kind of able to do both, which is really nice. Especially finding that TA opportunity.

STREET: So how do you supplement your passion for the arts?

ES: I just look for opportunities to do the things that I like in whatever situation I’m in at a given time. So what that means is let’s say Penn Hillel needs me

to design a graphic or flyer for an upcoming event, I’m immediately in because I love to do that.

Or when a contest comes up, like for Class Board, I’ll submit a drawing for that. I entered the design contest for the Hey Day T–shirts and I actually won it, so my design is on those shirts.

It’s nice to get to do these things when I have some free time. I guess in the opposite sense, like in Glee Club, where I’m an Alto section leader, I get to use some of my TA skills when it comes to teaching people music.

STREET: Tell us about your involvement in Penn Hillel.

ES: I just finished my term on the Executive Board as the Vice President of Jewish Life and Education. What that meant in practice was focusing on doing holiday events and other events that brought different members of the Jewish community together who might have different religious practices while promoting pluralism. Trying to

EGO

manage after COVID–19 was kind of hard, especially with doing a lot of outdoor events, but it honestly worked out really well because people were kind of really excited about getting together in the best way that they could. I have been involved with Penn Hillel since I was a [first year]. I went on their pre–orientation program, I’m there every weekend, and I really consider it my home on campus.

STREET: Tell me about yourself a little bit outside of school.

ES: One thing I’m really excited about is baking. I come from a major foodie family. We held regular family cooking competitions during the pandemic and over winter break, and we still continue doing them. Other members of my family are more into frying things or cooking, but I’m definitely more into baking specifically.

Also, music is my life. I listen to music all the time and especially a lot of musical theater. I also like spending a lot of time with my friends and family.

STREET: What’s been your most memorable experience at Penn?

ES: It’s hard to remember now that the pandemic came in between everything, but as of now,

I would have to say my most memorable experience was being able to sing at Convocation this year with Glee Club. I was in Sirens before, which is also super important to me too. With Glee Club, though, it was the first really really big performance I had to do. I think my bigger performances have definitely been through Glee Club—and the newly virtual Glee Club.

We were rehearsing a lot and everyone really had the chance to bond together. We just ran up to the stage and we were beaming as we listened to how we were sounding. It was also crazy to have that perspective when it was our first time being back on campus and seeing all of these new [first years] after being online for so long. It was very overwhelming with so many new people but super memorable. I just really enjoyed all the rehearsals and bonding for such a momentous performance.

STREET: What’s been your biggest struggle in balancing everything you do?

ES: My biggest struggle has been figuring out that balance of how much I want to push myself in everything I do. What that meant for me was learning to not be so hard on myself in every

single thing that I did, because if you want to do a little bit of everything you can’t absolutely commit to every single thing for

to learn “Itohad be okay with

things sometimes being mediocre so that other parts of my life could be spectacular.”

every activity. It was definitely hard in the beginning to figure out that balance, but it meant prioritizing different things at different times and figuring out what I really love the most and trying out different versions of that until I found the balance I really liked. It’s changed year to year; it’s not static. I think it’s a good thing because I was able to get myself more involved in different spaces at different times throughout my Penn experience which has been really valuable.

STREET: What’s something you’ve learned throughout this process and your four years at Penn?

ES: It relates to the last ques-

tion, but for me it’s been learning how to not be crazy hard on myself. I’ve always been somebody who pushes myself to the limit to do as much as possible.

Every activity and class at Penn is of the highest quality you can possibly get from anywhere, so learning to find the balance without being so hard on myself was super important. I had to learn to be okay with things sometimes being mediocre so that other parts of my life could be spectacular.

It’s a hard thing to learn but it’s also super valuable. I’m sure it applies for later in life too because life is crazy. Overall I had to learn a lot about not pushing myself too hard, not being too hard on myself, and learning to balance all of the different things I do.

STREET: What’s next for you after Penn?

ES: I’m going to be joining Google full time as a software engineer. I’m really excited—it’s been a big dream of mine and I’ve been hoping for it for a long long time.

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

LIGHTNING ROUND STREET: Last song you listened to?

ES: “Come To Your Senses” by Jonathan Larson from “Tick, Tick… Boom!”

STREET: Last thing you baked?

ES: Double chocolate chip cookies with mint chocolate candies in them.

STREET: Death row meal?

ES: Eggplant parmesan.

STREET: Favorite study spot on campus?

ES: Fisher Fine Arts.

STREET: There are two types of people at Penn ...

ES: People who walk to Trader Joe’s and the people who take SEPTA or drive.

STREET: And you are?

ES: The person who walks. I like walking around the city and it gives you exercise.

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

5

EGO

Taking up Space: Furthering Queer Health Education on Campus

Photo from Steven Chen

How Steven Chen is revolutionizing LGBTQ inclusivity at Penn and beyond with OurSpace | ALANA BESS

I

t’s 9 a.m. on a wintery Tuesday in the middle of Stommons, and unexpectedly, my day begins with a smile and a hug. Within the first five seconds of our meeting, Steven Chen eases any pre–interview butterflies lingering in my belly. The plan is to ask a few questions, sip my lukewarm cappuccino, and take notes.

But as I listen, I can already tell it’s going to be one of those mornings that weigh on my mind and my heart for the rest of the day.

Steven’s initial warmth reveals a lot about who he is as a person. My suspicion is that he’s not just being nice and friendly to the Street reporter who badgered him to meet at 9 a.m. right before finals week.

He’s just welcoming to anyone and everyone who could use an early morning smile. “My parents always taught me to use my education and resources to support other people,” he explains.

And Steven does exactly that.

Every Friday afternoon, Steven leads the OurSpace Sexual Health Education Program— a collaboration between the Netter Center and the LGBT Center—to teach high school students, along with Penn students, the need–to–knows about queer sexual health.

OurSpace was established in 6

the spring of 2021, and after helping to facilitate the program, Steven was asked to become the OurSpace coordinator by his supervisor, Paulette Branson.

“There’s a lot of stigma and toxicity surrounding discussions on queer sexual health and sexual health in general, so we just want to change that from the ground level,” he says.

A health and societies major and urban education minor, Steven knew early on in his education that he wanted to combine the two disciplines while studying pre–med at Penn.

OurSpace fills the gap between those two fields of study.

Steven facilitates financial literacy workshops, community building exercises, and queer history lessons. Last semester, the team administered ten sexual health workshops through the Mazzoni Center. “It’s a very queer–inclusive sexual education, especially because through the research I did in the summer and through talking in general with a lot of health actors in West Philadelphia, I realized that there is no access to comprehensive queer health education,” Steven says.

“A lot of health educators feel uncomfortable talking about these topics.”

That’s why Steven and his team feel it necessary to pro-

34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

vide a learning opportunity for their students. On Fridays from 4 to 6 p.m., they first lead general OurSpace programming before using the last hour for health education programming. The trademark inclusive atmosphere is fostered through activities like arts and crafts and learning American Sign Language for the hard–of–hearing students and staff.

The group is working on setting up Gay–Straight Alliances (GSAs) in the Netter Center’s University–Assisted Community Schools (UACS) with hired part–time staff and Penn students. “Even Penn students, including myself, have never had these resources. Everyone loves it and is learning together, which is a super powerful piece of the program,” Steven tells me. His hands gesticulate excitedly and there is no way to deny his passion for OurSpace.

“GSAs in general are not only about facilitating these spaces in Penn for Penn students, but also about facilitating these queer–inclusive spaces in the high schools,” he says.

COVID–19 restrictions originally made it quite difficult to gather students and build connections. But Steven says that outside of logistics, a major obstacle was “actually defining what [his] program wanted to do and what OurSpace wanted

to do—just [finding] a sense of community.”

Steven emphasizes that a program can’t be developed without feedback from those on the receiving end. “I think the main challenge was just finding my program and centering it in the community’s voice. It was the most challenging, but rewarding, part,” he continues.

“Nothing was better than hearing my students say, ‘Thank you. I’m learning so much, and I needed all of these tools.’”

The Warminster, Pa., native still doesn’t think that things are all sunshine and roses at Penn for the LGBTQ community. In his opinion, Penn could do better in providing support to queer students of color and other intersecting identities, such as first–generation and low–income students.

Steven emphasizes that Penn’s queer community has a voice, and that voice deserves to be heard. There’s a lot more that can be done to foster inclusivity and change on campus.

In fact, Steven seeks to provide a hub for Penn students to feel safe and truly understand their roles on campus through community engagement. He specifically wants OurSpace to be an organization that supports the UACS and their GSAs. In the upcoming semester, Steven and his team will be

working on professional development curricula, such as online resources and workshops, to answer the question about how to foster queer–inclusive spaces in UACS classrooms. “I want OurSpace to be that collaboration between the queer community in West Philly and Penn, and the connection that intertwines the two populations,” he says passionately.

But Steven’s warmth and enthusiasm extends far beyond the confines of the coffee shop where we sit talking. One time he constructed a makeshift Escape Room game for his students by hiding murder mystery clues under the pillows of the LGBT Center’s Reading Room. “Having the high school students and Penn students work together to solve their way to an escape was amazing,” he says with a smile.

With a twinkle in his eyes, he adds, “Honestly, those escape rooms are so hard—I’m not sure if Penn students [alone] would have even been able to solve it!”

What’s more, every email Steven sends to those involved in OurSpace is addressed to the “OurSpace Family”—and he means it. To Steven, his OurSpace family is everything. I have no doubt the OurSpace community feels the same way about him.

THE RADIAN EXPERIENCE EXPERIENCE EXPERIENCE Now leasing for Fall 2022 (215) 222-4212 | theradian.com JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

7

MUSIC

On 'Dawn FM,'The Weeknd Continues To Exert His Power Over Pop Music

T

The semi–surprise release manages to one–up his 2020 blockbuster, 'After Hours.' | DEREK WONG

he Weeknd, born Abel Tesfaye, has had a great past two years. After Hours was one of the best–selling albums of 2020 and 2021, and spawned the No. 1 greatest single of all time, “Blinding Lights.” Just last year, Tesfaye headlined the Super Bowl and released the follow–up single, “Save Your Tears,” a duet with Ariana Grande and one of the best–selling songs of 2021. It would be an understatement to say that the Canadian artist is at the top of his game, even if Grammy voters said otherwise.

The question for Tesfaye becomes this: What does one do following a massively successful album with even bigger singles?

Coming from a highly productive era means even higher expectations; other artists who've faced this question have approached it differently—and with varied results. Lady Gaga followed her debut album The Fame, which spawned multiple hits, with the cultural juggernaut Born This Way, garnering the approval of the public and critics alike. On the other hand, Carly Rae Jepsen followed Kiss and “Call Me Maybe” with the less commercially successful, albeit still critically acclaimed, E•MO•TION. Both artists attempted to experiment with new sounds but ended up steering their careers in opposite directions.

Dawn FM, then, is Tesfaye's own answer; one which cements his career trajectory alongside the likes of Gaga. He has already proven his worth with After Hours, but his newest release showcases his versatility and musical genius without sacrificing 8

Illustration by Alice Choi his ear for radio chart–toppers.

In a Variety interview from May 2021, Tesfaye revealed that “if the last record is the after hours of the night, then the dawn is coming,” suggesting that Dawn FM would be a natural successor to his discography. Indeed, Dawn FM picks up where After Hours left off, continuing the pop star’s flirtation with the sounds from the '80s. He once again worked with producers Max Martin and Oscar Holter, the team behind the smash hit “Blinding Lights,” for the lead single “Take My Breath.” But that’s really where the similarities end.

Even though After Hours and Dawn FM are both inspired by '80s music, comparing the two would be like measuring a–ha’s “Take On Me” against Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Both might be from the same decade, but are not cut from the same cloth.

Dawn FM feels stylistically dif-

34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

ferent from After Hours, with the former being moodier, more electronic, and funkier and the latter relying more on synth– pop and R&B. Likewise, Tesfaye is more pessimistic, nihilistic, and even hedonistic in the subject matter, making Dawn FM feel more candid than the optimistic After Hours.

This is perhaps best represented by the second single, “Sacrifice.” Backed by an electro–funk instrumentation, the song samples “I Want To Thank You” by Alicia Myers from the early '80s to create a dance floor–worthy tune. Tesfaye sings about a self–indulgent lifestyle and not wanting to sacrifice who he is for someone else, a reversal of the singer’s statements on After Hours' title track, where he’d “risk it all” for another’s love.

“Gasoline” is a hit made for the dance floor, but Tesfaye openly admits, “It's 5 a.m., I'm nihilist / I know there's nothing

after this.” This sentiment is opposite to the opening track of After Hours, “Alone Again.” Both center around substance abuse and an unbalanced relationship with a lover, but on Dawn FM, Tesfaye just doesn't seem to care anymore. On “Here We Go… Again (feat. Tyler, The Creator)” and “I Heard You’re Married (feat. Lil Wayne),” Tesfaye mentions the dark side of love: The former adds more references to his excessive lifestyle (“Macallan shots 'til it burn throats / We still celebratin' Super Bowl”) and the latter laments a lover for being unfaithful (“But why you even with him if you're cheatin'?”).

These lyrics show a side of Tesfaye that's been largely absent since his earliest mixtapes, one that is more boastful and cares less about consequences.

Littered between the tracks are snippets of spoken dialogue, courtesy of Jim Carrey and Quincy Jones. Carrey's contri-

bution was to serve as a pseudo– radio show host for the album, as denoted by the opening track (“Dawn FM”), the middle of the album (“Out of Time”), and the closing track (“Phantom Regret

By Jim”). These interstitials support the theme of Dawn FM, making the listening experience feel especially curated—like a radio show for the audience.

The seamless transitions between songs add to this concept, and in the livestream premiere of the album (now present as lyric videos), the Canadian artist even acted as a DJ. As cohesive as Dawn FM is, it may actually be too cohesive.

Upon multiple listens through the album, all the tracks begin to blend together into a blur that's only interrupted by the dialogue–filled interludes. Of course, Tesfaye’s intent was for the experience to be a bit psychedelic and existential. He described the album as one a person would listen to if they were stuck in purgatory or a limbo state, and the subject matter and constant sameness contribute to that feeling. In doing so, however, the songs can sometimes lose their unique identity.

Maybe that was the point.

Music at times is really about the audio experience, a feature this album largely capitalizes on. With a stellar production team and strong creative direction, Tesfaye relies on listeners to just tune in and vibe, and it pays off. Dawn FM is meant for a club where you get lost in the beat, the long road trip with nothing but nature around you, or as the artist described, being stuck in traffic, trying to fill the void of time.

MUSIC

Illustration by Lilian Liu

9 Albums to Look Forward to in

A

ll signs point to 2022 being a big year for music. January tends to be a quiet month for releases, but we've already seen The Weeknd’s blockbuster Dawn FM dropping on the first Friday of the year, plus other albums from Earl Sweatshirt, Band of Horses, and FKA twigs. Although some of the names floating around in the discourse have yet to make any official announcements, here’s a list of some of the projects that are expected to make an impact on the music industry.

MITSKI, LAUREL HELL

(FEB. 4) Three years after the eclectic Be the Cowboy, Mitski blessed her fans with the compelling single “Working for the Knife,” which described her recent feelings about creating art, in October of last year. Announcing the arrival date of Laurel Hell, the singer–songwriter described the album as “a soundtrack for transformation, a map to the place where vulnerability and resilience, sorrow and delight, error and transcendence can all sit within our humanity, can all be seen as worthy of acknowledgment, and ultimately, love.”

2022

Here are Street's most anticipated releases of the year. | GRAYSON CATLETT A posthumous effort from Phife Dawg has been in the works since he and the jazz– rap titans A Tribe Called Quest rounded off their career with the 2016 album We got it from Here… Thank You 4 Your Service. The project's final release date, March 22, will be the sixth anniversary of Dawg's CHARLI XCX, CRASH tragic passing. After years of (MARCH 18) care were put into the result, Charli tapped into her dark fans can hope for Forever to be a side with the rollout for her new fun and worthy send–off for the album. Crash, her follow–up to legendary rapper.

2020’s pandemic–inspired how i’m feeling now, is set to move away from the futuristic style FATHER JOHN MISTY, of her past records and more towards the pop of the 1980s. CHLOË AND THE NEXT Her fifth and final release under 20TH CENTURY Atlantic Records is rumored to (MARCH 22) of U.F.O.F. and Two Hands in 2019. The band has already been peppering the latter half of 2021 with singles set to appear on the new project, which Lenker considers to be “more uplifting and hopeful, which is funny, given the time we’re in.”

bear a heavy Janet Jackson influence, and comes with collaborations from other pop icons such as Caroline Polachek, Christine & the Queens, and Rina Sawayama.

100 GECS, 10000 GECS

(TBD)

Josh Tillman, known by his stage name Father John Misty, scaled back the heady and extravagant compositions and themes of his 2017 opus Pure Comedy for the vulnerable God’s Favorite Customer a year later.

Now, without any full–length material from the divisive singer–songwriter in three years, fans may be eager to hear developments in his personal life, more musings about current politics, or maybe a bit of both.

Given the orchestral arrangements of lead single “Funny Girl,” a return to grandiosity looks to be what Tillman's going for this time around.

The boundary–pushing pop duo announced their upcoming record and released the lead single “mememe” last year, but they have yet to solidify a release date. The new release looks to signify their rising popularity while also keeping their distinct idiosyncrasies and hyperpop sound in check. Surprisingly, there may be some songs BIG THIEF, DRAGON where member Laura Les sheds the NEW WARM MOUNgroup’s trademark autotune entirely.

Amid changes in personnel and sta- ROSALÍA, MOTOMAMI TAIN I BELIEVE IN YOU (TBD) (FEB. 11) tus, Les hopes that the new release is, Last November, Rosalía reThe Adrianne Lenker–led fittingly, “10 times as good” as their folk darlings are set to release a sprawling double album next month: It'll be their first release since the one–two punch

tween these releases, she has accumulated collaborations with some of the biggest names in Spanish and English music, including Bad Bunny, J Balvin, and The Weeknd. In an interview with Rolling Stone, she spoke of the new project as “the most personal and confessional album that [she has] made so far.”

Me More” with Doja Cat and “No Love” with Summer Walker. One of these SoundCloud tracks, "I Hate U," was officially released on streaming services after going viral on social media. She hasn’t revealed any clear details about the upcoming album, but she has talked about an endeavor into acting.

Maybe the new project will coincide with a visual counterpart or a screen role elsewhere; either way, SZA is gearing up for KENDRICK LAMAR, a successful year.

TBA (TBD) In August of last year, the Compton rapper teased the long–awaited album that would end his tenure with his label Top Dawg Entertainment.

Now, with Lamar’s upcoming Super Bowl performance and headlining performance for the Day N Night festival, that new record seems more imminent than ever. It would be his first since his chaotic DAMN. from 2017 (excluding his curation of the Black Panther soundtrack).

Even without any official announcements about collaborators or songs to date, the return of Kendrick Lamar may still be the largest event for hip–hop fans this year.

SZA, TBA (TBD)

Another Top Dawg artist who has yet to deliver in almost five years is SZA, who may bring forth a sequel to the lush Ctrl by the end of this year. She's recently kept fans up to date on her creative prolast project, 1000 gecs. vealed a glittery teaser for her cess with a trio of SoundCloud newest album, which follows songs and a flurry of singles and PHIFE DAWG, FOREVER 2018's Grammy–nominated collaborations, including “Kiss (MARCH 22) El Mal Querer. In the span be-

2022 2022 2022 2022 2022 2022 2022

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE

9

FILM & TV

How Betty White Crossed Generational Borders Reflecting on the comedy legend’s prolific career | KAYLA COTTER

O

n Dec. 31, 2021, Betty White passed away, just two and a half weeks shy of her centennial birthday. She was 99 years old, yet her death sent shock waves through the entertainment world; many, including myself, couldn’t fathom that such an ever–present force in Hollywood was gone.

White, often referred to as “The First Lady of Television,” was relevant until the end, and despite her full life and legacy, I shed tears over her death. Her work transcended every genre and every generation, and through her extensive filmography, I felt personally connected to the veteran actress. Only two days prior, I'd read the People magazine cover story that celebrated the assumed centennial milestone, featuring one of her final print interviews. As always, she was assuredly herself: quick–witted, outspoken, and endearingly optimistic.

White was a television mainstay from the get–go.

She experienced the birth of the medium, appearing on an experimental television show in 1939 before the form truly took off. However, it wasn’t until after a stint in the American Women’s Voluntary

Services during WWII and several radio jobs in the 1940s that she began to regularly appear on television, first as the co–host of the variety show Hollywood on Television. As the Golden Age of radio fizzled out, White continued to thrive as a performer on the new national mass media. When Al Jarvis left the show in 1952, she assumed hosting duties, ushering in a television career that would span eight decades.

In every genre that Betty White engaged with, she seemed to break boundaries.

In 1953, White would star in her first sitcom, Life With Elizabeth, which was produced by Bandy Productions, a production company that she, Don Fedderson, and George Tibbles had founded. With this show, White became the first woman to produce and star in a sitcom in the United States, as well as one of the first actresses to be nominated at the Emmy awards. She notably hired Betty Turbiville rather than a male director. Additionally, White was nicknamed the “First Lady of Gameshows” for being a common face on those programs in the '60s.

She became the first woman to win a Daytime Emmy for Outstanding Game Show

10 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

Host in 1983 for Just Men! White was not solely a pioneer on the silver screen, but a burgeoning advocate behind the scenes as well. Her daytime talk show, The Betty White Show, which was a product of her time on Hollywood on Television, was met with controversy when it moved to NBC in 1954. Many Southern audience members criticized the inclusion of Arthur Duncan, a Black tap dancer, amongst the show's number of variety acts. Rather than fire Duncan, White told her audience to "live with it" and subsequently gave him more airtime, resulting in the show’s quiet cancellation later that same year.

That said, this was not the only time the veteran actress tiptoed into the waters of activism. In an interview with Larry King in 2014, she would affirm her support for LGBTQ rights.

Moreover, White was a passionate animal welfare activist who worked with the Los Angeles Zoo Association for over thirty years. In fact, her passion for animals is so well–documented that the Betty White Challenge, which emerged after her death, encourages her sup-

Illustration by Alice Choi porters to make a donation to their local animal shelter on Jan. 17, which would've been White’s 100th birthday.

White’s most renowned roles were as Sue Ann Nivens on The Mary Tyler Moore Show in 1973 and as Rose Nylund on The Golden Girls in 1985. The Mary Tyler Moore Show, which reflected the second–wave feminism that White spearheaded, depicted modern women in a way that the medium hadn't seen. A decade later, White starred on The Golden Girls, a gold standard of televised success that would see her become one of the most recognizable faces in entertainment. Fans of this boisterous senior citizen sitcom have passed on the work to their children, introducing White to a new generation.

Though White appeared in guest roles throughout the '90s and 2000s, her 2009 role in The Proposal saw the resurgence in her career that cemented her as a national treasure. A Snickers commercial for the 2010 Super Bowl would yield a Facebook campaign for her to host SNL, which she later would on May 8, 2010, winning the 2010 Primetime Emmy Award for

Outstanding Guest Actress in a Comedy Series. This would introduce her to yet another generation of fans, and she would star in Hot in Cleveland in her late eighties.

Losing Betty White means losing the guiding hand of an industry I've long been enamored with. As television grew, she grew with it, and until her death, the public could rest assured that her presence was a guarantee in the evolving medium.

In a statement to People magazine following her death, White’s agent Jeff Witjas commented, “Even though Betty was about to be 100, I thought she would live forever.” It occurred to me that I did too.

A once-advertised 100th birthday celebration is now a memorial, and it’s difficult to reconcile that somebody who lived so long didn’t seem to quite live long enough.

That said, White was always a woman who had a positive relationship with death: In a 2012 interview, she commented that “whenever we’d lose somebody very close and very dear, [her mother] would always say, ‘Well, now he knows the secret.’” Well, now she knows the secret too, and I hope it’s as golden as her.

FILM & TV

The Push and Pull of Dark Academia

T

ypewriters; wax seal stamps; vintage outfits with an emphasis on beige and brown hues. You’ve seen it all before, and probably imagined it too—attending boarding school in New England, penning (or receiving) love letters, spending your days surrounded by books and Gothic architecture. Originating on Tumblr in 2012, the subculture of dark academia has long fascinated a particular kind of young person.

But it’s not enough to dress the part—you have to act it too. Adopting this lifestyle involves the pursuit of knowledge, but in a way that can’t be divorced from elitism. In fact, one could argue that Donna Tartt’s The Secret History is the epitome of dark academia: A group of students, who are handpicked by an enigmatic professor to study classics at a liberal arts college, murder a fellow student, instigating a cycle of corruption and moral decay.

In recent years, this aesthetic has garnered an audience on TikTok, in particular as a source of fashion inspiration. Its appeal was magnified as schools across the world adopted remote learning, with Google searches for “dark academia” increasing by 4750% in spring 2021. Fans of the trend rejected a life experienced entirely within the digital realm and used this form of self–expression to regain a sense of control over their lives. However, many of these recent adoptees lack familiarity with the basis of the dark academia aesthetic, best represented in cult classic films like Dead Poets Society, Kill Your Darlings, and Rope.

In Dead Poets Society, Welton Academy, an all–boys school that sends more than 75% of its students to Ivy League schools,

welcomes Mr. Keating (Robin Williams) to their English department. An unorthodox and captivating teacher, Mr. Keating encourages the boys to challenge renowned poets and writers with their own perspectives, to spread poetry because “the human race is filled with passion,” and to lead extraordinary lives. Through readings of Lord Byron and Thoreau, he helps our protagonists, Todd and Neil, realize their potential as artists, although the latter meets a tragic end when he realizes that the life he wants to live is incompatible with his father’s practical ambitions for him.

A stark contrast, Rope plumbs even deeper into the sinister side of dark academia. Using the Nietzschean conception of the Übermensch—a superman who rejects the teachings of God and authors his own life, beliefs, and values—Brandon and Philip play God and strangle their friend, the beloved and almost–too–perfect David, to death. They proceed to bury him in a chest, upon which they host a buffet, taunting their ignorant dinner guests with their superior knowledge.

Alfred Hitchcock abandons all subtlety when he has Philip shy away from the light in fear of being discovered. And why do they kill David? “Well, murder can be an art, too,” Brandon remarks, with the delusional intensity of a madman.

These themes of death, rebirth, love and passion provoke the audience over and over again. The radical group featured in Kill Your Darlings seeks to inspire a literary revolution while high on drugs (and literature), embodying the artistic decadence and rebellion associated with the Beat poets.

They liberate themselves from

fixed form poetry, destroy classic literary works, and subvert authority. The film is as much a caricature of teenage recklessness as it is a journey of self–discovery. The most haunting part is that it’s semi– biographical in its retelling of a murder case documented by The New York Times: “Columbia Student Kills Friend and Sinks Body in Hudson River.”

The duality of dark academia is what makes audiences simultaneously attracted to and repulsed by it. Its philosophy is in many ways refreshing: It promotes love of the written word and centers humanity on a stage that’s been dominated by materialistic desires for far too long.

Its message remains relevant today, as humanities programs at schools and universities across the country are at risk of facing

Exploring the disturbing duality of dark academia in 'Dead Poets Society,' 'Kill Your Darlings,' and 'Rope' | CINDY ZHANG Illustration by Lilian Liu

funding cuts or being eliminated entirely. The devaluation of the humanities and arts, disciplines essential to fostering creativity, is a phenomenon that these films appear to challenge.

However, while Dead Poets Society is a bold declaration of one’s love for learning, Rope and Kill Your Darlings represent the other end of the spectrum: amoral outlooks on life and the pursuit of beauty and the aesthetic above all else. They warn us about placing intellectualism above humanity, suggesting that knowledge is dangerous when applied without compassion. Moreover, dark academia perpetuates classist ideas by romanticizing an elite lifestyle that’s inaccessible to the majority—any one of these characters could toss off the line “wait 'till my father hears

about this” or use "summer" as a verb and I would believe it.

The resurgence of dark academia may not be all that bad, though. It has led to the creation of communities on platforms such as TikTok—which serve to democratize knowledge—and revived appreciation of literature and art, as well as offered an antidote to the isolating effects of COVID–19. While the aforementioned movies all feature white, male protagonists, creators of color are introducing Middle Eastern, African and Asian literature to the dark academia canon via TikTok, indicating a shift from the trend’s Eurocentric and colonial roots.

The online consensus is clear: The spaces depicted in these pieces of media may still belong to the elite, but dark academia belongs to all of us now.

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE 11

F E AT U R E

F E AT U R E

Dispatches from Isolation Confusion. Chaos. Miscommunication.

When Penn students test positive for COVID–19, nothing about the isolation process is clear. | MIRA SYDOW & MEG GLADIEUX

Illustration by Collin Wang

“

When you arrive at your room, you’ll have paper plates, plastic silverware, styrofoam cups, linen, two rolls of toilet paper,” she pauses. “But I’d bring your own toilet paper, they’ll give you the shitty, half–ply stuff.”

She finishes, “Trashcan and liners, and a cleaning pack to sanitize. Return the key fob in the envelope you receive it in.”

I scramble to type down her instructions in my notes app.

She rattles off a list of numbers that I can call: Axis Apartments front desk, Residential and Hospitality Services, Student Health Services, Counseling and Psychological Services, and Penn Police, just in case.

Cheerfully: “Call me back at this number if you have any more questions!” The call ends.

A few hours later, I lug my suitcase four blocks to Axis Apartments, pausing every few steps to catch my breath.

It’s only ten days, but I packed

a kettle, collapsible lamp, and a campus–wide increase in the tion buildings were exceedcomforter—recommenda- COVID–19 positivity rate. ing capacity. We reached out tions from former isolators. The following day, the Of- to the Campus Health COArriving at Axis, an Allied fice of Student Affairs sent a VID–19 Management Team Universal Security guard helps message encouraging student Lead Christopher Blake Felix me carry my luggage up to organizations to postpone DiDonato multiple times, as the second floor landing—he social events. According to well as Senior Associate Directells me that COVID–19 pa- Penn’s Fall 2021 COVID–19 tor of Residential and Hospitients aren’t allowed to use the dashboard, between Nov. 28 tality Services Courtney Domelevators, bebroski, cause people who reI·so·la·tion /ˌīsəˈlāSH(ə)n/ noun actually live directed The physical separation of individuals who on the upus to Penn have tested positive for COVID—19 from the per floors. I Business Serrest of the Penn community; may occur in search for my vices Director key among of Communicaa range of places including but not limited the name– tions and External to a dorm room, an off—campus apartment labeled red Relations Barbara building, an abandoned sorority house, or a plastic bags Lea–Kruger, who inhotel suite. crammed troduced us to Penn onto a small Wellness’s Mary Kate table on the Coghlan, who was unlanding: Sam … Paige … El- and Dec. 18, 2021, a total of able to get back to us with a eanor … Sienna. Finally, I spot 431 students tested positive response from Penn Wellness. mine, Mira. for COVID–19. On Dec. 18, SHS shared limited informaNow starts ten days in isola- 2021, a total of 414 students tion about COVID–19 testtion. were in isolation, with 88% ing and isolation policies, On Nov. 30, 2021, Penn’s available capacity in Penn’s which was already available COVID–19 Response Team isolation spaces. through Penn’s COVID–19 sent an announcement to the But during this time, stu- FAQs. No one we reached out University community about dents recall that Penn’s isola- to was able to speak with us

1 2 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

about reports on the conditions in isolation dorms.

Amid the uptick in COVID–19 cases on campus, students isolated in a number of buildings around University City, including dorm buildings, off–campus apartment buildings, and other locations owned by Penn. The experience was an added source of stress amid finals and the end of the fall 2021 semester—for many of these students, once they tested positive, they felt as if they became a second thought to the University.

Paola Camacho (C ’24) sits alone in her isolation room at Axis Apartments, on hold with a representative from SHS. It’s just one of the many confusing phone calls she’s had since testing positive for COVID–19.

After performing with her on–campus dance group at Carnegie Hall on Dec. 10, Paola went to get a CO-

VID–19 test the next day, Saturday, Dec. 11. Knowing she had just attended a high– risk event, she also decided to self–quarantine, sleeping separately from her roommate. By Monday, she still hadn’t received the results, so she went to get another test.

She received a negative test on Monday afternoon and that evening, saw friends and slept in the same room as her roommate.

But the next morning, Tuesday, Dec. 14, Paola woke up to a red pass and a message that she had tested positive for COVID–19. Soon after, she received a call from the University telling her she would need to move to Axis, an isolation dorm. Paola explained to the University representative that she had never gotten her test results from Saturday but had tested negative the day before.

“

All I could think was, ‘Why am I being told I’m positive four days after I got tested?’ It shocks me that the testing system at this school can mess up so badly.”

Paola Camacho (C '24) isolated in Axis Paola was told that it was likely that her test from Monday was a false negative, that her positive test from Saturday was unlikely to be an error, and that she would be isolated. They explained that the probability of a false negative with Penn’s saliva–based PCR tests was much more likely than the probability of getting a false positive. She felt nothing but confusion and anxiety for all the people she had exposed

in the past day.

“All I could think was, ‘Why am I being told I’m positive four days after I got tested?’” says Paola. “It shocks me that the testing system at this school can mess up so badly.”

Paola suspects that the delay in receiving her Saturday results was likely the result of timing—Penn’s COVID–19 testing labs are closed on Sundays. “It made me really angry that I could have gotten so many people sick.”

Luckily, to her knowledge, no one she saw on Monday tested positive after seeing her. She was also the only person in her dance troupe that tested positive.

But the confusing communication from Penn only continued through Paola’s period in isolation. Any time she had a question and she called the phone number given to her upon moving to Axis, she would be transferred multiple times—it seemed that she could never find someone who could answer her questions, and different people would share conflicting information.

“They kept asking me, ‘Who was it that you talked with?’ I thought they had a good record of things, but it seemed like it was always on me to refer them to the person who had previously told me certain information,” says Paola.

At one point, while on the phone with a representative from SHS, she was informed that the date that she was allowed to leave isolation had changed to Dec. 24—two days later than she had initially been told. Even though she didn’t go into isolation until Dec. 14, her ten–day isolation period should have begun the day she tested positive. However, when she called to ask whether there was any risk she would be contagious post–isolation,

it seemed that the date had been misrecorded—she was now being told she couldn't leave until Christmas Eve. “For a second, I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to go home. That was my biggest fear—that I would miss Christmas,” says Paola. Eventually, she was able to confirm that she could leave on Dec. 22, and returned home to her family.

Penn’s testing system seems pretty straightforward: Get COVID–19 tests regularly; quarantine if you’ve been exposed to someone who tested positive; if you test positive—get a Red Pass—move into one of Penn’s designated COVID–19 isolation dorms. But Paola’s experience demonstrates that the testing system isn’t as seamless as it’s made out to be.

Day 1

Get tested for COVID–19 Receive a red PennOpen Pass (Maneuver around the PennOpen Pass site until you realize this means you tested positive) (Call the PennOpen Pass office and get transferred four different times)

Day 2

Get a call from Residential Services about next steps (They say it won’t take more than 20 minutes, but it’ll take over an hour) Retrace your steps for Residential Services contact tracers (Send frantic texts to everyone you’ve seen in the past few days. Tell them they may have been exposed) (Some of them will be red passed, seemingly at random) Receive an email assigning you to isolation housing (Misunderstand the subject of the email and mark it as spam. Don’t read it until you receive an SHS message a day later)

Day 3

After the first few Go into isolation nights at Axis, I settled (Go on four walks a day just to maintain your sanity) into a melancholy routine. Habits that were non–negotiable in my dorm room Suffer full–body aches, splitting migraines, chills became optional in (Fend off calls from your mother, who wants to hospitalize isolation. I ate half you) as many meals as I used to, showered when I was bored (often sevGet random calls from SHS to “check in” eral times a day), (They’ll stop checking in after a few days. You’ll wonder and got dressed whether if you suddenly died, anyone would know) if I felt like it. I learned to tiptoe around the stairwell so the Take your finals online security guards (Desperately negotiate through email so you don’t have to take wouldn’t hear them in the spring) my pacing and to take walks in the sweet spot Order Instacart of the day (a daily routine by the last half of isolation—you learn to not bother so I could with the delivered food from Penn Dining) catch the sunset over the

Day 5

Day 6

Day 7

Day 9

Day 10

Get out of isolation (FREEDOM AT LAST) JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE 13

F E AT U R E

Schuylkill on my way back.

Those walks—usually once per day—saved my body and mind. The first night, a few friends and I reached the southern end of the Schuylkill River Trail, disappointed we couldn’t walk farther. We masked up and made it to the art museum at night and the corners of West Philadelphia during the day, musing about the patterns in architecture and drumming up stories about the people we passed on the street. After I graduated from Axis, Paola told me a friend of ours had walked across the entire city, from river to river, just to avoid another hour in isolation.

Down the hall from Paola, Maura Pinder (W ’24) counts the hours until Dec. 19, the day her isolation period ends and she can leave her COVID–19 cell. She tested positive on Dec. 9, two days before Paola even got her initial test.

But Maura did not arrive at Axis until Dec. 15, the day after Paola. Maura’s isolation was all over the map.

“

After a while, people just stopped checking in … It did a number on my mental health. It felt neverending, like I would never get out.”

Maura Pinder, (C ’24) isolated in Harrison, The Inn at Penn, and Axis The day that Maura tested positive, she received a call from a University representative informing her she would isolate in her room in Harrison College House for the time being—the University didn’t have any isolation spaces available. She self–isolated in her room, putting her roommate, who had received a negative COVID–19 test and with

whom Maura shares a bathroom and kitchen, at risk of exposure.

On Dec. 10, Maura received a call informing her that she could move to be isolated in the former Alpha Delta Pi house, commonly known as ADPi, which was being used for isolation overflow. But Maura had an online final that day—and ADPi had no WiFi. She remained in Harrison for another night.

The next day, Dec. 11, Maura received another call informing her that she had a new option for her isolation location—a room at The Inn at Penn. The next thing she knew, she was lugging her essential belongings down Locust Walk.

“No one gave me guidance on what I was supposed to do, what I was allowed to do, what I wasn’t allowed to do. They just gave me my room number and told me to move there,” she says.

For the next five days, Maura isolated in her room at The Inn, leaving only to pick up meals left for her in a conference room on her floor. Her main contact was a representative from the University, whom Maura referred to affectionately as her “nurse,” who checked in frequently for the first few days and even gave Maura her personal number should she need anything.

But on her fifth day at The Inn, when Maura had three days left in her isolation period, she got a call from an unfamiliar University representative telling her that she needed to move to Axis by the end of the day. Maura explained on the phone this would mean walking through the lobby, potentially exposing guests, and moving all of her belongings on her own in the midst of taking exams and completing final papers. She was still forced to relocate.

The notification that she would have to move came

14 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

completely without warning.

No one Maura had spoken to in her past several days in isolation indicated that she might be relocated. Yet again, she was packing up her belongings to inhabit another empty and unfamiliar room.

According to the Penn COVID–19 Dashboard, University officials “remain in regular communication” with students who have tested positive and are in isolation. This was not Maura’s experience.

Once Maura moved to Axis for her last days of isolation, calls from University representatives seemed to dwindle.

“After a while, people just stopped checking in,” she says.

“That’s when I started feeling really lonely.” Even though she was only there for three days, Maura’s time at Axis was the hardest. “It did a number on my mental health. It felt never–ending, like I would never get out,” she says.

Life in Axis consisted of (1) sleeping, and (2) craving basic necessities. We drank from bathroom sinks and plastic bottles and snacked on Penn– provided treats. Food had to be ordered by midnight the night before we wanted it, so we couldn’t place orders for the first day in isolation. The bag of sustenance we received upon arrival was stocked with some microwaveable oatmeal, chips, a cup of mac and cheese, a granola bar, and a mushroom risotto. My boyfriend, a vegan, gave me his risotto and mac n’ cheese. The risottos sat in my fridge until I left Axis.

We became used to culinary mishaps. I once ordered a meal with sides and only received the sides. Another time, my grapes were lined with gray fuzz.

One day, Paola called me, bursting with frustration and disbelief at the fungus growing in her fruit cup. After that, she didn’t trust the food she was

receiving. But ordering outside food was too expensive, so she made do with the food she was given. She lived in fear of another moldy meal.

“It’s difficult to be given food from an outside source that you can’t see and trust that it’s sanitary,” Paola says.

Maura’s meals were left in a conference room on her floor at The Inn. One day, the water in the hotel was shut down.

“Everyone else in the hotel could leave, but I was stuck there. Fourteen hours without water was rough,” says Maura.

Once she made it to Axis, the conditions were even worse, her linens stale from days in isolation and a second move.

The thought of a fresh, warm meal felt like a luxury.

“I had never been so excited to go to Commons and eat,” says Maura upon her exit from Axis. She returned home to her family shortly after. “When I went home, I was just happy to have clean clothes and clean towels and reliable water,” she says.

Five blocks away from Axis, Heather Bernstein (W ’24) stares out her window in the old ADPi house, watching dusk envelop West Philadelphia. A few days into isolation after testing positive for COVID–19, her days consist of schoolwork, calling friends, pacing the desolate house and—this. Sitting at her window and watching the world go about its business without a hitch.

When Heather contracted COVID–19 in early December 2021, they never imagined that they’d get stuck in an abandoned sorority house, sandwiched between an active sorority house and a used bookstore.

Heather tested at the red pass testing center in Houston Hall on Wednesday, Dec. 8 after her close friend went into isolation. She received a

positive result the following day. On Dec. 9, they took a call from contact tracers in the morning, then messaged SHS asking to be placed in Sansom Place West, where their friend was isolating.

A few hours later, Heather received an email titled “Your Stay at ADP.” Confused, she marked it as spam.

Heather didn’t revisit the email until the next day—they messaged back and forth with SHS, asking when they would receive instructions about isolation and called friends to inquire about the transition to off–campus housing.

Both sources told her the same thing: She should have received an email already. It would have been titled “Your Stay at _____.”

“

I didn’t realize that a lot of people, myself included, were undervaluing the severity of the pandemic. I still feel like I’m suffering the consequences.”

Heather Bernstein, W ’24, isolated in the ADPi house After digging through her spam folder for the email, Heather packed her bags and moved into the ADPi house on 39th and Spruce. When she arrived at her assigned room, it was filled with “old crap” from the sorority, so she was moved to another one with just “the basics”: a desk and a bed with a thin blanket.

Reflecting on her experience, Heather says, “The process of getting to the quarantine dorm could have been more streamlined.” At a point in the school year that was overwhelming for any student, she felt even more lost.

The scene at the house was

F E AT U R E

The Inn at Penn

Alpha Delta Pi

New College House West Sansom Place West post–apocalyptic. There were no Allied Universal guards at any of the entrances, nobody stopping the residents from leaving or inviting people over. Only two other girls had moved in before Heather, and none of them really spoke to one another, opting to stay in their rooms to study for finals or call friends. On their first day, Heather wandered the rooms with the girls, eventually finding themselves in the basement. It was “dank”—a few laundry machines were shoved into a corner, old merchandise was scattered across the floor, and a poster board plastered with fading photos of sorority girls was propped against the wall.

For the first few days, Penn tended to the needs of the (at that point) six residents. They received seemingly random calls offering to relocate them and asking if they needed anything. Heather remembers that the University contact helped occasionally—when the residents reported WiFi issues, the reason why students like Maura couldn’t move into the house, they were fixed pretty quickly—but the momentary contact failed to mask the truth of their situation: They were totally alone.

The solitude was both exhilarating and daunting. “[Even though] there was no physical support from any campus professionals, … I kind of

liked that freedom,” Heather says. She invited over students from other isolation dorms to see the house, and her friends stopped by the entrance to drop off meals from time to time. However, with nobody to check on the residents, their medical condition could escalate without anyone knowing.

Heather realized that if she hadn’t brought basic pain medications with her to combat body aches and a runny nose, she might not have been able to treat her symptoms.

The lack of supervision also had grimy side effects—there was no way to take out the trash, so ten days worth of waste piled up in the kitchen, emitting an odor that could be detected throughout the house. And with no authority presence, the residents “could have left at any point.”

Near the end of the isolation period, this actually happened. One of Heather’s housemates abandoned the house a few days early to spend a night in the Quad—which she could still access with her PennCard—before traveling home. A few days later, Heather exited on time with their belongings, simply walking out the front door.

Heather reflects on their experience in isolation with grave maturity. When we speak on Jan. 6, she still has one final exam to take in the spring, and she nurses a runny

nose—a lingering symptom from COVID–19. They recognize that vaccines are not a fix–all—they plan on getting tested more often in the spring semester and being more careful about their social activity.

“I didn’t realize that a lot of people, myself included, were undervaluing the severity of the pandemic,” she says. “I still feel like I’m suffering the consequences.”

COVID–19 corroded my body—I missed a late midterm when I first became symptomatic and gave a final presentation after taking a few Advil, through gritted teeth. I hardly left my bed, succumbing to aches and full–body chills, and I couldn’t eat or sleep. When I rose to take a shower in the morning, I grabbed the wall for support, afraid I’d fall because my body was so weak.

As students move back to campus, Penn estimates that one in six will have been infected with the Omicron variant over winter break, and the data looks bleak. According to public health guidance as of Jan. 10, 2022, students living in the College House system will only need to isolate for five days should they test positive for COVID–19, reintegrating into campus life during the day.

The positivity rate for the week Jan. 2 – Jan. 8, before

The Axis

Photos by Jesse Zhang students were originally supposed to have moved back to campus, was 13.22%. Whether Penn has enough space in its isolation buildings remains unclear; we reached out to several departments at Penn about the location of COVID–19 isolation for students in the spring semester, but received no answer as to where students living in on–campus housing who test positive upon return to campus would be relocated.

I exited isolation with elation and trepidation. Almost nothing had changed on campus, except my friends were gone, I’d never had a “last day of class,” or what it was supposed to be, and people seemed a lot happier to see me than normal (lots of “you made it!”s). In less than 24 hours, I unpacked and repacked my bags, did an unholy amount of laundry, returned my library books, and boarded a plane home.

Memories of time spent in isolation linger even after COVID–19 symptoms are long gone: long days spent in the same four walls, no control over the food being delivered to you, constantly bombarded with confusing and conflicting information—or worse, receiving no information at all.

Penn did not seem prepared for the vast uptick in cases correlated with concerns about the emergence of the Omicron variant in November and December 2021; the main side

effect was damaging and devastating conditions for those who had to isolate.

Heather spent the last days of her fall semester in the shell of a sorority house. Paola was left wondering if she’d make it home to her family for Christmas. Maura was jerked around and displaced, then left alone with spiraling thoughts and a deep sense of disconnection.

“It just shows that Penn isn’t as prepared as they seem. They completely dropped the ball on this,” says Maura.

A few days before I returned to campus in the spring, my 17–year–old sister tested positive for COVID–19. Since the rest of my family tested negative, my sister isolated in her room, only a wall and a shared bathroom separating us. We brought her home–cooked meals, Publix–brand ice cream sandwiches, books, and our dog, and called her to stave off boredom (or just shouted through the walls). I didn’t get to see her before I took two rapid tests and caught a flight back to Philadelphia, but I knew she was safe, well–cared for.

I couldn’t say the same of my own experience. Last semester’s isolation process was characterized by confusion and miscommunication—4 a.m. phone calls to SHS, roused by a burning pain in my forehead or relentless chills encasing my body, brain fog clouding my friends’ minds during pivotal exams, uncoordinated moves from location to location, following a trail of missed calls and vague emails.

But, so were the last two years of heartbreak and solitude. As I move back onto campus (marking the fourth time I’ve had to unpack my suitcase in the past month), I carry the memories of my weakened body, liberating long walks, restless nights, and the cold, bright bite of winter air the morning I walked free.

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE 15

OPEN LATE & LATE NITE DELIVERY

R LOOKING FMOE WORK? TI T R A P R O L FUL NG! I R I H E R ’ E W .com s o n i m o d . s job

Domino’s Dom

TM

SUN-THURS: 10AM - 2AM • FRI & SAT 10AM - 3AM

WE MAKE ORDERING EASY!

CALL DIRECT OR CHOOSE YOUR ONLINE OR MOBILE DEVICE

Smart Phones

215-662-1400

4438 Chestnut St. 16 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

Tablets

215-557-0940 401 N. 21st St.

FOCUS

Labor Organizing is on the Rise—and Philly Workers are Taking a Stand How labor unions are asserting their power during the pandemic | JEAN PAIK

T

he ever–changing nature of COVID–19 has left the livelihoods of workers in a state of vulnerable flux. COVID-19 affected nearly 22 million people who were laid off in the first few months of the pandemic, while simultaneously giving rise to the label “essential worker”—individuals who risked their lives to keep our economy and society running. Although this population was designated as economically necessary, corporations failed to translate their "appreciation" into tangible support. Workers were continued to be paid low wages, denied hazard pay, and, even in the midst of a pandemic, not given proper access to personal protective equipment (PPE) like masks or face shields.

The economy began reopening in 2021, but employers and businesses scrambled for workers in the face of a national “labor shortage.”

This phenomenon has frequently been centered around the narrative of people opting for unemployment benefits instead of working. But the “labor shortage” isn’t a problem with a lack of workers; it’s a problem of low–quality jobs that exploit, undervalue, and

Courtesy of Kimberly Paynter/WHYY underpay their employees, and workers are refusing to stand by these dismal working conditions.

In Pennsylvania, essential jobs include those in the health care, public transit, agriculture, and food processing industries. A recent study by the Wharton School and Independence Blue Cross found that essential workers in the state—predominantly low–income Black and Latinx residents—are 55% more likely to test positive for COVID–19 than those who are able to stay home. The reopening of businesses hasn't meant that COVID-19 cases have stopped; rather, essential workers continue to bear the brunt of the health crisis and exploitative work environments.

The pandemic has pushed workers around the country to demand the change and compensation they deserve.

Although organized labor faced losses in influence and power in the past few decades, 2021 saw an uptick in union activity. Dozens of workplaces across the nation have gone on strike since August, and labor unions are receiving more public support than they’ve had since 1965.

Rutgers University professor

Francis Ryan contends that current labor organizing efforts are in a historic moment where ”workers are asserting their power in ways that haven’t been done in over a generation.”

Philly workers are undoubtedly contributing to this national momentum for labor organizing. During #Striketober, a wave of labor unions in Pennsylvania threatened strikes, job actions, and walk–offs to demand things like better pay and fairer workloads. From the Philadelphia International Airport to the Kellogg Company Plant, workers in Pennsylvania have been clear about their discontent and readiness to organize.

Keturah Johnson—president for Piedmont Airlines in the Association of Flight Attendants–Communications Workers of America (AFA–CWA Local Council 61)—says working for an airline during the pandemic has been very challenging.

At the beginning of the pandemic, despite little information on the specific implications of COVID–19 on the airline industry, AFA– CWA's Piedmont Airlines Council union focused on acquiring PPE and protect-

ing their paychecks and jobs.

Since then, Johnson has helped implement policies and procedures that protect workers’ rights, like paid pandemic leave for flight attendants and Piedmont employees, which hadn’t been in place initially.

In October, Piedmont flight attendants based out of Philadelphia International Airport voted 100% in support of authorizing a strike.

For Johnson, this means that “everyone who voted ... [has] had enough. They're demanding change because they deserve [it] and need better ...

And we're going to continue to fight until we get it.” The union is currently in contract negotiations to implement better pay.

Johnson says the strike authorization is helping to bring awareness to how workers are treated in the airline industry. For instance, it's not widely known that flight attendants are only paid once the plane doors close, meaning that they are not compensated for the time it takes to check emergency equipment, help passengers board and exit the plane, and clean the plane after the flight. Averaged out for an entire shift, a day's pay for

Piedmont flight attendants can be less than the federal minimum wage. Now, flight attendants are additionally tasked with enforcing mandatory mask policies—a part of the job that has led to harassment and threats from unruly passengers—and with the rapidly spreading Omicron variant, thousands of airline employees have tested positive for the virus in January 2022 alone.

However, Johnson shares that being part of the current labor movement has been “pretty incredible.” Garnering a 100% support rate to authorize a strike in itself is remarkable and a significant feat the union will use as they move forward with negotiations.

Philly continues to be an integral part of the nationwide movement of workers that are tired of being exploited and treated as expendable.

In 2021, we've witnessed that change is possible as local unions organized and took action to demand better pay and working conditions.

They’re making their power known, and maintaining the pressure to secure workers' protections, health, and safety as the COVID-19 pandemic remains ongoing.

J A N U A R Y 1 8 , 2 0 2 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E 17

Illustration by Collin Wang

ST YLE

COVID–19 skyrocketed the growth of this subreddit—here's what that means for the modern workplace. | NAIMA SMALL

W

hen 1,400 Kellogg’s workers went on strike because of union negotiations in October 2021, hundreds of online supporters flooded the company’s job application system in an effort to confuse recruiters. In the wake of widespread apathy surrounding the realities of the modern workplace, these virtual protesters had turned to the “anti–work” movement, which has its social media roots in a Reddit forum created in 2013. As burnout and work dissatisfaction seem to be at an all time high, social media has been an avid discussion—and protest—space for expressing these concerns. r/Antiwork is a Reddit community that describes itself as dedicated to providing a space for “those who want to end work, are curious about ending work, want to get the most out of a work–free life, want more information on anti–work ideas, and want personal help with their own jobs/work–related struggles.” What started out as a small, politically far–left assemblage of people interested in calling for an end to exploitative and unfulfilling working conditions has exploded into a community with 1.6 million members.

The anti–work movement stands in stark contrast to millennial–driven hustle culture, described as “performative workaholism” by New York Times writer Erin Griffith in 2019. Hustle culture is everything the anti–work mindset isn’t—it emphasizes going above and beyond in your job at all times, withstanding rejection and burnout, and of course, constantly being on the grind towards making money. Though hustle culture has had considerable influence across the internet, the rise in anti–work conversations reveal a shift in how people are thinking about work post–pandemic.

In the past year and a half, many had a chance to rethink their jobs. Increased work–from–home opportunities created due to COVID–19 remain popular even as public spaces have begun to reopen, and many people 1 8 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E J A N UA RY 1 8 , 2 0 2 2

have chosen to take a different career path or switch careers entirely. Essential workers risking their health to go to work each day brought light to poor working conditions and a lack of care for employee health.

After the subreddit went viral in late 2021, interest in the ideas upheld by r/antiwork across the internet has skyrocketed. A scroll through the subreddit's posts display people discussing how their current jobs are failing to offer competitive salaries, criticizing billionaires or companies for unethical practices, and sharing stories of work experiences that led them to the anti–work corners of the internet.

But what does it really mean to be anti–work? To some, anti–work means ending work all together, but to many others, it means calling attention to the negative yet normalized aspects of work culture and advocating for a healthier work–life balance.

Cheryl Chang (C '24), who currently works for Penn as Harnwell College House’s Student Manager, initially described herself as unfamiliar with the anti–work movement. Nevertheless, she believes that the rise in conversations about how employers can be exploitative can normalize criticism of the workplace.

“There’s not really open communication to your supervisors if you have a complaint because you don’t want to be fired. Some employers don’t care if you like your job, because you’re thought of as so replaceable,” she says. “It makes you feel unimportant.”

In an NPR interview, Georgetown history professor Joseph McCartin outlined that the drastic change in people’s daily lives due to the pandemic is a key reason behind increased employee strikes and protests in October 2021. “A lot of people sacrificed a lot in the past year—the essential workers, for example," he said. "And yet they're looking at a labor market that they feel like still doesn't reward them as they feel they ought to be rewarded.”

Many of the posts on r/antiwork reflect this—a particularly common theme on the subreddit is employees displaying anger and disbelief with how impassively their companies appear to be handling the pandemic.

Though the rise of r/antiwork is deeply correlated with the pandemic, the employee protests and walkouts coinciding with the subreddit’s rise have potential for lasting change, especially among younger generations that are highly influenced by the internet. The anti– work movement is slowly gaining traction on TikTok, a platform with a large Gen–Z user base, with over 25.2 million views of videos with the “antiwork” hashtag as of January.

While outright criticism of employer practices is being normalized, the harsh reality for many of Penn’s pre– professional–minded student body is that the workforce is still reminiscent of hustle culture. “Our generation can’t focus one any one thing for too long," Cheryl notes. "So while I think some people may become very interested in the anti–work movement and keep going for it, it might not last more than a year or two for most people.”

With our generation's shortened attention span in mind, the increasing presence of workplace dissatisfaction online could cause those in the early stages of their career to view burnout as an inevitable part of one’s career.

Instead of this discourse fueling workers to advocate for permanent change, people could potentially become numb to the large amounts of discussion surrounding worker discontent.

In a few years time, we might see that the rise of r/ antiwork brought about genuine change for employees everywhere—or the American workplace could remain just how it’s always been. Still, r/antiwork has already gone beyond internet discourse to real–world action.

Trend or not, the mindset many Americans have towards work has shifted in a substantial way, bringing us closer to the goals of r/antiwork in the process.

ST YLE

I

Illustration by Rebekah Lee

Twee, Tumblr, & theToxic Trend Cycle It wasn't even a decade ago that Twee and Tumblr were trending. Why are we already so nostalgic for 2014? | ANNA HOCHMAN

t’s 2022, and 2014 is back. While Penn students will most likely look at the early 2010s with embarrassment (after all, these were our middle school years), the world seems to be nostalgic for the days of Tumblr, when the Arctic Monkeys were in and walking around in black ripped skinny jeans or a Peter Pan–collared dress was the ultimate fashion statement.

For some inexplicable reason, social media is exploding with these trends once again.

Yet this time around, Instagram posts and YouTube vlogs are replaced by TikTok videos.

Mostly set to She & Him’s “Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?,” creators are donning long hair with bangs, flowy A– line dresses, colorful coats, and cross–body bags, all in reference to the 2014 Twee trend.

Others are going back to their grungyTumblr days, with combat boots, dark graphic tees, and over–the–knee socks.

It seems that just yesterday, the ‘70s were trending: patterned bell–bottoms, crocheted tops, bandanas, and clogs were the go–to look for summer and fall. Tons of people are still rocking the Y2k looks that dominated much of 2020 and 2021, with the reemergence of baby tees and low–waisted jeans to flip–phones and Bennifer. Before the 2000s were

in, it was the 80s and 90s. Eras in fashion and other aspects of pop culture seem to be trending—and going out of style— faster than ever.

Within the context of the ever–expanding landscape of technology and social media, it makes sense that these waves are rising and falling at a speed that hasn’t been seen before. It only takes weeks, even days, for trends such as Twee to reach everyone’s radar. And then, as we are inundated with content—overloaded by videos set to She & Him songs— throughout the next few months, we tire quite quickly of what was once a new and exciting form of nostalgia.

It seems that with this quickening cycle of trend turnover, we have almost run out of eras to be nostalgic for. It hasn’t even been ten years since the original Twee and Tumblr trend, yet it is already back in style. Many of the TikToks about the era concentrate more on the types of clothing people wore in the past, yet many others are avidly looking forward to bringing some of their favorite looks back. But despite these different focuses, the revival of Twee asks the question: why are so many of us nostalgic for 2014?

When we’re going through hard times, we often look back with love at when things were

better, wishing that everything could go back to the way it was. Historical nostalgia, or thinking about a different era in time, often is triggered by dissatisfaction with the present.

With the country now entering into yet another winter of isolation, disease, and financial trouble caused by the COVID–19 pandemic, it makes complete sense that many are

feeling nostalgic.

2014 certainly was not perfect. While there may be enough distance to feel nostalgic for the Twee and Tumblr era, this year was simultaneously recent enough to recognize it for its epic lows.

Compared to the rose–colored lenses we use to romanticize the fun clothing and lifestyles of eras that more typically

trend, such as the 1950s or 1970s, the thought of 2014 is still tinged with memories of toxic internet culture and unhealthy body image. But in 2022, 2014 seems like a time when things were simpler, when our worries were not about deciding whether or not to visit relatives during a pandemic or how to correctly double–mask.

Virtual Tours Available!

Complimentary Shuttle Pet Friendly Availability Laundry On-Site Steps from Campus 24/7 Emergency Maintenance Reliable Customer Service Limited Time Only: Half Off Security Deposits!

Sign Today. Move In Tomorrow.

NOW LEASING STUDIO - 6 BEDROOM APARTMENTS & HOUSES *Restrictions Apply

4104 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, PA 19104 (215) 839-3518 | LiveAtUCA.Com J A N UA RY 1 8 , 2 0 2 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M AG A Z I N E 1 9

ARTS

Illustration by Tyler Kliem

Black women, don't hold your breath for love—it's all around you.

30 years since its release, Terry McMillan's Waiting to Exhale still resonates with Black, college– age women. | KALIYAH DORSEY

T

erry McMillan achieved national attention with her third book, Waiting to Exhale, in 1992. It was a huge success, remaining on The New York Times bestseller list for several months. When crafting up her characters— four single Black women in Arizona in the '80s—McMillan couldn’t have foreseen social media or a global pandemic, let alone manifestation TikTok. Even so, McMillan’s novel reveals how social expectations placed on Black women prevent them from taking part in the relationships that they are taught to aspire to.

And in the 30 years since the novel's release, these societal expectations and aspirational relationships have only gotten harder to reach.

For Sarah Adeyinka–Skold (GR '20), her experience as a Black woman looking for a romantic partner as an undergraduate at Princeton, then as a doctoral student in sociology at Penn, led her to write her dissertation: “Dating in

the Digital Age: Sex, Love, and Inequality.” She found that, when it comes to dating in the 21st century, place matters. She spoke to Omnia, Penn’s alumni magazine, and shared her discovery that residential segregation contributes to obstacles in dating for Black women. Professional women are increasingly going to up– and–coming “urban professional centers,” new places where finding love as a Black woman can prove difficult because of rampant gentrification and negative stereotypes against Black women. Here at Penn, a competitive preprofessional environment that pushes students to academic and professional extremes can lead Black female students to feel like romance and a career are mutually exclusive.

This issue is central to McMillan’s plot. Savannah, the central character, is moving from Denver to Arizona for the opportunity to get closer to her desired career, but she often stresses the hope that

20 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

there are more romantic options for her there. Savannah, like Adeyinka–Skold, finds it difficult to secure a partner, and while other characters in the novel tell her that time is running out, she maintains her belief that with patience the right one will come. This waiting rhetoric is all over social media today, especially with the uptick in healing and self–care media since the COVID–19 pandemic. This media places a premium on confidence and mindset as it relates to attaining love.

This sentiment of “when you focus on yourself first, love will come,” fails to consider that for Black women, stereotypes about masculinity, sexuality, and independence (think: the "strong Black woman," or the "sassy Black woman"), add systemic obstacles to their journey towards finding love. Like Savannah’s case, one trope, as seen in shows like Scandal, Being Mary Jane, and How to Get Away with Murder, is the

high–achieving, lonely Black woman. Considering that Black women are enrolled in college at a higher percentage than any other demographic and that Black women are significantly less likely to be married than white women, this trope can feel like a prophecy or a cautionary tale for Black women at Penn. While a simple mindset change and some confidence can’t erase centuries of racism and sexism, Waiting to Exhale affirms Black women’s power to lead fulfilling, loving lives by decentering romance.

On Goodreads, the description for Waiting to Exhale reads, “The story of friendship between four African American women who lean on each other while 'waiting to exhale:' waiting for that man who will take their breath away.” But these characters aren’t waiting for a man to leave them breathless from excitement or butterflies—they're waiting for a man so that they can finally breathe. Savannah thinks, “I

worry about if and when I’ll ever find the right man, if I’ll ever be able to exhale” (17).

Robin has financial problems a husband could solve, Bernadine is getting divorced from a man who acted as the breadwinner for their family. Savannah is just plain old lonely, while Gloria is raising a teenage Black boy alone in a white town. In many ways, they are waiting for someone to save them from their lives.

What they really wanted, it turns out, was not a man, but the ability to exhale.

Exhaling, as I interpret it, is feeling safe enough to stop worrying. It’s feeling for a second like life might work out okay. Waiting to Exhale unveils the challenges of dating as a Black woman, the power of decentering romantic love in your life, and the importance of sisterhood. It's not that you shouldn’t want a partner or to fall in love, but that in holding your breath for “the one,” you miss breathing in love in all its forms along the way.

OVERHEARDS

Overheards 01.18.22 This week: IBS, fruity earrings, and #TeenWolfBingeMonth

RATING EB

#TEENWOLFBINGEMONTH

“We’re both lesbians but totally obsessed with Dylan O’Brien, so interpret that psychology as you will.”

LE MILK CHAI LATTES K S W HO

“You are just a walking, talking collection of gastrointestinal challenges.”

H IG

UN

EXPECTED MANIPULATOR

“I’m wearing blood orange earrings. It’s hard for anyone to look at me and go, ‘Oh, you’re a bitch.’”

–RANKING DP OFFICIAL

“This is a really embarrassing question …

How do you update an app?”

TH E

AH

TH E

CE L

DR I

N

CA

RNIVORE-TO-CANNIBAL PIPELINE

“He’s like if a piece of ham came to life.”

JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE 21

JOIN THE

NEWS SPORTS OPINION COPY DESIGN MULTIMEDIA SOCIAL MEDIA PODCASTS

ANALYTICS CIRCULATION CONSULTING FINANCE MARKETING PRODUCT LAB TECHNOLOGY

34TH STREET UNDER THE BUTTON

JAN. 19TH - INFO SESSION VIRTUAL | 7PM - 8PM JAN. 20TH - INFO SESSION VIRTUAL | 7PM - 8PM

THEDP.COM/JOIN 22 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

UNDER THE BUTTON

BREAKING: Penn to Undergo Transfer of Power (From Blonde to Brunette) MEGAN STRIFF-CAVE

H

uge news!

The new president of the University of Pennsylvania has been selected: Elizabeth Magill. Sure, we could bore you with her “prior work experience” or her “values” (not that they’ll be informing any decisions at this morally bankrupt school!), but

we’d like to hone in on something that’s been overlooked: her hair color. That’s right — everyone’s favorite (natural) blonde, Amy Gutmann, is passing the baton to a woman with hair the color of roasted chestnuts, of smooth milk chocolate, of amorphous, stinky mud.

The decision is a practical one: As we all know, it’s been extremely tedious to hold Amy accountable due to her hair color, as being blonde holds social capital (i.e. Cool & Popular). This means it's hard to oppose her. It’s also hard to make eye contact with Gutmann

due the reflective nature of her hair, which is reportedly brighter than that of Maria’s in The Sound of Music, a well-known Swedish horror film. But, perhaps it is also a symbolic decision, one that indicates a new vision for Penn’s future. As we know from our collective memory and hu-

man history (Gossip Girl), sometimes a brunette is needed to bring about real change. Magill could be exactly the type of president who’s ready to shake things up and take the road less traveled. Maybe this transfer of power marks the beginning of a new era of Penn leadership, differ-

ent from Gutmann’s guidance, one where we address the tough issues on our campus like climate change, racial justice, and mental health.

But who knows?

Maybe Amy won’t be so far from the action. After all, every brunette needs a blonde best friend …

Photo by The Daily Pennsylvanian JANUARY 18, 2022 34TH STREET MAGAZINE 23

Welcom

e Back!

rs of From the Creato The Simon

NOW LEAS ING FALL 2022

STUDI OS- 12 BEDR OOM HOME S .

ODAY T N G SI Y. TODA SAVE

STUDIOS STARTING AT $850 ONE BEDROOMS STARTING AT $895 TWO BEDROOMS STARTING AT $1250 3-12 BEDROOMS STARTING AT $1795 LIVECAMPUSAPTS.COM 4043 WALNUT STREET | (267) 297-0101 24 34TH STREET MAGAZINE JANUARY 18, 2022

LIMITED TIME ONLY: REDUCED SECURITY DEPOSITS

* RESTRICTIONS APPLY