PRIME Winter 2024

PRIME

from the daily bruin

Not Just Athletes

by Alicia Carhee on page 6

Breaking It Down, Together

by Katy Nicholas on page 17

Mixed Feelings, Twisted Tongues

by Gwendolyn Lopez on page 12

letter from the editors

Dear reader,

This quarter, PRIME got personal. Embracing our writers’ unique points of view, our team immersed itself in communities around campus and experimented with first-person storytelling. We are excited for you to now step into our reporters’ shoes and experience the stories they uncovered.

As PRIME writer and former dancer Katy Nicholas reported on UCLA’s diverse dance groups, she discovered a web of welcoming communities and reconnected with her prior passion. And in PRIME’s latest column, writer Gwendolyn Lopez offers readers a peek into her multilingual family, reflecting on her multicultural upbringing and integrating her childhood languages throughout the piece. Moreover, this magazine features PRIME’s first graphic novel since Winter 2021. Following a four part structure emulating the seasons, PRIME writer and illustrator Sid Francis depicts the highs and lows of his college mental health journey.

Our winter articles also span beyond explicitly personal stories – reporters formed connections with sources from groups across UCLA to uplift overlooked perspectives. For example, PRIME writer Alicia Carhee unpacks the harmful assumption that all Black male Bruins play sports. Interviewing the studentathletes and non-athletes alike who face this stereotype, Carhee’s feature shines an essential light on the Black male scholars resisting reductive stereotypes.

From a deep dive into food insecurity among Bruins to an investigation of queer international students’ pursuits of community, these winter pieces reflect PRIME’s mission to humanize the issues affecting UCLA. Thank you for picking up our magazine, and we hope you enjoy!

on the cover photographed by BRIANNA

CARLSON

Martin Sevcik PRIME content editor

Kate Green PRIME director

Maya O’Kelly PRIME art director

CULTURE

6 Not Just Athletes

written by ALICIA CARHEE

Black male Bruins often encounter the question: “Do you play a sport?” Despite this harmful stereotype, Black students, both athletes and non-athletes alike, are redefining their identity as scholars.

PERSONAL COLUMN

12 Mixed Feelings, Twisted Tongues

written by GWENDOLYN LOPEZ

PRIME writer Gwendolyn Lopez reflects on her cultural identity as half-Chinese American and half-Mexican American and how her complex relationship with multilingualism has defined her.

Breaking It Down, Together

written by KATY NICHOLAS

Folklórico, danceline, hip-hop, burlesque — and everything in between. UCLA boasts a vibrant collection of dance groups that foster tight-knight communities.

CAMPUS

22

Fighting Food Insecurity

written by JACQUELINE JACOBO & TULIN CHANG MALTEPE

As Bruins face food insecurity across campus, university-run and student-run organizations clear the way to keep Bruins fed.

28 A Change of Seasons

written

and illustrated by SID FRANCIS

Through the eyes of his past selves, PRIME writer and illustrator Sid Francis offers readers a tour through the “seasons” of his young adult life and mental health.

CULTURE

37 Collecting for the Community

written by ELINOR HOUGH

31 CAMPUS

Out and About: Queer International Students at UCLA

written by JULIANNE LE

LGBTQ+ Bruins come to Westwood from all corners of the world. As these queer international students acclimate to UCLA, they face unique opportunities and roadblocks for finding community.

While Bruins remain largely unaware of the treasures in UCLA Library Special Collections, librarians and archivists are on a mission to further engage with the community.

42

Life After Death

written by ABIGAIL SIATKOWSKI

Bruins unknowingly stroll past cemeteries while walking through Westwood every day. This is just one part of UCLA’s hidden death care ecosystem.

written by ALICIA CARHEE

photographed by JOSEPH JIMENEZ, JEREMY CHEN, NEHA KRISHNAKUMAR, BRANDON MORQUECHO

designed by NHAN NGUYEN

Dakotah Tyler started watching astronomy documentaries while rehabilitating a knee injury. He developed a fascination with the cosmos after realizing that his life – just like many planets and stars – was a mere speck in the infinite expanse of the universe.

Over 11 years later, Tyler dedicated his life to studying exoplanets in distant galaxies. And yet, as a Black Ph.D. candidate in astrophysics and a teaching assistant at UCLA, students consistently ask him one question: “Do you play a sport?”

While Tyler is not offended when he hears this recurring question, he often ponders the implications of this being students’ first thought.

“I’ve never had anybody walk up to me and ask me if I was an astronomer, which is what I actually am,” he said.

Tyler is not alone. Black men on campus frequently face stereotypes that suggest their presence within university spaces is solely tied to athletic ability. Many Black male students feel this misconception devalues their intelligence and discredits their hard work in getting accepted to UCLA. To dismantle this stereotype, Black male athletes and non-athletes alike are rewriting what it means to be a role model at UCLA.

“I’ve never had anybody walk up to me and ask me if I was an astronomer, which is what I actually am.”

Kenny Donaldson, a senior associate athletic director and director of equity, diversity and inclusion, said the myth is rooted in the hypervisibility of Black studentathletes.

“The average person turns on TV, and you see football. You see men’s basketball. ... These are sports that have the majority of Black student-athletes,” Donaldson said. “So the narrative becomes that that’s all that they can do, that that’s basically their way to get into college.”

While the question “Do you play a sport?” might seem like a harmless assumption, its implications perpetuate harmful racial stereotypes. According to the Society for Personality and Social Psychology, the world’s leading organization of social psychologists, the inquiry not only reduces Black men to their physical traits, but also asserts negative assumptions about their intelligence. The same research stated that Black individuals have historically been stereotyped as naturally athletic, perpetuating the reductive notion that their success in sports is solely due to genetics.

Michael Pinckney, a second-year geography and environmental studies student who also competes in shot put, discus, hammer throw and weight throw events for UCLA track and field, has often been made aware of other students’ perceptions of his intelligence.

“They (My teammates) used to call it the blue bag syndrome,” he said. “If you wore the blue bag, the studentathlete bag, you automatically were assumed that you weren’t smart.”

Such assumptions have often led to classmates refusing to work with Pinckney on group projects, leaving him feeling excluded in the classroom. However, he believed his social isolation was not just caused by the “dumb jock” stereotype.

“I walk into classes and people look at me like I’m the outcast,” he said. “Now, that may just be (because) I’m a 6’5”, 300-pound Black male, and I’m intimidating, but also it feels to a point to where I don’t belong.”

The SPSP has found that the intersection of racism with typical jock stereotypes can cast uniquely negative stereotypes onto Black student-athletes.

Because of this pattern, Donaldson said it is important to change the UCLA community’s perspective on what Black student-athletes are capable of.

“I think that shifting the narrative to them being able to excel both academically and athletically at a school like UCLA is something to think about,” he said. “Push that narrative, as opposed to that’s (athletic success is) the only way they can get in school.”

Donaldson added that the media’s portrayal of sports as Black men’s only pathway to success limits the potential for all Black students – ultimately leading to a fixed perception of who Black men can be.

“There’s probably more Black people that are doctors and lawyers than are athletes,” Donaldson said. “There’s

so much visibility behind athletes. ... LeBron James is more well known than your Black doctor or a Black astrophysicist.”

As both a Black astrophysicist and a former collegiate athlete, Tyler is on a mission to erode the stereotypes impacting scholars such as Pinckney and himself.

Tyler attended the University of Kentucky as an undergraduate student with a football scholarship, where he played as a free safety in Division I football for four years.

But as a Black student at a predominantly white institution, Tyler said the student-athlete experience brought both positive and negative effects.

“It’s a double-edged sword, because it feels good to get that notoriety or that admiration from people,” he said. “But as you go on in life, you realize that it’s not necessarily the best thing to be validated just for something superficial.”

As an undergraduate, Tyler believed that the only way to reach success was through sports and planned to pursue a career in football coaching. It wasn’t until he suffered his knee injury that Tyler began to fall in love with astrophysics. Confronted with leaving his football days behind, he soon decided upon his next venture –attending Ivy Tech Community College to take prerequisites for studying astronomy.

However, many of his friends and mentors were confused about the sudden change.

When he told his past football coach about wanting to return to community college, Tyler sensed that his coach believed he lacked direction in life. But after earning a masters degree of science in astronomy and astrophysics from UCLA, his old coach told him how proud he was.

“I doubt that he even remembers that we had that conversation five, six years ago, but I do,” Tyler said. “It’s a good reminder that ... nobody knows what you’re most passionate about. ”

Daily encounters with the studentathlete stereotype also affect non-athlete students, leaving them to feel isolated on campus.

Christopher Jordan, a fourth-year film and television student and the public relations coordinator of the African Mxn’s Collective, said the stereotype undermines all students, athletes or not.

“It both devalues the Black students that come here for academic or artistic reasons,” Jordan said. “It also devalues the achievements of an actual student-athlete and the things they have to go through to get to this top level where they play for a school like UCLA.”

According to Jordan and fellow AMC members, many Black students experience imposter syndrome, a psychological condition of believing one’s success is not deserved or legitimately achieved despite being successful in objective, verifiable ways.

Justin Amakor, a fourth-year molecular, cell and developmental biology student and co-chairperson of the AMC, said his feelings of imposter syndrome led him to question if he is supposed to be in a college environment.

Pinckney and Donaldson said Black studentathletes face similar feelings of imposter syndrome.

group of people.

“That kind of added mental stress can cause you to struggle in those scenarios where you feel like you’re being watched or judged and cause you to trip up,” he said.

According to research published by the Harvard Education Review, Black students fear confirmation of negative misperceptions and work to resist these stereotypes through leadership roles, academic prowess and holding themselves to high standards.

“It both devalues the Black students that come here for academic or artistic reasons. And it also devalues the achievements of an actual student-athlete and the things they have to go through to get to this top level where they play for a school like UCLA.”

Donaldson attributed this phenomenon to the pressures of feeling like they must excel academically and athletically, all while experiencing judgements that discredit their belonging on campus.

Tyler noted that imposter syndrome can also go handin-hand with stereotype threat – a phenomenon he said occurs in environments where frequent negative stereotypes or low expectations are aimed at a certain

In addition, Sociology of Sport Journal states that Black athletes serve their community as role models given their hypervisibility in the media.

Chase Griffin, an graduate student in legal studies at the UCLA School of Law and quarterback for UCLA football, said he has been able to annul negative stereotypes through his family’s support and giving back to the Los Angeles community.

“I was blessed to be raised in a family where me being

Black didn’t really make me feel like I was expected to do less,” he said. “I was expected to do more.”

According to the Journal Committed to Social Change on Race and Ethnicity, studies found that there is a prominent adoption of individual social responsibility – the theory that individuals must fulfill a civic duty to benefit the whole of society – among Black male athletes in both professional and college sports. The research noted that Black male college athletes often display individual social responsibility through role modeling because of their idol status in sports media. Sharing this understanding, Griffin recognized the importance of athletes using their platforms to push the culture forward.

“It’s important to understand that what you do will impact the communities around you,” he said. “It’s been extremely rewarding for me as far as my ability to help the LA community and help galvanize other boroughs to do the same.”

In August 2023, Griffin launched The Chase Griffin Foundation, which supports initiatives to relieve food insecurity. Within six months, the foundation raised $11,530 from outside donations and made 19 grants to four charities. He also personally donated around $35,000 of his own money.

“I wanted it to help the youth, just because food insecurity was something that a lot of my friends in high school struggle with back home in Texas,” he said.

Inspired by his own role models of Black studentathletes such as Ralph Bunche, Jackie Joyner-Kersee and Jackie Robinson, Griffin emphasized the importance of advocating for the Black community at UCLA. Griffin attributed much of UCLA’s prestige to the influence of Black student-athletes in history and said he strives to honor and represent his Black peers against negative stereotypes, just like the Black athletes who came before him.

Pinckney takes a similar approach. For example, in 2022 Pinckney served as a mentor for a summer bridge program in New York City, where he advised Black student-athletes on how to navigate their transition into high school. He said his achievements inspired his students, proving that Black people could succeed in school and in predominantly white sports such as throwing and track and field.

“During my high school career, I came out and I proved that in a sport that is predominantly white, Black people can excel and do a damn good job as well,” he said.

Because of Black college athletes’ large presence in the media, Donaldson added that many young Black students look to Black athletes as a source of representation.

“They look and say, ‘Hey, if that student that looks like me is able to get to that level, that’s something that I

can strive to achieve to be,’” he said. “I think it’s the same, as a young Black person, if you see a Black doctor on TV or a Black lawyer – representation matters.”

Growing up, Tyler said that he doesn’t remember looking up to any Black scientists, but rather athletes and musicians. Although he acknowledges that aspiring to these careers is perfectly fine, Tyler emphasized that the lack of role models for Black individuals can contribute to limiting them to specific endeavors based on their race.

Tyler hopes he can inspire young people to be even better scientists. He said that representation is all it takes for young Black people to see that these careers are viable options for them – that it’s something they can do too.

The AMC also highlighted the importance of role modeling in reducing the consequences of the studentathlete stereotype, especially imposter syndrome.

As AMC members, Amakor and Jordan strive to be guiding mentors for current and prospective male undergraduates. Fred Donfack, a second-year business economics student, shared similar feelings.

“I just let them know that it’s a realistic goal if you really want to come here,” Donfack said. “Be the number that makes us a bigger number.”

With this goal in mind, the AMC hosts events to bond the Black male community at UCLA, such as beach bonfires, basketball games and study halls to help with the university’s retention of Black men. Even with these efforts, AMC members and athletes, such as Pinckney, said there is still a persistent feeling of isolation among Black male students at UCLA, both non-athlete and athlete.

According to UCLA 2023 fall enrollment data, out of 33,040 total undergraduate students, only 666 undergraduate students identified as African American males. In other words, the percentage of African American male undergraduate students accounts for only 0.2% of all undergraduate students.

Jordan emphasized the need to fund more programs such as the Black Bruin Resource Center to invest in welcoming spaces for Black male students.

“Having spaces to ourselves to be ourselves in an authentic way, I think is really part of the key to survival, mentally, at this school,” he said.

Donaldson added that UCLA Athletics is working to further support Black student-athletes holistically in social, physical and academic spaces.

“Our head coaches for our Black student-athletes ... do a good job of surrounding them with resources with both people, being mentors, but also the alumni network, campus resources and things like that,” he said.

Donaldson personally makes sure to connect Black student-athletes with other Black students, Black faculty, mental health providers and mentors to ensure that they are socially integrated and supported at UCLA. He added that athletes attend workshops to discuss equity, race and gender.

“Did Andromeda stop being a galaxy because the humans didn’t think that it was one?”

Tyler is also trying to break the cycle of harmful stereotypes surrounding Black men. From watching astronomy documentaries to becoming a Ph.D. candidate in astrophysics, Tyler now documents his science journey on social media. He uses platforms such as TikTok and Instagram to show others that science is not confined to one demographic. In an Instagram video titled, “When They Try to Stereotype You, Just Remember This One Thing,” Tyler responded to commenters who still doubt and demean his validity as an astrophysicist.

“Did Andromeda stop being a galaxy because the humans didn’t think that it was one?” he asked.

Under this video, compliments and praise flood the comment section. From responses such as, “love me a scholar with a grill” to, “you help me ... to (not) give up on my dreams of becoming an astrophysicist,” it is evident that viewers appreciate Tyler’s authenticity.

“Unintentionally, you break the stereotype by being yourself because you’re being authentic to you and what you’re interested in,” he said. “We all have stereotypes, and trying to fit into that box is worse than trying to make your own box.” ♦

written by GWENDOLYN LOPEZ

illustrated by ALSTON KAO

photos courtesy of GWENDOLYN LOPEZ

designed by AMBER CHEN

“

AMixed Feelings, Twisted Tongues

y, mija, ¡qué gusto verte!”

Before I could think to say anything, my tía Lupita wrapped me in a crushing embrace. Her cross necklace and gold hoop earrings pressed against my skin, and her flowery perfume enveloped me. Beaming, she smacked a wet kiss onto my right cheek. I smiled back, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of her damp lipstick mark.

“Hola,” I said on reflex, then suppressed a grimace. A lifetime of learning Spanish, and that was the most I could say? How about, “It’s good to see you too,” or, “It’s been so long”? As I fumbled for the right words, a reply surfaced in my mind, but it wasn’t in Spanish, or even in English.

“

真的好久不见,” I began to say. As the first syllable

slipped out, I realized my obvious mistake – wrong language.

“I’m so glad you and your father were able to make it tonight,” my tía gushed, oblivious to my blunder. My cheeks burned with shame. “We’ve missed you so much here in Guadalajara, and we would have come to visit you in Los Ángeles, pero ya sabes, it’s been so busy...”

It was easy to listen and nod as my tía went on, but inside, I felt struck by a sudden panic. My family and I had flown over to attend my older cousin Diana’s quinceañera. But instead of a celebration, this night felt like a test of my identity.

Since childhood, my parents have harbored the dream of multilingualism for me, hoping I would inherit both their Mexican and Chinese cultures. They envisioned a daughter who easily spoke

Feelings, Tongues

Spanish with her tía at one turn and could codeswitch to Mandarin at another. However, with each year I have found it increasingly difficult to juggle my three languages while maintaining my sense of self.

Diana’s quinceañera marked my return to Guadalajara after five years away. Though muddled by time, I still remember my days there: the sweltering, cloudy skies, the color and traffic of the city’s center, the agave and feathergrass sprawling at its outskirts. In the summers before I turned 6 and 7, I would cram

into my tía’s car with my cousins and drive to the rural countryside. There, we’d play on tire swings and joke in comfortable Spanish, swatting the mosquitos that hungrily crowded at our exposed skin.

At the quinceañera, standing in the glittering banquet hall wearing a scratchy dress, none of that familiarity coursed back to me. I could easily understand every fluid word out of my tía’s mouth, but when it came time for me to speak, my tongue felt limp and useless. My mind stubbornly continued to conjure furious translations in Mandarin, as if to prove I could speak some language at least, any language that wasn’t English.

Eventually, my tía floated off to greet some other relatives, giving them her signature hug and rightcheeked kiss.

I thought, “I can’t do this.”

I should have been able to. I was Mexican American – I had a Mexican last name; I understood the language, the culture. And yet, despite it all, I had failed my test.

This hollow feeling of shame was nothing new. Growing up in a multicultural home, I often felt torn between my parents’ two languages and sets of expectations.

My mother and father met at UCLA in the ‘90s, when they were placed in the same carpool group for commuters. Although my father spent most of his time on North Campus as an English student and most of my mother’s biology classes were in South Campus, they frequently met up to study together at the Inverted Fountain.

She was Chinese American, and he was Mexican American. When I was born, they decided I should spend as much time as possible absorbing the languages of both their home countries.

I attended preschools in China and Mexico before entering the LA public school system for elementary school. In one of my earliest memories, I am walking down a Shanghai sidewalk with my maternal grandmother, my 婆婆. We stroll over to the daycare center, and when we arrive, the babysitter greets me in sunny Mandarin. I don’t remember what I say in response – only that it is natural and effortless.

“But instead of a celebration, this night felt like a test of my identity.”

Years later in LA, my 婆婆 loved to remind me of my childhood talent for language. She was a short, sour-faced woman with a slight distaste for the United States and my father, always busying herself with some sort of project. When she wasn’t badgering me over my middle and high school grades, she frequently reminisced about her time in China.

“

“My mind stubbornly continued to conjure furious translations in Mandarin, as if to prove I could speak some language at least, any language that wasn’t English.”

over one of my homework worksheets. At 13, my days of jetting between countries were over, and I was enrolled in a public Mandarin dual-language immersion middle school. I was starting to resent studying this convoluted language. The hours of grammar exercises felt so different from the easy conversations in Shanghai years ago, and I only seemed to get worse with time.

“It’s OK,” I said in English.

She scowled. “什么 ‘OK’ 啊? 要继续努力. When you were young, don’t you remember? You were the best of the class. Look, look.”

My 婆婆 opened a nearby drawer and dug out some weathered sheets of paper. I peered at the nearly faded pencil scrawl of repeated Chinese characters in gridded squares. The 6-year-old version of me had scrawled her name – in Mandarin – along the top.

“That was a long time ago,” I said in Mandarin.

“You used to be so good,” she gushed in Mandarin. “Every day you’d come up to me and ask for a new Chinese book or a new worksheet. I still have your old books, too.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was not the same person anymore. When it came to language, I no longer had that same childhood flexibility.

I glanced over at my father listening from across the room, a Spanish book splayed open in his hands. He didn’t flinch as my grandmother and I spoke; it was a normal occurrence, speaking Mandarin at home. What wasn’t normal was my father and I speaking in Spanish.

Unlike my mother, who immigrated from Hong Kong at 8 years old, my father was born in LA. My mother shied away from her mother tongue for the assimilation of speaking English. But my father furiously chased after fluency in Mexican Spanish. Books, movies, TV shows, music – anything in Spanish, anything related to Mexican culture that he could get his hands on – he devoured.

“You have to immerse yourself in it,” he told me once, showing me his latest read on Mexican American politics. “If you lived in Mexico for a year or two, your Spanish would be so much better.”

It was a hypothetical statement, but a part of me suspected my father would have preferred that Spanish-fluent and

truly Mexican version of me.

Instead, I dutifully studied Mandarin and lived in a suburban, predominantly Asian American neighborhood. Sometimes, I felt as if I was disappointing my father by speaking Mandarin in class every day or celebrating 中秋节 in September instead of only having El Grito de Independencia to look forward to. Whenever I accepted the lotus seed paste 月饼 that my 婆婆 bought for me during the festival, I wondered if I was betraying my Mexican side by embracing my Chinese culture.

After returning to the U.S. from my cousin’s quinceañera, I chewed over my identity with renewed vigor. How should a real Mexican act? How would a real Chinese American act? And what was I – who didn’t quite align with either side –supposed to do?

My classmates frequently reminded me that I was not the

only one pondering my identity.

Once, in a high school math class, a girl sitting beside me asked, “So, what are you?”

“What does that mean?” I responded, taken aback.

“Like, where are your parents from? Actually, let me guess.” She gave me a once-over and frowned. “Your hair’s kind of red. Are you Romanian?”

I stared at her, stunned. I quickly recovered and gave her the usual spiel: my parents are Chinese and Mexican American; I am multiracial. But the barb of her offhand comment stung just as much as the other dozen times I had fielded the inquiry.

My classmate’s prying did little to help with the growing sensation that my jigsaw identity did not fit in anywhere. I internally felt so deeply connected with my mixed heritage that I could not imagine

being only two separate things. But her words reminded me of the external instinct to categorize me as one, the other or neither – more Chinese because I spoke with my mother’s relatives in Mandarin, or more Mexican because I didn’t share my maternal family’s East Asian features.

Instead of absorbing our lesson on polynomials, I spent the rest of the school day stewing over how inclusion in one group inevitably kicked me out of the other.

I felt the complicated weight of my culture most strongly when I was in high school and middle school, surrounded by East Asian peers whose parents had enrolled them to improve their Mandarin abilities. While my classmates found

“It was a hypothetical statement, but a part of me suspected my father would have preferred that Spanish-fluent and truly Mexican version of me.”

“And what was I – who didn’t quite align with either side – supposed to do?”

camaraderie in their Asian parents’ expectations of high grades, I smiled and nodded along. I did not explain how my Asian family’s main expectation of me was to prove I was really Asian.

Arriving at UCLA and following in my parents’ footsteps, I am thinking about my identity more than ever.

After the first few times dodging flyers on Bruin Walk, I realized many of the fundraisers along the path were for cultural organizations. As I continued acclimating to campus life and the rigorous quarter system, unflinching cultural celebration caught my eye – from Latinx Admit Weekend to the traditional lion dance practices I passed while walking back to the Hill.

Seeing this diversity motivated me to search for my own space on campus. To my surprise, I discovered a multiracial subculture, with organizations such as the Mixed Student Union and the UCLA Mixed Alumni Association advertising spaces specifically for students like me. It was such an obvious yet novel notion to me – that mixed

people should find community in our differences, rather than alienation.

I sometimes pass by the Inverted Fountain while heading to my classes. The sight reminds me of my parents’ UCLA stories and how they were able to overcome their cultural differences. Combined with the sheer diversity of UCLA’s campus and languages, I’m brought back to contemplating my place within my family.

I realized I had not failed any test at all, back at the quinceañera. When compared to my family’s deep love for both their hometowns and for me, my rocky relationship with language does not seem so all-encompassing. I finally felt ready to embrace every part of my culture – both on campus and at home.

A Spanish saying my father told me, no doubt from one of his many books, comes to mind.

“Caminante, no hay camino,” he said. “Se hace camino al andar.”

“Traveler, there is no path. The path is made by walking.” ♦

IT DOWN, BREAKING TOGETHER

written by KATY NICHOLAS

photographed by DARLENE SANZON, NICOLAS GREAMO, ZIMO LI, BRIANNA CARLSON, KATY NICHOLAS AND MICHAEL GALLAGHER

designed by JULEY ARIAS

Students by day, dancers by night, these Bruins seem to lead two lives.

In the dimly lit courtyard beside the UCLA Central Ticket Office, hundreds of clicking heels keep time to Mexican ballads. In the neighboring John Wooden Center, a studio full of figures with baggy sweatpants and big T-shirts roll their bodies to Travis Scott hits. Meanwhile, students jump and pirouette in the depths of Pauley Pavilion, sending recorded band tunes rumbling down Bruin Walk.

All of these students are dancers. I used to be one too. I Irish danced for 15 years before coming to college. I used to spend half of my weeks in the studio and the other half at performances. Once I stopped dancing, I did not stop calling myself a dancer, and I doubt I ever will. Although I did not join dance teams at UCLA, the prevalence and versatility of campus’s dance culture has always intrigued me.

Whether they’re in the parking garages after hours or heating up the sidelines of UCLA’s biggest games, more connects UCLA’s dance groups than divides them. As I attended the practices of Grupo Folklórico de UCLA, The Elegant Bruinettes at UCLA, ACA All Day, Samahang Modern and Bruin Burlesque, I discovered that UCLA’s dance troupes provide cultural representation, support and confidence – unique among the sport.

One Tuesday evening, I turned the corner past the Central Ticket Office to the sound of music combined with the tapping of 120 heeled feet. Five rows of 20 people performed intricate partner work in the dim lighting of overhead lamp posts. A group leader yelled directions and

timing, some in Spanish and some in English, while she swayed elegantly. As students passed by with eyes wide, Grupo Folklórico did not seem to care.

The members of Grupo Folklórico embrace dance as a means for cultural diffusion. Fourth-year psychology student Ariadne Ramirez said folklórico is a traditional Mexican dance that emphasizes the aesthetic of dancers just as much as the actual steps, as shown through the vibrant dresses and flamboyant style.

This celebration of Mexican culture is so appealing that students have based their college decisions around joining the group. Ramirez said Grupo Folklórico is one of the main reasons they came to UCLA and that they continue to deeply value the dancing as a cultural conduit.

“Dance to me is a symbolism of years and years of my ancestors coming together and creating the culture, and from that culture translating it into steps, music and choreography,” Ramirez explained.

Third-year psychology student Daisa Watkins understands this feeling of maintaining a legacy through dance.

In 2022, Watkins noticed that danceline, a dance type traditionally performed at historically Black colleges and universities, was missing from the UCLA community. Second-year economics student Sanaa Jefferson said danceline combines the styles of African, ballet, hiphop and jazz into a strong yet graceful style, requiring a unique combination of bold expression and technical prowess. Looking for a platform to celebrate Black culture through this dance, Watkins co-founded the Elegant Bruinettes in 2022.

Less than a year later, the Bruinettes have reached bigger stages than Watkins and Jefferson ever imagined. The team of 10 can be seen on the sidelines of every UCLA football and basketball home game and have even performed in SoFi Stadium for the LA Bowl. Bruinettes dancers said their presence at these sports events has helped them establish their group as an inclusive space for underrepresented students on campus.

“What Bruinettes bring is inclusivity and a space for Black and brown dancers to really come together and express, which is something that me, personally, I have never been able to experience coming to this school,” said Sierra Shinn, a third-year sociology student and Bruinettes dancer.

Ramirez’s and Watkins’ sentiments struck a chord with me as well. Performing choreography based on great Irish tragedies and triumphs, such as the Irish Potato Famine, used to tie me to my ancestors’ culture. When I performed with my teammates, I could tune out the rest of my daily life and focus on that intergenerational connection. Although the cultures and dance styles that we practice differ drastically, Grupo Folklórico, the Bruinettes and I are all historians maintaining our cultural legacy via dance.

When I visited Grupo Folklórico’s practice, the January chill and midterm stress did not stop the dancers from sharing laughs and graciously welcoming newcomers of all skill levels. Third-year education and sociology student Rachelle Tecuanhuehue had not danced a day in her life before joining Grupo Folklórico. Now that she has two years of experience under her belt, she is not only more confident calling herself a dancer but more confident in her place at UCLA.

“It’s allowed me to be comfortable in my own skin and my own culture, in a space that sometimes doesn’t necessarily accept my culture,” Tecuanhuehue said.

The Bruinettes also find community among one another. Shinn said they refer to each other as sisters, and they can talk to their sisters about anything. Shinn added that she is grateful to have an inclusive space where she can express herself without judgment from her fellow dancers, something she had never experienced on her prior dance teams.

One Friday night, after a long week of classes, I descended the Pauley Pavilion steps, enticed by the sound of the Bruinettes’ sneakers squeaking on the gym floor. I had walked in on the team’s clinic aimed at introducing danceline to dancers of all ages from across Los Angeles.

Although I was not adorned in the matching blue leggings and white crop-tops that the dancers wore, before I knew it, I was invited to join in on the floor turns and plié drills. Each spin conjured a carefree feeling within me, which is a triumph during the chaos of the quarter system.

The sideline cheering from my fellow dancers reminded me of the Association of Chinese Americans All Day practice I shadowed a few weeks earlier.

One Saturday afternoon, I entered the Pyramid Room in the John Wooden Center just for “MY EYES” by Travis Scott to deafen me with 200% volume. The only thing louder than the music was the teammates cheering each other on. The team was split into groups of eight, taking turns performing a routine filled with intricate hand movements, smooth bodily motions and a swag I wish I had.

The dancers fed off their teammates’ energy, with cheers of dancers’ names erupting after each trick. Even during breaks they delivered compliments and helped each other with the choreography.

“It’s really more like that family aspect and fostering a very supportive and safe environment for everyone,” said Kiana Aminzadeh, third year physiological science and

“

Dance to me is a symbolism of years and years of my ancestors coming together and creating the culture, and from that culture translating it into steps, music and choreography.

gender studies student. “It really defines ACA, and it’s what stood out to me initially. And that’s why I’m still here.”

ACA All Day is one of many dance teams started by Chinese American cultural organizations at colleges across California. Other than the dance team, ACA is a student group that educates, connects and raises awareness about Chinese heritage, political projects and experiences. The UCLA team regularly competes with other California teams, lending a competitive spark to the troupe. Aminzadeh said their dancers give the team their all – even if it means stepping out of their comfort zone and challenging their boundaries.

I witnessed a similarly supportive environment and commitment to the team when I attended Samahang Modern’s late-night hip-hop practice a few days later. All the members of Samahang Modern arrived early for the 7:30 p.m. to 1 a.m. practice. They sat on the floor and proceeded to crack each other up like the best of friends.

It was the first Samahang Modern practice since their winter auditions. I expected the practice to start with warmups and dance drills, but instead, they took the time to introduce each new member with a fun fact. One dancer said they could make their own sushi, and one dancer claimed to give really good massages. The team’s leaders then sorted their new members into “fams,” or subgroups of the team organized by interests and personalities.

“I feel like partaking in hip-hop dance is a way to express myself a person of color, and also be in a community of other people and other types of races and backgrounds and identities and just join together and unify on one dance floor.”

“There’s a lot of different ages on the team,” said firstyear political science student Priyanka John. “Which is also really special because there’s people that are in leadership that we can look up to, but are still our friends and our peers. ... It’s nice to have those mentors.”

As a child, my teenage dance teachers were my biggest role models. Once it became my turn to lead the team, I helped the younger students find their footing. I shared so much time and growth with my teammates that they became family. Watching ACA, the Bruinettes and Samahang Modern, it was clear that Bruins found similar tight-knit communities within these dance troupes.

Samahang Modern was the first established competitive dance team at UCLA, founded in 1986. According to its UCLA Community page, the team formed for the annual Samahang Pilipino Cultural Night, and is guided by principles including professionalism, cultural roots and family. John said this sense of family outside of school adds value to her college experience and noted that she feels empowered by the cultural history of their hip-hop style.

“I feel like me partaking in hip-hop dance is a way to

express myself as a person of color, and also be in a community of other people and other types of races and backgrounds and identities, and just join together and unify under one dance floor,” John said.

A tight-knit sense of togetherness binds dance teams like ACA and Samahang Modern. I did not expect to find that same camaraderie at the solo dance group Bruin Burlesque.

Stepping the most out of my comfort zone as I had in a while, I entered a Bruin Burlesque practice one Sunday evening. I was exhausted from a busy week and weekend when I arrived that night and was never expecting to jump onto the dance floor as enthusiastically as I did. But as soon as I entered the Legacy Room in Wooden and witnessed the group’s upbeat warmups to Beyoncé, I realized that this class was exactly what I needed to start my week off right.

“

Fourth-year psychology student Kansas Tilbury, Bruin Burlesque member, said burlesque is a sensual dance typically performed in stilettos and featuring personalized, improvised moves. Though Bruin Burlesque performs on campus throughout the year, third-year psychobiology student Dahlia Kirov, who was teaching the class that I attended, emphasized that their slow, theatrical performances are for each dancers’ own benefit.

“I know that there can definitely be a lot of comparison or self-esteem issues within the dance community, especially when it comes to looking at yourself in the mirror,” Kirov said. “But at least in burlesque we really try to prioritize that feeling of confidence with yourself before mastering a dance.”

As I danced alongside the Bruin Burlesque members that night, Kirov affectionately called us “babes” as she flaunted across the floor in six-inch heels. When we were not dancing, we cheered with excitement for our peers not unlike the ACA teammates. The intimate dancing had the potential to feel awkward under the fluorescent lights, but with the encouragement of my peers, I even had the confidence to create my own unique poses.

Often when I danced in high school, I felt like I was dancing for other people. I was dancing to impress my teacher, to make my mom happy or to entertain the hordes of families at the St. Patrick’s Day parade. But when lost in the smooth flow of the routine to “Obsessed”

by Mariah Carey, I focused on myself. There was no one in the room that I knew – no one that I was trying to impress.

As I talked to the other dancers, I quickly learned that they felt the same way.

“I would say dance is escape, if I had to choose one word,” Tilbury said. “Obviously, going to UCLA we’re all very much ‘work hard, play hard.’ So dancing is just where I get to go to and leave everything else behind and kind of immerse myself in choreography and doing something that I love.”

In my college life, I am constantly under pressure. Pressure to do well in school while making connections and having three internships. I am often so caught up in the next item on my Google Calendar that I miss the event I am currently in. At Bruin Burlesque, I was completely in the moment. My head felt clear except for the echoes of Mariah Carey off of the studio walls.

My fellow dancers from each group agreed. They shared my belief that dance creates a liberating space outside of the daily stressors of UCLA.

“I see it (dance) as freedom in a way where you can express yourself however you want without the fear of being judged,” third-year biology student Ryan Pak from ACA said. “I feel like a dance studio is very welcoming. ... It’s like a home away from home.” ♦

FIGHTING FOOD INSECURITY

UCLA CAMPUS LOS ANGELES, CA

TRANSPORTATION RENT HEALTHCARE FAMILY CLOTHING TUITION FOOD TEXTBOOKS

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written by JACQUELINE JACOBO AND TULIN CHANG MALTEPE

designed by VIENNA VIPOND illustrated by NIKOLE LIANG

For Rocio Perez, a 2023 alumna of UCLA’s graduate public policy program, academic pressure was just the start of her daily responsibilities. In between balancing her internship tasks, fellowship duties and graduate student workload, Perez was also the primary breadwinner for her family of four. Her income helped pay her parents’ rent in addition to covering her tuition. Financially stretched thin, she could not always cover her basic needs, including food.

Prolonged periods without a substantial meal and the stress of her schoolwork left Perez feeling overwhelmed.

“When you’re stressed and you’re hungry, you’re just not going to get what you’re working on,” Perez said. “You’re not going to get your homework, your tests are going to suffer, and it’s just a very horrible feeling to have when you’re hungry.”

In recent years, university-run and student-run organizations alike have implemented new basic needs access and education programs to support food-insecure students. However, students and faculty believe that these resources cannot fully support the number of students experiencing food insecurity.

According to a 2016 study by the University of California Global Food Initiative, 42% of the UC student population experiences food insecurity. This study and food justice

advocates on-campus use the U.S. Department of Agriculture’s definition of food insecurity, which includes not only individuals consuming low quantities of food but also those primarily consuming nutritionally low-quality foods.

“Food insecurity is a lack of access to fresh, affordable, culturally and personally appropriate food choices,” said Dr. Janet O’Shea, a professor for Cluster M1: “Food: A Lens for Environment and Sustainability” and chair of the Department of World Arts and Culture/Dance. “Food insecurity is also a situation where someone has to choose between healthy and enjoyable food and other kinds of necessities, like paying their rent or paying for transportation or childcare.”

Perez experienced this tradeoff firsthand while renting an apartment in Westwood.

“The apartments around there are becoming incredibly expensive, and, that’s where a lot of our money is going,” Perez said. “Second, bills. Third, maybe tuition. Fourth, food.”

Even students not shouldering Westwood rent face unique challenges to making ends meet. Coming from a low-income family, fourth-year gender studies student Augustine Udukumbura was not always able to cover all of their basic needs. While Udukumbura lived at home and attended community college, their pantry was never full.

Udukumbura said their access to food affected their mental health and academics.

“Food is nourishment ... How can anyone continue in school or continue to thrive, or even just do the bare minimum if they aren’t well fed?”

“Food is nourishment,” Udukumbura said. “How can anyone continue in school or continue to thrive, or even just do the bare minimum if they aren’t well fed?”

Understanding how food insecurity impacts students’ ability to learn and participate in campus life, UCLA programs and studentrun organizations have created projects to support Bruins’ food access.

For 15 years, the UCLA Community Programs Office

has run a food closet in the Student Activities Center. Students can access the food closet for free from 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., with hours varying during campus closures and finals.

“I appreciated that it was there because if I needed a quick snack because I forgot to pack lunch, it was there,” Perez said. “I wouldn’t have to use money that I would have used on rent on food. And so it was just a good security to have there.”

Initially, the food closet contained different types of instant food. Over time, CPO staff have shifted the closet’s focus to providing more nutritious and culturally or religiously accommodating foods, CPO director Antonio Sandoval Ayala said.

“You go through our programs, and you learn how to feed yourself in its most basic form, no matter where you come from.”

“A lot of our students come from communities where there’s high incidences of diabetes, high blood pressure, hypertension,” Sandoval Ayala said. “We want to make sure that we’re not perpetuating those things as well. So, whenever possible, we’re trying to add fresh fruits and vegetables.” Across campus, chef Julia Rhoton, the culinary arts coordinator at the UCLA Teaching Kitchen, teaches students and UCLA affiliates how to sustain themselves with cost-effective ingredients. As a part of UCLA Recreation, the Teaching Kitchen hosts sessions to educate participants on fundamental kitchen skills – from how to bake bread as a beginner to concocting a breakfast of champions.

“The recipe that we taught today for the pediatric residents program was specifically designed that every single ingredient could be purchased with … EBT or at the 99 cent store,” Rhoton said. “We don’t try to insist that

everybody go to Whole Foods.”

Rhoton also values making the Teaching Kitchen a shame-free learning environment. She said that she has worked with adults who have never made a salad or a meal for their children because they did not know how. Rhoton added that growing up without access to healthy groceries or opportunities to learn culinary skills contributes to this lack of experience.

“You go through our programs, and you learn how to feed yourself in its most basic form, no matter where you come from,” Rhoton said.

Besides university-based initiatives, students at UCLA may also qualify for food stamps programs like CalFresh, the California branch of the federal Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program. Through this program, students can receive an electronic benefit transfer card which can be used to buy up to $291 per month of groceries at most stores.

Once Udukumbura and Perez received their CalFresh spending cards, they could buy food for both themselves and their families. Additionally, Udukumbura said having an EBT card allowed them to purchase foods outside of what was available in their parents’ home. This flexibility gave them more control over their options and a sense of independence, they said.

However, third-year human biology and society student and UCLA CalFresh Initiative lead Selene Lam said the CalFresh application process can be challenging.

The month-long application process requires a phone

Rejections sometimes occur even when students are food insecure, Lam said. For example, the county rejects many graduate students’ CalFresh applications because the income they receive through teaching surpasses the qualification threshold. However, because of the high rent prices in Westwood, many of these graduate students struggle to pay for basic needs

“A big issue is that a lot of times, even the county workers don’t understand all of the student exemptions,” Maria Beaucage, a student at UCLA School of Law, said. “So there’s kind of a knowledge gap there.”

To help prevent this issue, in 2023 Beaucage co-founded the Bruin Food Access Project, a pro-bono program out of the School of Law, where law students and lawyers from the Legal Aid Foundation of Los Angeles navigate case appeals. For example, if a student does not feel that they have received an adequate amount of benefits or if there is an issue processing their CalFresh application, the BFAP will help them appeal their Students can also turn to the UCLA CalFresh Initiative, an organization run out of the CPO that helps individuals apply to CalFresh. Despite these organizations’ efforts to create access, some students are still

reluctant to reach out for help because of the stigma surrounding food insecurity. Sandoval Ayala said that when the CPO food closet first opened, students would often sneak into the closet with the lights off to avoid being seen. He explained that this shame was difficult for students to deal with, given many CPO patrons already had a feeling of not belonging as Bruins.

“It was very traumatizing to some students that they had this need, and equally traumatizing to be seen as unworthy of UCLA” Sandoval Ayala said.

Fourthyear political science student John Luke Piepgras has seen this culture of silence among his peers. As the external vice president of Swipe Out Hunger, a student organization that provides free dining hall meal swipes to food-insecure students, he said he hopes his organization can help remove the shame.

“It was very traumatizing to some students that they had this need, and equally traumatizing to be seen as unworthy of UCLA.”

“(We) let people know that food insecurity is an issue, both as awareness for people who aren’t experiencing it and then destigmatizing it for people who are,” Piepgras said. “Just knowing that you’re not alone in dealing with it and it’s more the university’s fault than it is yours.”

Piepgras added that one pathway to address food insecurity is improved university communication about the cost of basic needs to students prior to them enrolling at UCLA. While the university advertises how much financial aid it gives out, that financial aid does not always cover the cost of food and other necessities, he explained.

Perez also noted that the university can do more to alleviate food insecurity on campus.

When she was a graduate student, UCLA had just begun allowing students to use EBT cards to buy food at the UCLA Store. Perez said that this greatly expanded her access to a larger quantity of convenient foods like cup noodles, as well as her access to fresh fruits. She added that she hopes the university will extend the same policy to the restaurants and cafes across campus.

In December, UCLA began accepting EBT cards at the UCLA Health Sciences Store. In January, the North Campus Shop located in LuValle Commons also began accepting EBT cards. As of February, no restaurants have begun accepting EBT cards.

Lam also said that UCLA should expand its dining options to students who do not live on the Hill. Currently, most UCLA students living off campus cannot purchase a meal plan. In November, UCLA Dining launched a pilot meal plan for students who live in a select group of university apartments. However, this policy does not extend to students living in other university apartments or non-university residences.

“What I would hope for the university to do is to provide more leeway for students who are off campus or students who commute, who don’t even live close, they can have access to dining halls so they don’t have to worry about food,” Lam said.

“Our program isn’t a systemic solution. Ours is more like a band-aid solution.”

Lam added that UCLA could increase awareness about how to maintain basic needs while living off campus without access to dining halls.

“Once you move off the Hill you’re just left to figure out how to cook for yourself, how to get food, stuff that no one really teaches you about,” Lam said. “So maybe more education modules on that.”

This is not the only way Lam said UCLA fails to support students. She said that supplying food security programs with additional funding and the UCLA CalFresh Initiative with law student staff would be beneficial changes. Yet, Lam believes that the university is not prepared to take

these necessary steps.

“I think inherently, UCLA just does not have the capacity to care for this many students, and it doesn’t have enough resources for the good quality that every student deserves,” Lam said.

While O’Shea also noted that the UC’s offices could do more to fight student food insecurity, they mentioned that the UC is in a difficult position because of decreasing state funding.

Due to this lack of funding, O’Shea said that grassroots organizing will ultimately play the biggest role in overcoming student food insecurity. Similarly, Lam said the responsibility to fill in the basic needs services gap falls on student organizations such as Swipe Out Hunger.

Despite the wide reach of student-led programs, Piepgras said that these organizations don’t fully tackle the problem of campus food insecurity. Regarding Swipe Out Hunger specifically, Piepgras said that its swipe donation program is just a temporary fix.

“Our program isn’t a systemic solution. Ours is more like a band-aid solution,” Piepgras said. “Even though we’re distributing that many meals, that’s not close to addressing people’s chronic needs.”

Piepgras believes that while UCLA programs have room for improvement, the UC system still has an opportunity to transform higher education institutions’ approaches to students’ basic needs.

“Right now the UC system is probably like 15, 20 years ahead of the rest of higher education when it comes to infrastructure around basic needs, as bad as it still is,” Piepgras said. “It kind of creates this market pressure. Universities start falling in line and start aligning their resources with what students want out of school.”

Udukumbura said that by collaborating with students, UCLA has the opportunity to build a system of resources that better addresses student needs.

“I think it really should be like an integrated community system,” Udukumbura said. “Because if we have only the university do it (build resources), it becomes heartless and bureaucratic,”

Perez shares Udukumbura’s sentiment.

“Students know students best,” Perez said. “I think working together to make sure that student needs are heard and the university providing support – by that I mean financial support because that’s usually what it comes down to – would be beneficial to a lot of students.”♦

Out and About: Queer International Students at UCLA

written by JULIANNE LE

illustrations by JULIA CHEN

designed by JAYANTI SINGLA

“S

o, are you a lesbian?”

Nicole’s heart skipped a beat in the backseat of the Uber. She was sitting in the gridlock traffic surrounding SoFi Stadium, right after attending Taylor Swift’s “The Eras Tour.” Looking to split the cost of the pricey rideshare back to Westwood, Nicole had reached out to fellow Bruins on WeChat – a messaging app popular among Chinese international students at UCLA. But after a night of shared pop music escapism, her carpool-mate suddenly had questions.

“Are you a lesbian or bisexual?” the stranger asked. “I can feel it because I’m bisexual. I know that you’re the same.”

Before she knew it, Nicole was openly chatting about her sexuality. It was a freeing sensation – one she had never felt back home in China.

That post-concert connection introduced Nicole to UCLA’s LGBTQ+ international community. For many LGBTQ+ international students like Nicole, their time at

UCLA has opened space to embrace their identities. But as these Bruins seek opportunities to express their authentic selves, they often encounter feelings of exclusion on campus due to their multifaceted identities.

According to UCLA enrollment data, 9% of undergraduates are international students, hailing from 106 countries collectively. For many international Bruins, Los Angeles provides new opportunities, and for thirdyear statistics student Nicole, who requested a pseudonym because she is not openly lesbian to everyone in her life, this space means exploring her sexuality.

Growing up in Guangzhou, China, Nicole has identified as lesbian since childhood. The realization clicked when a middle school classmate asked her to be girlfriends, and the thought of being in a relationship with another girl immediately felt right. However, Nicole only came out to her family after starting at UCLA, thousands of miles away from the social stigma many LGBTQ+ people have to navigate in China.

Bruins, Nube said she felt that she did not belong because of her different cultural references.

“I felt like I was not going to be able to be understood

“ I felt like I was not going to be able to be understood from my background and be able to relate to some people – not on the basis of being queer but on the basis of nationality. “

Other students have also felt safe enough to come out since becoming Bruins. For Nube, a fourth-year geography student from Lima, Peru, who requested a pseudonym for fear of hate crimes based on her identity if she returned home, UCLA has provided an environment to experiment with how she presents herself.

“I came out actually recently,” Nube said. “I always knew that I was queer. I did not come out officially, officially in Peru because I didn’t know how to say it. And then I actually was able to open myself to have non-straight relationships when I came here.”

Nube said the threat of gender-based and queerphobic violence in Peru created pressure to appear feminine to pass as heterosexual. When in Peru, she worries over her presentation and fears harassment every time she steps out of her house, she explained. However, since becoming a Bruin, she said she has found the words to describe her identity and has felt comfortable enough to express the parts of herself she once hid.

from my background and be able to relate to some people – not on the basis of being queer but on the basis of nationality,” Nube said.

Fellow international Bruins have faced similar challenges forming connections in dedicated LGBTQ+ spaces. When Sin-Yen, a first-year social sciences graduate student who requested partial anonymity for fear of harassment from other Chinese students, initially arrived at UCLA, she attended an event held by the UCLA

Despite feeling a newfound acceptance in many aspects of their lives since moving to LA, many LGBTQ+ international students like Nube said they still experience xenophobia because of their international identities. As she began connecting with other LGBTQ+

LGBTQ Campus Resource Center. Even among a racially diverse group of participants, Sin-Yen, who is from Chongqing, China, said she noticed that she was the only international student.

“I think the activity is for native California students,” Sin-Yen said. “I’m the only international student there, so I kind of feel odd.”

“

Sabrina Ellis, a third-year English student from Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, said they have struggled to find an on-campus community that accepts both their queerness and international background. For example, last year, they wrote for OutWrite, a queer-focused, student-run newsmagazine under UCLA Student Media. But Ellis explained that their

international identity quickly led to feeling othered.

Ellis proposed an OutWrite article that argued that the term “Latinx” inherently excludes Spanish and Portuguese speakers who may find the term more difficult to pronounce. Ellis said that the article, which advocated for alternate gender-neutral terms, faced opposition from an OutWrite editor, who allegedly worried that the article opposed transgender inclusion and neopronouns. Ellis said they left the publication after the incident, partially attributing their departure to feeling undervalued as an international student.

“They started invalidating me at every turn,” Ellis said. “Like, do you actually care about what an immigrant – someone who didn’t grow up here – wants to say?”

OutWrite editor-in-chief Rainer Lee said in a written statement that he disagrees with the previous editor’s conduct toward Ellis. Lee began serving as editor-in-chief in June 2023 after Ellis left the publication.

“Our goal for OutWrite this year has been to publish more articles engaging with intersectional queer issues,” Lee said in a written statement. “We believe in amplifying voices from all corners of the queer community because we all have unique experiences with and perspectives on power. … This desire to spotlight all queer experiences, of course, includes the experiences of queer international students, especially when discussions of queerness are unfortunately centered around white Western nations like the U.S.”

“ They started invalidating me at every turn. ... Like, do you actually care about what an immigrant – someone who didn’t grow up here – wants to say?

University entities across campus are also seeking to better include the perspectives of LGBTQ+ international Bruins. According to assistant director Kevin Goodman, UCLA’s LGBTQ center strives to provide a safe space for LGBTQ+ students of every origin. He explained in a written statement that scholarships, paid internships and opportunities to connect with other students are available for LGBTQ+ students regardless of national origin or documentation status. To connect with international students, the LGBTQ Center’s outreach team tables at oncampus events, Goodman added.

“Beyond the range of romantic, sexual, and gender identities and expressions, members of our community can be found in every other community and constituency at UCLA and across the world,” Goodman said in the written statement. “We look forward to supporting and partnering with future student-lead campus organizations, events, and initiatives that center the wide diversity of LGBTQ+ international student experiences at UCLA.”

to marriage and child adoption, also to HIV protection, the medical care. We don’t have that still, so I think it’s harder to be gay in China than in the United States.”

I do like being here outside of my country, but I thought that I was going to have more freedom to be myself. But at the end, I feel like it’s been weirdly the other way around.

“ “

When students like Ellis face exclusion in LGBTQ+ spaces, they sometimes look to international communities on campus for support. However, much like in LGBTQ+ spaces, they still may face exclusion.

“Because then the place that I’m supposed to belong in, in the Brazilian kind of groups, I feel like being queer sets me a little apart from them,” Ellis said. “But then in queer spaces, I feel like being Brazilian sets me apart.”

Nicole chooses to connect with other Chinese international students by networking on platforms like WeChat and joining casual organizations such as her table tennis group. However, Nicole said she rarely opens up about her sexuality to her Chinese international peers. Once, she made friends with a male Chinese student and felt comfortable enough to come out to him. Upon learning that she is a lesbian, he swiftly ended the friendship. Such interactions have left her wary of being openly LGBTQ+ in Chinese spaces, she explained.

Ana, a third-year STEM student who requested a pseudonym because of the possibility of her family learning her sexuality and ostracizing her, left behind a tight-knit LGBTQ+ friend group in Brazil by becoming a Bruin. Supported by peers who were already out or questioning their own sexuality, Ana came out to her friends when she was 15. Queerness was never looked down upon in their friend group, Ana explained – even her straight friends understood LGBTQ+ culture to the point that queerness was the standard

While navigating the complexities of student organizations at UCLA, LGBTQ+ international students also find themselves dealing with bittersweet homesickness. In some cases, students long for not only the tastes and sounds of their hometowns but for their previous LGBTQ+ communities.

In Chongqing, Sin-Yen felt at home within a network of LGBTQ+ organizers. She said she misses the camaraderie that came from fighting for the LGBTQ+ community’s very existence and added that she has not found the same invigorating bonds at UCLA.

“Rights for LGBTQ people in America is far more well-developed than in China,” Sin-yen said. “In China, we still have to fight for those equalities – like the right

within their little community. She said that at UCLA, she now misses the comfort of her friends and how it felt so easy to belong back home.

“I do like being here outside of my country, but I thought that I was going to have more freedom to be myself,” Ana said. “But at the end, I feel like it’s been weirdly the other way around.”

Ju Hui Judy Han, an assistant professor of gender studies who identifies as queer, said it is problematic to assume that some countries outside of the U.S. are always less accepting of LGBTQ+ individuals. Han immigrated to Orange County, California, from South Korea at the age of 12 and said she has considered Korea, America and Canada to have all been home at one point. Han described any given country’s attitudes toward queerness as being non-monolithic.

“Asian Americans might think, ‘Oh, wow, you’re from China. It must be so oppressive,’ automatically,” Han said. “Like, ‘Oh, you’re gay. And you’re from Korea. Wow, that must be so hard.’ Like, maybe, maybe not.”

emphasized the value of asking students about where they belong – not just where they feel excluded.

“I don’t always feel like I belong in queer spaces or spaces that are marked as LGBTQ spaces,” Han said. “I might actually have more in common with straight Koreans.”

“

“ I think community just for me means being able to relate to people beyond yourself and to know that your experiences and your joy and your grief – all these things can potentially be shared

For some LGBTQ+ international students, the differing cultures of their homes in the U.S. and abroad can create difficult decisions when deciding post-graduation plans.

Nube and Nicole have each decided to stay in the United States. Besides feeling like she has to hide her identity from her parents, Nube said she also fears becoming a victim of potential homophobic hate crimes. She is currently researching the transportation habits of LGBTQ+ international students at UCLA to raise awareness of the struggles they might face acclimating to LA. Nicole also hopes to settle down in California and raise a family with her girlfriend. She said that moving back to China would mean hiding her partner from her father, and she cannot live with that double life.

Sin-Yen is much more open to returning to her home country and fellow Chinese activists, despite the social stigma she might face as a lesbian. She said her priority is finding work she likes, and her sexuality does not dictate her future home.

Whether striving to build the LGBTQ+ community in LA or returning to LGBTQ+ communities abroad, these international students each see their own paths toward kinship. To Han, LGBTQ+ international students do not have to be invited into formal queer spaces to make meaningful community bonds.

“I think community just for me means being able to relate to people beyond yourself and to know that your experiences and your joy and your grief – all these things can potentially be shared,” Han said. “And as long as you can have that, as long as you can count on at least one more person or two, I would count that as community support.” ♦

Collecting for the Community

written by ELINOR HOUGH

photographed by MYKA FROMM

designed by CRYSTAL TRINH

Entering the Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room is like entering another world.

Most of the Charles E. Young Research Library is brightly lit by fluorescent bulbs. Clusters of students hunch in front of their laptop screens to work through endless hours of lectures and quizzes. Wired chargers crisscross over tables and the well-worn floors. Even in the quiet of the first-floor study pods, students whisper to one another while study groups occasionally erupt in bursts of laughter.

But past a pair of glass doors in the basement of YRL, the lighting dims, the hum of quiet chatter falls away, and rows upon rows of antique books line the shelves. The Ahmanson-Murphy Reading Room currently presents weathered but immaculately polished antique children’s books within locked bookshelves. Just beyond the receptionist desk – and a printing press chained to the ground – researchers from across the globe pore over centuries-old manuscripts.

Most students are unaware that special collections spaces, such as the reading room, exist across UCLA’s campus, providing unique research and learning opportunities to anyone who walks through their doors. Archival librarians are working to raise awareness for these spaces and recenter UCLA’s archives around the communities the collections serve.

The UCLA Library Special Collections opened in the early 1950s and collects a wide variety of primary source materials, including rare books, photographs, digital files, audiovisual materials and oral histories. Although the collections are open to the public, none of the items can be checked out. Instead, visitors must submit a request to view items through the library website and then physically come to the reading room.

“We’re trying to be more transparent and just real about what we’re collecting and who’s in the archive.”

Today, LSC cares for around 18 million items, frequently loaning out its precious materials to leading museums. LSC’s staff see the stewardship of these items as part of UCLA’s duty to serve the community and preserve world cultures.

“We have a beautiful Armenian manuscript from 1300, ... and it needs, for its health, a new binding,” said Consuela Metzger, who is the head of the UCLA Library Preservation & Conservation department. “The traditions of a binding for a gospel book – it’s not a dead tradition. It’s a living tradition, it’s still part of a culture. It’s not some arcane thing that nobody cares about.”

However, few undergraduate Bruins seem to know about the collections.

According to Courtney “Jet” Jacobs, who is the head of

public services, outreach and community engagement at LSC, students often don’t know there is a special collection on campus.

“It’s really kind of damning when you run into students on the quad, and they’re just like, ‘I didn’t even know we have a special collection,’” Jacobs said. “It doesn’t feel that great when you’re talking to a member of a community and they didn’t know that you steward the papers that document their experiences.”

Jacobs said students frequently benefit from the LSC. Whether students are attending historic film screenings, participating in classroom activities based on collections materials, or stopping by a table on the quad handing out vintage buttons, the LSC’s influence on undergraduate student life is often hidden in plain sight.

Third-year history student Stephanie Zager, who has been working at LSC since October 2022, said this lack of recognition comes from a perceived barrier to access.

“It is perceived as a private thing for researchers and professionals and grad students,” Zager said.

Zager added that the process for requesting materials may limit engagement with the archives. She suggested that if the libraries could make more videos explaining how to request materials or simply get the word out about how easy it is to access special collections, people’s perceptions would change.

“A lot of people just want a quick Google search and call it a day,” Zager said. “But there are beautiful books here. There are beautiful photographs and posters and just so many things that you can’t get on a Google search.”

According to Kelly Besser, an archivist at LSC, the idea that UCLA’s archives are exclusive comes from the historical reality of archives as elitist spaces. In the last five to 10 years, the LSC’s and UCLA William Andrews Clark Memorial Library’s staff have begun to screen the new additions to their collections to ensure that they continue to reflect the diversity of LA.

Besser said that these efforts seek to bridge the divide between perceived academic elitism and the communities that UCLA serves.

“I think it’s also coming to a moment where … for so many years, archives and archivists have claimed neutrality, and what’s behind that is what Jet was speaking to – is white supremacy and bias,” she said. “We’re trying to be more transparent and just real about what we’re collecting and who’s in the archive.”

For example, LSC undertook a massive catalog project of the Los Angeles Unified School District’s records that finished in 2011. According to Jacobs, this acquisition demonstrates LSC’s recent emphasis on more community-driven historical records.

This highly used collection allows researchers to understand school segregation in LA and compare it to school segregation that occurred in other states such as Texas, as well as deepen cultural knowledge of the city, Jacobs explained. For instance, Besser noted that these primary documents show the internal departmental process of the Crawford v. Los Angeles Board of Education

“It’s a living tradition, it’s still part of a culture. It’s not some arcane thing that nobody cares about.”

“We’re looking at the past, we’re situating ourselves in the present, but then we’re also trying to look to the future”

Supreme Court decision, which found that the LAUSD had not done enough to desegregate.

According to Besser, working with the LA community means changing the kinds of questions archivists consider when determining which cultural artifacts to acquire for collections.

“But also when we’re processing collections, we’re looking at the past, we’re situating ourselves in the present, but then we’re also trying to look to the future to figure out, ‘What do people want? How does this connect throughout time? And what’s going to be of interest?’ And we just have to guess there a little bit,” she said.

Zager and Anna Chen, who is the head librarian at the Clark Library, added that LSC must also contend with questions about returning items to communities. Pointing out LSC’s Italian books and 11th-century Islamic manuscripts, Zager wondered if such collections belong in LA. Chen said libraries should consider concerns surrounding the origin of these items.

“Communities have reached out to those libraries and said, ‘I know you have this thing that is important to our culture, and we would like to have it back,’ and it’s important to be open to doing that,” Chen said.

While UCLA’s campus houses several special collections, some rare materials are spread throughout communities in LA.

The Clark Library operates its own special collection distinct from the LSC site around 11 miles away from campus. The grounds are quiet and secluded behind tall brick walls. The building, completed in 1926, is ornate and dark. Inside, the walls are covered with paintings of William Andrews Clark Jr.’s former lover and Oscar Wilde.

Just as LSC on campus is working to shift the lens of its collections, the archivists at the Clark Library are taking the same steps. Chen said the archivists are currently purchasing materials written by women writers from the same period as Oscar Wilde and his circle to diversify their collection.

Moreover, because of its location, the Clark Library also faces unique community engagement challenges. While students work a floor above the Ahmanson-Murphy

Reading Room, Clark Library is in the middle of a quiet residential neighborhood. Ikumi Crocoll, who is the instruction and engagement librarian at Clark Library, said instead of attracting a steady flow of students, the library’s stickers draw in curious onlookers while the grounds entice local dog walkers.

Crocoll said that students are often unaware of the classes and materials the Clark Library offers students and that the Clark Library can cover rideshare costs from campus. To remedy this issue, Chen said the Clark Library is beginning to recruit a digital collections librarian in the hope that expanding its digital collection will increase its accessibility. Besides digitizing its collection, Clark Library is also looking into collecting digital acquisitions that include items that have never been analog, such as Photoshop files, emails and Microsoft Word documents.

While efforts like the Clark Library’s digitization reflect the modernization of UCLA Special Collections’ services, Jacobs said that the underlying essence of this work is not changing at all.

“You can write a lot of great headlines about the changing nature of the library or the impending death of the library or the death of the book or whatever,” Jacobs said. “But I just don’t think that a library’s role has ever changed – it’s to provide access to resources.”

Metzger explained that LSC is used to adapting to the challenges of archival work.

For example, the LSC team is developing solutions to maintain proper preservation conditions in the face of climate change. From keeping the books safe to airconditioning the servers containing the digital archives, Metzger said LSC is changing with the times.

Throughout these changes, LSC’s librarians remain confident in the strength of what the archives can bring to the UCLA community. Now more than ever, they are inviting the public in.

“We are serving a Los Angeles archive,” Besser said. “It’s one that we’re shaping more and more to look like the city and its communities, its cultures, its regions, its everything. We are a city archive that’s accessible to everyone.” ♦

written by ABIGAIL SIATKOWSKI

photographed by SHANE YU

designed by SHREYA ANNAMANENI

DEATH LIFE AFTER

Wilshire Boulevard has developed a reputation for its snaking traffic. Cars inch along the road during rush hour, passing by a slew of condominiums and office buildings. Tucked between these skyscrapers and the Westwood Branch Library lies a hidden gem. This park, guarded by the shelter of the concrete buildings, remains quiet even in the din of Los Angeles’

honking car horns. In a city whose true citizens are automobiles, the space is an oasis of green grass where fountain water babbles and palm trees rustle in the occasional wind.

It is also a cemetery.

Pierce Brothers Westwood Village Memorial Park & Mortuary is just one part of Westwood’s death care ecosystem that exists right under UCLA students’ noses.

As Bruins spend their college years reinventing their lives, the university and surrounding neighborhood support a robust community of individuals who help walk patients and families through their final days. And it is very much a community, too. To die takes a village.

The neighborhood hugging the borders of UCLA features two cemeteries. Los Angeles National Cemetery, running along aptly named Veteran Avenue, is a final resting place for individuals who have served in the armed forces, as well as certain family members. Pierce Brothers, on the other hand, houses an eclectic group of celebrities and prominent citizens on its small, privately owned property across the street from the Hammer Museum.

Yes, there are graves at Pierce Brothers, but there is also bright grass dotted with flowers carpeting the lawn –almost as if the location were an extension of the highly

manicured UCLA campus. The order of the name says it all: Before it’s a mortuary, it’s a park.

Perhaps this attention to detail in the landscaping is reflective of Charles Upton, the general manager of the site. Upton began his career in the construction industry, eventually translating his proficiency in heavy machinery to cemetery work as a backhoe operator at Eden Memorial Park. Even since becoming manager at Pierce Brothers in December, Upton still pitches in on the grounds work when needed.

As we walked the grounds, Upton stopped to pick up a stray bag of veggie chips that had blown into the park. He held onto it as we walked the few hundred feet to reach the lobby and he could safely deposit the plastic in the trash.

Even if you’re not looking at graves, Upton encourages community members to come visit the park just to, well, hang out and eat lunch.

“I think that’s what more and more cemeteries are trying to do, just let people know, ‘Hey, come see us,’” Upton said.

For Upton, his job provides what anyone could hope for in a world where the only certainties are death and taxes: security and stability. A career in funeral services also gives him the chance to help families who are navigating

tremendous loss.

“Families are going through the toughest time in their life – usually that’s when you’re meeting them,” Upton said. “To be able to take care of them through that situation is super rewarding.”

But before families find themselves in the care of Upton and his team, they are often bounced through several end-of-life care providers in the medical system. Between the doctors, nurses and pharmacists that often help patients in their final days, social workers can be overlooked in the commotion of UCLA Health. Yet their desire to impact patients remains strong.

Professionals in social work handle the daunting task of promoting social wellbeing by helping people through challenging and unfamiliar situations. In the realm of palliative care, this duty often means talking with patients and families about next steps, allowing them to exercise choice in how the end of life should proceed.

Delia Cortez and Lindsay Waters are both palliative care social workers with UCLA Health. Cortez works at the UCLA Santa Monica Medical Center, and Waters works at the Ronald Reagan UCLA Medical Center.

Cortez and Waters emphasized the importance of patient agency in palliative social work. Cortez entered the field after working with patients in the intensive care unit who didn’t have the opportunity to exercise agency via conversations surrounding their deaths. On the other hand, Waters’ positive experiences with a social worker while her father was in hospice opened her eyes to the necessity of the job.

“I specifically wanted to go into palliative to be a part of those conversations,” Waters said. “To help people make decisions based on what’s important to them and respect

their autonomy, who they are as a person, and give them control in a time that usually they don’t have a lot of control,” Waters said.

Both Cortez and Waters find their days marked by collaboration. Morning meetings with their team – which includes physicians, nurses and chaplains, among a range of other specialists – set the stage for the day’s plan. But in health care, no plan can be perfectly laid.

“It could be the same consult on paper, but it’s constant improv,” Cortez said.

conversations,” Waters said. “People are worried about it anyways, so we allow them to share those concerns.”

While Cortez and Waters find their work highly centered on patient interactions, there are others in the field whose work begins post-mortem.

In a windowless lab in the Center for Health Sciences building, technicians, medical students and physicians perform autopsies on patients from the hospital or Westwood community. The walls are the color of sand,

"It could be the same consult on paper, but it’s constant improv."

For example, families and individuals may have different responses to hearing the words “death” and “dying.” As social workers, Cortez said she and Waters listen to the verbiage their patients use and try to emulate it. Waters added that they often ask patients in what way they would like to hear information delivered and try to respond in such a manner.

“We aren’t afraid to go there and to have those

and the riser seats around the room are tall, silver and barely wide enough to sit on. As we walked through, Dr. Gregory Fishbein meticulously identified the rows of organs that sat in jars on carts and in cabinets.

Fishbein, the chief of autopsy at UCLA Health, said he conducts autopsies for a variety of reasons. A family may request an autopsy to learn more about a genetic disease experienced by their loved one, or individual patients may request it before their death as a way of providing more information about their condition to workers in the medical field.

Fishbein does not conduct autopsies alone. Trainees and technicians play a crucial role in a process that can take several hours and sometimes days.

Keith Ellis, the hospital lab tech supervisor for decedent pathology – a branch of medicine that examines the bodies of the deceased – has worked at UCLA for over 30

years. His job requires administrative expertise to handle the decedents’ papers, as well as technical expertise to work with remains. Ellis said he appreciates the fact that he gets to work with the bodies; it is a dwindling opportunity for those who complete the paperwork and what originally drew him to UCLA.

Growing up, Ellis aspired to become a pathologist until he realized the years of studying required for the career. He instead decided to take the route of volunteering at the hospital, and his deep interest in the work kept him coming back everyday.

“People who worked here would go home, and I would be the only one here, “ Ellis said. “So that’s how everyone got to know who I was.”

At the time, volunteers were permitted to do some of the cutting, Ellis said. As he built his skillset, he eventually joined the staff ranks. Now, he works with bodies as part of his full-time job, cutting them up and putting them back together.

Despite the usefulness of the procedure, the autopsy is a dying art, Fishbein said. While UCLA pathologists still conduct around 200 autopsies each year, some schools of

"If you can get past the creepiness of a cemetery, it’s just a place with really pretty flowers and some nice trees."

thought devalue the autopsy as an unnecessary procedure in comparison to the efficacy of medical imaging. But Fishbein and Ellis both pointed to the unique value of the autopsy.

“It’s honest, right?” Fishbein said. “You’re looking at the whole person and how they work and figuring out and trying to relate that back to how it can help people essentially. I think that it’s very meaningful.”

As a research university, UCLA frequently shares the findings of its studies with the public. Before many Angelenos have arrived at work, medical students, residents and faculty gather for morning autopsy conferences that include case presentations. On occasion, UCLA Health outsiders attend these conferences, and some individuals interested in forensics have sat in on autopsies. Fishbein has even presented on autopsy science to high schoolers (though he does not provide full demonstrations to them).

“In the last couple of years, I’ve had several undergrads either cold call me or email me that they want to see an autopsy,” Fishbein said.

But the hospital is not the only place where death can

proposal to expand the cemetery grounds was met with pushback by the Westwood community.

But even cemeteries that are for the average American can present cost challenges to families. In California, the average cost of a funeral with a cremation currently sits at $6,028, according to the National Funeral Directors Association. For a burial, it rises to $7,225.

The reality of this financial challenge is front and center for Cortez and Waters. They both agreed that in the United States, funeral assistance is hard to come by.

“As far as families who need resources, be it to cremate or bury someone, it’s very limited on what can be offered,” Cortez said. “I think limited is generous.”

Although cremation is cheaper than a full burial, Waters pointed to the fact that some families may require a burial for religious or cultural reasons, putting further strain on the budget. In addition, Cortez said some families may want the burial to take place in another

"Taking care of this stuff before you need it is a huge burden off your family. It’s a nice thing to do. It’s a polite thing to do. And it’s a loving thing to do."

be explored by the community. As a board member of the West Los Angeles Chamber of Commerce, Upton invites local business owners to events such as a wine tasting at Pierce Brothers’ service space. And in honor of the passing of Marilyn Monroe – one of the most famous names who calls Pierce Brothers home – her fan club holds an annual service for her at Pierce Brothers each summer.

“If you can get past the creepiness of a cemetery, ... it’s just a place with really pretty flowers and some nice trees,” Upton said.

Perhaps it is the distinctly un-cemetery atmosphere of the park that keeps the tourist buses coming. Despite being a hard location to find, Pierce Brothers remains a tourist attraction. Upton strikes a careful balance in this regard.

“We don’t do anything for the tourists,” Upton said. “We don’t push them away, but we also don’t cater to them. While I like having people in here, I like getting our name recognition out there, and I want people to know about it, we do also have a lot of people that are buried here that are not celebrities.”

Upton was candid that the price to rest forever at Pierce Brothers is not as accessible as a visit. Pierce Brothers’ customer base is far from the everyman, with some spots going for hundreds of thousands of dollars. Space is in high demand at the small cemetery, and not only from potential customers. Homeowners, businesses and other groups are all vying for land in LA – in fact, a 2002

country closer to family, adding travel costs to the budget. With the cost of medical care in the U.S. already higher than many other nations, planning a funeral can add another financial strain amid expensive end-of-life care.

Yet Upton stresses the value of pre-planning a funeral. Many of the patrons who own plots in the now-pricey Pierce Brothers purchased that land before it was in demand, meaning the price was more reasonable. Upton said it can also lessen emotional stress, such as by reducing a grieving family’s responsibilities and preventing arguments about what the deceased would want in their service.

“Taking care of this stuff before you need it is a huge burden off your family,” Upton said. “It’s a nice thing to do. It’s a polite thing to do, and it’s a loving thing to do.”

As our time came to an end, Upton pondered about the circles of the Westwood community that he has yet to explore during his short time at Pierce Brothers. A recent art exhibit across the street reminded him of the other spaces that neighbor the park, he explained.

Perhaps it is the communities hidden in plain sight that warrant our exploration the most – even a cemetery. ♦

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