MUSE XXVII

ISSUE XXVII

CONTENTS

Lifestyle An Ode to Coffee

8

It’s Arbitrary, Anyways

9

Where Do We Go Now?

11

Entertainment Cancelling my Heroes

17

THUMP

19

Flipping the Script

20

Arts Creation: The Conjuring

25

Fashion Stilettos to Sneakers

33

Curls

34

Death of Fashion’s Iconoclasm

35

Musings The Mourning of the Body

41

I’m Not Looking at You in the Eyes, But I Hear What You’re Saying

43

Searching For Signs In Grief

45

Mommy Dearest

47

Creative Writing Surprise Party

52

The Club that Raised the Dead

53

Fungi

55

Letter from the Editor Where do you think?

I mean that not in a literal sense—I’m sure many of us feel as though our brains never turn off as we make our morning coffees, as we commute to our class or job. We are consumed with what is next: our next meeting, deadline, meal.

We move from location to location while our minds and body constantly move.

What I am referring to is where we reflect. Where do we question what is around us, what matters to us?

This sort of critical reflection and heartfelt analysis is not always encouraged in the fast-paced environments many of us find ourselves in. Of course, it would be naive to say that thinking deeply and inquisitively is easy. For many of us, our differences have made us stand out. When you have spent much of your life as a minority or as someone who has felt other, you become conditioned to not question your surroundings, to swim with the currents rather than against them.

And what a devastating thought that is.

To avoid embracing our differences and our unique thoughts, we lose our ability to think outside the box. This in turn, limits our ability to create.

When pondering and curiosity are considered leisure, creating becomes a luxury, and we lose the ability we once had to imagine and color outside the lines.

In my experience, MUSE Magazine has always been a place that embraces thinking and questioning. The members behind this issue encourage us to think about the spaces we inhabit, the media we consume, what we wear, and our relationships with others. And from this inquisition comes the creation of beautiful art. In creating issue XXVII, I have not been able to stop thinking about how devastating it is that we are not encouraged to think more. How much art have we lost for the sake of

not being encouraged to question what is around us?

This issue is ripe with heartfelt stories, genuine expressions of the human condition, and imaginative wonderings of the world around us. Reimagining spaces individuals have historically been excluded from, embracing the identity that makes us stand out.

Questioning the expectations as it relates to our relationships, our hairstyles, and our consumption of trends. Grappling with how we create, and how our connections to others have changed. Those involved in the making of this issue were brave and bold in questioning their internal dialogues and their external realities, and this curiosity has resulted in earnest creation. I hope you enjoy this collection of written work and editorials. I have deeply enjoyed watching them come together.

Or, at the very least, I hope they make you think.

Yours Creatively, Liz Gonzalez Editor in Chief

Having

Eating It Too

Creative Director: Oliva Parent Photo: SariDirector: PagurekOlivia van Mossel Creative Parent Video: Keon Photo: SariSmith Pagurek Van Mossel MUA: Fiona Parfitt Video: Keon Smith Models: Aluel Achiek, Dalyah MUA: Fiona Parfitt Schiarizza & Emi Rucinski Models: Aluel Achiek, Dalyah Schiarizza & Emi Rucinski

Ali Al-Safadi

Though coffee used to be an easy way to get energized in the mornings or during a late-night cram session, it has evolved into becoming a constant in our lives. A lifestyle on its own, its versatility and comforting presence made its way into our daily routines, becoming a source of motivation during study sessions and a reason to socialize with those around us. Its ability to blend into diverse situations makes it more than just a drink. It symbolizes a culture where coffee is not just a choice, but a constant and comforting feeling throughout the day, making it an essential aspect of modern life.

A constant in so many of our lives, coffee is a reliable friend you go to for a pick-me-up during quiet mornings and hectic days. From our grandparents drinking their coffee black like they did fifty years ago, to us drinking iced coffees and pumpkin cream cold brews during afternoon strolls with friends, coffee finds a way to connect us all.

In a fast-paced world that’s full of changes and obstacles, it’s one thing you can count on to provide comfort during both the happiest and toughest of times. Whether you’re having a first date over lattes or drinking americanos while signing divorce papers, coffee’s rich flavour and aromatic smell is an unflagging companion throughout our ever changing lives.

Coffee’s evolution goes beyond a mere beverage, as it has become a means of expressing love and emotion. The connection I have with coffee goes way back to the many celebrations I

went to at my grandparents’ house.

There was always Arabic coffee, and the way my grandmother makes it is different from any other coffee I have ever had. Whenever I smell the faintest smell of cardamom, I’m brought right back to those many times sipping my grandmother’s coffee while we laughed and chatted as families do, deepening my connection to something as simple as coffee that much further.

This transformation is deeper than the change in our caffeine consumption; it represents a transition in the way we connect with one another on a much deeper level. Coffee is now a tangible way of representing the love and adoration we have for others through its role in thoughtful gestures and family traditions. It has a much deeper meaning without having to physically say what this simple cup of coffee represents. Whenever I go back home, my aunt takes the time to try and replicate my grandmother’s coffee, because she knows how much I love it, and this simple act makes me not only feel appreciated, but remembered and loved. It signifies an understanding of our taste and preferences, enriching our relationships in the process.

The act of drinking a cup of coffee now carries an emotional significance in our lives, representing the bonds we form with the people around us, and most importantly, the relationship we have with ourselves. So, even on your busiest of days, take a page out of Lorelai Gilmore’s book by taking a break and grabbing a cup of coffee. I promise you, it’s worth it.

8

IT’S ARBITRARY, ANYWAYS

Cayleigh PRATT

Make Up Your Body Count The number of people you’ve slept with is the ultimate social capital in university. Silly sex stories give you something to laugh about with your girlfriends during the day-after debrief.

Knowing that someone would sleep with you feeds our teenage virgin self who just wanted someone to find them attractive. Sleeping with other people signals to potential hook-ups that you’re desirable enough for them to sleep with, but not so much that you’ll ruin their reputation. But no matter the value of the currency, you never have the perfect amount. It’s too high, it’s too low; when it comes to our judgment of our own bodies and other’s, there is never a ‘just right’.

Even the term “body count” (and the even worse “kill count”) sounds like something that only a serial killer and the federal agent interrogating them should discuss. Instead, this dreaded number creeps its way into late-night games of Hot Seat, the morning debrief at brunch, and even conversations on the lawless first floor area of the university library. There is simply no gossip hotter than who has slept with whom; there are some people whose sole identifier is that they slept with a friend of a friend.

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Sex means so many different things to so many people. Constructing guidelines based on what you saw and where your body parts went is as futile as trying to obtain that ‘right’ number.

I’m not sure whether it’s easier to change your definition of what exactly counts as sex or who exactly you should consider having had sex with, but I know for sure that both are steps to liberating yourself from the archaic policing of our bodies.

When we include people that don’t deserve a spot in our mental lists, we give them power that they didn’t earn.

I hope it goes without saying that any sexual act that was not consensual does not count, but only discluding literal crimes ignores the fact that you deserve to have sex that is genuinely enjoyable. Sex doesn’t need to be awful for you to not want to include it. For all I care, you can only count bad sex. Now, I’m not saying to add your library crush after they told you “I think I have this study room booked at 2:30.” What I am saying is, you are the only person with the power to control your narrative, and by proxy, your body. When asked how many people I’ve slept with, I don’t bother with the people who made me feel worthless, but I also don’t bother with the people that simply didn’t add any value to my life. I have a friend who when asked how many people he’s slept with, he doesn’t bother with the people before his girlfriend, because she is the only one that matters to him now. Whatever the reason you include or disclude someone is, it’s valid. Sure, these alterations can be met with resistance, but at the end of the day, the only person who you need to justify someone’s place on your list to is yourself.

It’s important to let people have sex (safely) with whoever and however many

people they want without judgment. But it’s also important to let people decide which of these people they want to give energy to. Sex positivity shouldn’t only apply to people who want to have sex frequently and abundantly, but also to people who don’t want to do that.

To achieve sex positivity, we have to begin by feeling positively about our own sexual experiences. If we keep including people who make us feel negatively, this becomes impossible to do. Once we begin to judge who other people have had sex with less harshly, a funny thing happens; we begin to judge ourselves less harshly as well.

Along the same lines, when you decide to care less about what people think of how many people you’ve slept with, an even funnier thing happens; you end up caring less about how many people they’ve slept with too.

The sole person that can control the narrative of your life is you.

The sole person that can control the narrative of your life is you, and that includes the number of people you’ve slept with. Being the main character, being in the driver’s seat, being the author of your own life, or whatever metaphor you want to use, you are the only person who decides what you do, what you think, and what you feel. So, if putting someone in your notes app after a mediocre night isn’t something you feel like doing, don’t.

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WHERE DO WE GO NOW? Alisa Bressler You drove me home from the bar on an August evening last summer, two days after the cat-and-mouse game between us materialized into a drunken makeout.

We were about to say goodbye for a year of exchange and the drive felt longer than usual. Maybe, the year-long chase and the flirty stares across the road would be over once we parked. It had to be. I’m an overthinker, who could not fathom the consequences of this not working out. I thanked you for the ride, for being a great friend. I peeled myself away from the passenger seat and the many words left unsaid.

The year went by and I moved on. You occasionally crossed my mind - when the new Spiderman movie came out, or when I craved someone to laugh at my jokes. But I remained firm that you and I were never meant to be more than friends. I loved our friend group, I missed the way we used to be. I felt relieved that we had never started anything too deep…until I saw you again.

The flirtation, the chase, it was all back.

You once-again pursued, and I couldn’t help but fold. We enjoyed each other’s company and agreed to keep things under wraps. It was sneaky and high11

stress, and through it all, I felt eager to be bold, to seek what I wanted and what I thought you wanted too. I suffocated the voice of my over-thinking and went for it. We had been friends for long enough that I was pretty certain you existed without a mean bone in your body, and that you wouldn’t hurt me.

Our “situationship” lasted approximately one week. The chase was over, but history breeds resentment and you held that over my head. It’s over, and where do we go now?

Proximity became alcohol on an open wound. You were everywhere and I was hurt. I needed space from you, but that meant isolating from my friends. We went from a sunny fragment of summer to a hot piece of gossip. Conversations were had on the periphery deliberating the “he said, she said”; everyone had an opinion, but no one knew how to move forward.

Maybe I should have left the words unsaid locked in your car on that August evening. Maybe I should have listened when everyone told me that friends-tolovers is a fantasy. I’m stuck in a juggling act instead: socialize with you, yet keep my composure; avoid reopening my wounds, yet maintain relationships with those closest to you; don’t talk shit, yet don’t bottle it all up.

You didn’t choose me and I didn’t choose you. Now I’ll feel your eyes on me as I receive a drink from a handsome stranger. I’ll wonder who you’re taking for dinner when you don’t join our friend group’s plans. We’ll watch each other choose other people.

I still believe that people come into our lives for a reason. You allowed me to let go of my inhibition and live in the moment. I will find a way to balance the friendships this poisoned, and one day, your name won’t send a pit through my stomach. One day, I’ll smile at you from across the table and mean it.

HER

Creative Director: Nadisha Gautam Photo: Cat Rose Video: Bronwyn Tyndall MUA: Khush Sagar Models: Maya Elliott & Ying Feng

MY

REAGAN FELD

17

The last few years have been hard.

You see, my childhood heroes are disappointing me.

They weren’t who I thought they were.

And it makes me sad.

I’m not talking about a celebrity attacking women or harming children.

Those are crimes and should be punished. I’m thinking about constant childhood companions, whose private thoughts are much different from their public endeavors. I’m a constant reader.

A bookworm. But I don’t just read the volume. I conduct a dialogue with the author, and in the end, I thank them profusely or yell at them for wasting my time.

Now, it turns out, my two favorite authors from my early years were – and are – disgraceful. In the basket of childhood literature deplorables, beloved Roald Dahl and J.K. Rowling would be among the first placed into the cart.

A renowned children’s author, Roald Dahl created timeless classics like “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory,” “James and the Giant Peach,” the “Fantastic Mr. Fox” and “Matilda.” He filled countless hours of my life with exciting adventures and memorable characters. His books are read worldwide, converted into Broadway musicals, and adapted for the big screen. His reputation is backed by Netflix, which purchased the rights to sixteen of Dahl’s works for a reported $1 billion.

However, Dahl was evil in many ways.

Though racist and sexist as well, his ingrained anti-Semitism was on full display for years as he railed against “powerful American Jewish bankers,” suggesting that Jews brought persecution on themselves because they “kind of lack a certain generosity.”

And though he was a British hero in

World War II, he still sympathized with the German treatment of Jews under the Nazis, stating “There’s always a reason why anti-anything crops up anywhere; even a stinker like Hitler didn’t just pick on them for no reason.”

Can I ever watch Willy Wonka the same again?

J.K. Rowling, my other beloved author, has also recently fallen from grace when she tweeted a series of comments about the transgender community. Instead of apologizing, she doubled down on her comments, proudly stating she is a TERF. Her comments alienated large swaths of fans (including me), as well as Daniel Radcliffe – Harry Potter himself.

Even more recently, several characters from her best-selling book series Harry Potter have been scrutinized, and been deemed racist or stereotypical.

While Dahl and Rowling were “cancelled” by part of the public and in my mind – they were relegated to a box in the attic from prominence on my shelf – both writing of both authors continues to thrive. For example, the Harry Potter world expands: bigger theme parks, more experiences, and an entirely new movie franchise from which Rowling will build on her $1 billion net worth.

While I am torn about my relationship with my heroes, the public isn’t as concerned. Dahl and Rowling are still enjoyed. Readers separate the problematic authors from their works, because in our imagination we see the characters and not the creators.

Perhaps Hermione and Mr. Fox are easier to enjoy because the authors are out of sight, and, thus, out of mind.

When I learned of Dahl and Rowling’s comments, I felt betrayed. Their views diametrically oppose my own. Their books will undoubtedly continue to be read and loved, but the authors are tainted. I’m one fan who won’t forget.

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Bad things happen to bad people, right? But what happens when it feels like there’s a crumb of joy in the midst of feasts of distress? If my life was a restaurant, I am convinced that good things are not being served on the menu without a heaping hot dish of shit right after it.

If a pressure cooker could write a TV show it would be The Bear (2023). Richie Jerimovich (portrayed by Ebon MossBachrach) is a whirlwind. Despite his foul language, he is “great with people.”

Richie (or, should I say, Cousin) understood me. I could see right through his stand-off demeanor. Cousin is just trying his best to please everyone.

Richie’s character arc is broiled in Season 2, Episode 6 “Forks”. The episode is recognizable from the viral clip of a guy driving home while blasting “Love Story” by Taylor Swift. In the episode, Richie’s co-worker and best friend Carmie used his professional industry connections to send Richie against his will to stage at a 3-star Michelin restaurant.

The restaurant is outside of Richie’s comfort zone and offers the potential to explore a radical shift in perspective.

To get better, you have to get uncomfortable. Each time the camera focused on the slogan “EVERY SECOND COUNTS” my chest constricted. How can I feel like I’ve already messed everything up at 21?

While Richie takes out his insecurity around others in hostility, I fester on my instinct of passive-aggressive manners when there seems to be too much on my plate. Richie’s coworker-turnedfriend Garrette puts it simply, “I need you to respect yourself.” A positive community relies on everyone to treat themselves with empathy. A chain is only as strong as the weakest link.

Nearing the end of the episode, Richie punched me in the gut. C’mon Cousin, you were doing so well! Richie calls Carmie and projects onto him that he’s just a nuisance to everyone around him. To me and Richie, we feel under pressure that if we make a mistake, we will fail the people around us. I identified with this on screen image of insecurity, believing that I am not worthy of the cathartic taste of success.

I never noticed how much I indulged in convincing myself something always has to go wrong. I call that meal selfsabotage. The core ingredient of selfsabotage is that I don’t think I am good enough to deserve good things.

This moment is born in the crutch of wrecking things for yourself before a divine intervention can get its sticky hands to do it for you. I live in anticipation of the other shoe to drop.

The Bear suggests the only solution is forgiveness. I learned that it is ok to make mistakes; you just have to own up to them and move on. If I could root for Richie, I could root for myself.

Forks don’t actually make a THUMP when they fall. A redundant “clink” if anything. It’s just a fork. You pick it up, get a clean one, and continue with your meal.

Katarina Bojic

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Flipping Isabella Hamilton

The year is 2010. For the thousandth time this week, I’m sitting in the backseat of my parent’s Honda Odyssey, asking them to skip to track 6 on my Speak Now CD so that I can picture myself singing “Mean” in front of the girl who wouldn’t let me sit with her on the bus ride to school. The last thing on my mind? How many boys Taylor Swift had dated.

A lot has changed since then – Taylor is now one of the most decorated artists of our time, and my parents no longer have that Honda Odyssey. The media still finds a way to tear down the success of a woman by drowning out her accomplishments to the tune of her relationship status – and that’s one thing that never seems to change.

You could probably sing “All Too Well (10 minute version)” (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault) in a shorter amount of time than you could list out the set of unwritten rules that exist for women in the music industry – listeners included.

Don’t write about your relationships – everyone does it. You haven’t been in a relationship in a long time? There must be something wrong with you.

You want to voice your opinion through your music? You’re an attention seeker.

You want to go into hiding for a year because you thought the entire world hated you? Stop being dramatic. I will be the last person to deny that Taylor is a calculated woman. From the easter eggs she leaves for us fans to the most subtle of her lyrics, she’s learned to take the definition of being vindictive and cunning and flip it on its side. If the

Script

the

world was going to label her as a snake, she was going to use it to sell out her fifth worldwide tour, Reputation – and do it with no explanation at all.

Her music stands as more than just a reminder that growing up is difficult, that being a woman is impossible, and that heartbreak hurts like hell, but that you’re never alone in what you feel.

For anyone who has listened to her discography through and through, you know that her music spans much more than just relationships. So why is one of the greatest musicians in the world still branded a “serial dater” before “12 time Grammy winning artist?” While this ultimately boils down to the patriarchal structure of our society, I believe it has a lot to do with a love for hatred. Hating on those who seem larger than life is often justified because their fame suggests they’re immune to criticism. While I will probably never experience a trending hashtag, #IsabellaHamiltonIsOverParty, Taylor sure did, and her accolades don’t exempt her from human emotion.

Taylor has most definitely taken her fair share of missteps, but I challenge anyone to have their life picked and prodded while trying to keep it together the way she has. So before you’re subjected to the famous phrase, “but she’s just had so many boyfriends,” as a means of hating her for being an uberly successful woman, suggest they first add “The Man” to their listening queue.

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Creative Director: Rav Mall Photo: Cat Rose Video: Julia Dasilva-Lee MUA: Khush Sagar Models: Bianca Bucchino & Zoe Glover

CREATION:: THE CONJURING EMMA GRIFFIN In a world driven by consumption, even the creatives find themselves in blocks, unable to weave the rich material of our lives into art. We get tangled in the fabric of everyday, forgetting the sanctity, the magic of life on Earth. Someone that I love calls it the drift. It is getting caught latently in a stream, submerged in moving water but not truly noticing it. To create is to resist these lulls of mundanity. Thrash, jump, kick, move against the current and generate that power, that heat, that electricity.

Resist falling into the monochrome of everyday and instead, see the world through kaleidoscope eyes.

It’s easy to get caught in the inertia of 25

the cycle of consumption, but escaping the momentum, the dull monotony is when art is truly born. This, I feel, is an important reminder to a generation of students that can feel stale, stagnant, and uninspired. How have our lofty ideas been forced into concrete shoes, how are we dragging our feet through subjects we used to enjoy? In the monotony, our creation has become production. We have lost the magic and are numbed by the novocaine of never-ending tasks. Living as a creative who is also pursuing medical school, this sentiment and I have become well acquainted. Feeling like life has become an amusement park of flashing lights, sounds, and shapes, never knowing

where to start. I am nauseous on the rusty carousel of continuous consumption as the information overload dizzies me into a trance. I see, I squint, I stare as life flashes before my eyes, until I put my foot down, slow the sickening spinning, and realize that I am living my dream.

When the world quiets, when the carousel squeaks to a halt, I remember.

I was born to create, to learn, to jump, to dance, to laugh. I close my eyes and see shadows of myself swirling across my eyelids. Watching her devouring books like her last meal, hearing her gleeful giggles as she catches frogs in the pond, feeling her fingers bleed from steel guitar strings, nail polish shredded by her feverish playing. Here, I remember. I am made to conjure magic of my own design. I remember, life is long, and the world is wide. Everyone who creates eventually reaches a stale point, a stopping point, an almost givingup point; it is then vital to remember that where there is love, there is life, and there is art.

This remembrance, my friend, is when it happens. When that love, that passion is rediscovered, the creative impulse ignites again. You feel that heat in your ever-beating heart as it rattles in your chest, filling your lungs with laughter, aching to be let free. It burns, tingles your skin, pulses through your bones until you’re glowing, itching to write, play, dance, sing, create. Lighting candle after candle to fuel your fervor at half past three, this love engulfs you in an all-consuming flame. You hear it in the melody of laughter, the booming bass of car speakers, the mystery of the ever-changing sky. It exists in the hugs exchanged between friends, in the rhythm of the tide on the lakeshore, the quiet hum of the coffee machine in the morning. It’s the warmth of the sun on your face and the sound of wind through the trees: psithurism. When I find time to sit down and gaze through that leafy canopy, it is quiet. The sun radiates

against my cheeks and the wind ripples shirt sleeves over my skin. Peaceful until that Newtonian apple plops on my head, and I am possessed. Gripped by the iron hands of creation, I am an observer turned madwoman. Feasting on the potential, the malleability of life at my hands. Coal is pumped into the blazing inferno in my stomach, ideas burn through my pen, and smoke sizzles from my ears, a chimney stack of passion. I sew sentences together.

These words are my fabric, and I am the seamstress feverishly creating by candlelight. Tearing, cutting, pinning, weaving fate within my hands. I am a conjurer, and the cauldron bubbles with words unwritten, begging to be unleashed. This magical world and I have fallen desperately, hopelessly in love. The impulse to create stirs within me, animating my soul like a mad marionette.

I hope that you are set ablaze by the magic of your life. I hope you take this between your teeth and embrace your next thought with verve, with passion. I hope you conjure art that you breathe life into, and I hope your heart beats within it. I hope you digest every word and exist with a stomach full of possibility and a mouth stained red by the lustful fruit of life on Earth. You’re only here once you know, better create something delicious.

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indulgence

Creative Director: Armita Dabirzadeh Photo: Alessia Cottone Video: Keon Smith MUA: Fiona Parfitt Models: Kaitlyn Hung & Jacob Mady

in passion, we find purity

S neakers

Stiletto Liz Gonzalez

Picture the Girl’s Night Out. Enough wine glasses and laughter overflowing the room, hairspray and perfume fumigating the space. The abundance of excitement and the optimism of the night ahead are a constant in the history of women preparing for the evening ahead. There may be the occasional yelp of pain: the eyebrow being plucked, the neck being burned by a hair curler.

But the one changing factor has always been the uniform.

Turn the clock back 15 years, and young women getting ready for the adventures of the night ahead could be mistaken for the women heading into the office the next morning. Take a snapshot of your college bar or pub and it would have captured a sea of peplum tops, blazers, heeled wedges, and statement necklaces. Comedically, this same image looks wildly different today.

Now, you would struggle to differentiate the flock of girls on their way to chase down dreams with vodka crans versus those grabbing a coffee. Much to the disarray (or envy) of millennials, the perfect outfit for a girl’s night out is distinguished by casual attire: tank tops, tube tops, baggy jeans, and of course— sneakers. Airforces, Reeboks, and the New Balance shoes once intended for dads running around town are now the staple of a night out attire.

The preference for informality is not embraced by everyone. The sea of white sneakers has become some sort of punchline used to tease young women.

Everyone in line for the bar looks the same, and they all look unfussy. Women 33

to

are dancing on top of tables in their Nike Blazers—whatever has become of the nightlife scene?

What the Girl’s Night Out has become is more freeing. Gone is the synonymy with pain due to uncomfortable spandex tops and five-inch heels. While some may shun the informality of “goingout” clothes, the truth behind this trend is that young women have begun prioritizing comfort over chicness.

There is no denying that the uniform of a tank top and jeans is still a “trend” and therefore a symbol of conformity, there is the power behind choosing comfort first. For women, presentation has always been intertwined with pain and the preferences of others.

Historically, appearance during a social event would be synonymous with being uncomfortable—lacing up corsets and purchasing the latest new attire to be deemed attractive by potential suitors.

Today, girls are much more inclined to thrift a top and wear the same shoes they wore to class out to a bar. We are moving further and further from a place in women’s fashion where pain is ignored in the name of personal style and comfortability.

So wear your white sneakers with pride. Whether you are thrifting your shirt or wearing the same jeans you wore to class, this new era of fashion ensures that women can embrace their night-out attire free of pain. Forget the stilettos if that’s not your style— at least you know that at the end of your night, you and your girlfriends will be able to run home in your Reeboks.

urls C

Alisa Bressler

Every girl I know had the makeup product that let them face the world as a teenager, but to me, hiding a blemish under concealer would never be as satisfying as gliding 400 degrees of heat to unravel my curly hair. Whether it was the logistical challenge of taming them or the ingrained beauty standards set by early 2000s media, I treated my curls like a pimple on picture day. Between Keratin treatments and before-school battles with my straightening iron, I would do anything to disguise the ringlets crowding my scalp. My curls were awkward, and my personality and voice were far from quiet. Being the loudest one in the room was only exacerbated by my curls. And so, they became my best-kept secret.

Pin-straight hair dominated runways and trends in the 90s and early 2000s.

The ideal was the shiny, long, centerparted style seen on Britney Spears or Christina Aguilera. Advanced hair straightening tools began to hit the market, allowing anyone’s locks to transform from frizzy to sleek. The style was synonymous with being elegant, polished, and up-to-date with trends.

For designers and stylists alike, straight hair is a clean and undistracting canvas to showcase clothing. Even on the runways of some of the biggest fashion houses, no model - no matter their hair type - is safe from the straightening iron.

With this style being the norm, I can’t help but relate the disguise of my curls to a lack of representation for those with my hair type. Curly hair is a trait shared by many Ashkenazi Jewish women, myself included, but it was

certainly not shown on the models and actresses I grew up watching. The scarcity of female Jewish characters persists on television today, with many played by those of non-Jewish descent. With this comes all the more lack of representation for the traits I insisted on hiding; where’s the 2000’s rom-com makeover scene that ends with a curly-haired brunette keeping her hair exactly the way it was?

My tightly-wound black curls are a symbol of my culture and heritage - one that has been, unfortunately, demonized through anti-semitic tropes for centuries. Historically, a long, hooked nose and a mop of thick curls created the demonic, Jewish character perpetuated by anti-semites.

The weaponization and ridicule of curly hair has permeated the collective consciousness of Jewish women, resulting in the shame and distaste many of us share for our natural curls. I can’t reverse years of straight hair and heat damage, but I can acknowledge the power behind welcoming back my curls.

My curls are here to stay, and with them follows newfound confidence and appreciation for my cultural roots and individuality. I still regularly feel that my hair doesn’t match my outfit when I go out and that when I want to look my best, I should endure the onerous straightening process. While straight hair is chic and beautiful, these traits are not exclusive to those who naturally possess it. My curls are entangled in my individuality and culture, so I’d trade mountains of diva curl cream for a straightener any day.

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Spoken like a true iconoclast. If there is one person who has ever fully understood and embraced true authenticity, it’s Vivienne Westwood. The fashion industry has felt her absence in more ways than one, and her passing has forced us to reevaluate what exactly it is that fashion stands for. Gone are the days when a one-of-a-kind piece is just that – a one-of-a-kind. Refresh the website of any fast fashion brand shortly after an award show and you’ll surely find dupes of the best-dressed (50% off too)! Westwood stood for more than just the latest craze; her values permeated every aspect of her life and acted as the muse for her creations.

With high fashion often dictating the trends for the particular season, a lack of ingenuity and originality has trickled down into everyday wear. Resistance is essential to fashion, so where has it all gone?

Isabella Hamilton

The DEATH of FASHION’S ICONOCLASM 35

“The only reason I’m in fashion is to destroy the word conformity.”

Well before you could find a knock-off of her iconic pearl choker hanging from the neck of every 20-something year old, Westwood was busy building the punk scene from the ground up. Acting as the outfitter for the Sex Pistols in the 70’s, she introduced subcultural movements into the fashion industry. She relied heavily on tartan print, graphics of the queen, and ragged fabrics to spotlight the social, political, and environmental climate of Britain at the time.

Westwood believed in the use of clothing as a form of language, and the way one used it was important. Her attitude against the monarchy was understood as a radical statement at the time, yet she displayed no

fear in showing it, especially through her designs. Her 1989 cover of Tatler’s, showing Westwood dressed up as Margaret Thatcher, left a permanent mark on London’s fashion scene. In cut up letters, the cover read, “This woman was once a punk.” No designer was using fashion as their medium for rebellion and standing alone in this defiance made her actions that much more impactful. Nothing was off limits to Westwood, yet she still carried herself with grace while simultaneously earning the respect from a worldwide audience.

Westwood understood that the historical symbols she used in her designs couldn’t be rewritten, but that the period they represented could be rebelled against. She looked towards the past for inspiration for the future. While her stylistic choices are replicated in different variations on today’s runway, designers often hide behind the guise of inspiration. Paying homage to past designers can be appreciated in a variety of capacities, but where do we draw the line between being inspired by previous work and outright copying it? I find it ironic that after all that Westwood did for fashion and the countless ways in which she voiced her distaste for mass production and overconsumption, her designs still found their way onto the dreaded website of Shein. Dupe culture has merely become a way to rip off the designs of big names and small businesses alike, and poses a threat to both the environmental and creative facets of the industry. Sustainability itself is a widely contested idea, with no proper definition and no ideal model for employing it within fashion. Westwood’s challenging of the normal order of business is undeniably a massive part

of her legacy. The industry is forever indebted to what she has done, and it would be too great an injustice to take inspiration from her work without acknowledging the rebellious intent behind her aesthetic.

Where do we go now? With Westwood gone and a new wave of designers entering the industry, my hope is that ingenuity and originality will prevail above all else. We must continue to question where the purpose behind our creations lie. Rebellion takes hold in more ways than one too, and we’ve lost the spunk that Westwood brought to the industry. Fashion weeks feel like deja vu, and a completely unique and original collection seems to be a rarity amongst some of the most well-known fashion houses. Rebellion doesn’t have to be revolutionary, but what it does have to be, is present. Westwood brought a presence to the industry that was far and few between, and we can all learn a little something from her, but we cannot stop there. Fashion is what it is because of the history of the past and the allure of the future, but what we do in the present is justifiably crucial. While we can take a note out of Westwood’s handbook of rebellion, we should stop looking to superficially replicate it – and if I see another pearl choker, it’ll be too soon.

their jeans

Creative Director: Maeva Baldassarra Photo: Olivia Wright Video: Mackenzie Loveys MUA: Natasha Etigson Models: Carmen Yeung & Midhat Mujaddid

Kate Cullen I’m not sure when I started to get old.

Perhaps it was when I was 15, and a skiing accident tore my meniscus. Or when I was 9, and the choice to become a competitive swimmer left me with a shoulder that clicks when I rotate it, and a pinched nerve that causes a permanent numbness in my fingers. I’m not sure when I started to get old, but I do know when I started to feel it.

For my entire life, who I was felt permanent. I knew how my body looked, I knew how it felt, I knew what it could do.

But one day, I looked in the mirror and I

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didn’t see that ageless girl I was used to. Instead, I saw myself as I am now. I’ve gained weight I never thought I’d gain, and have the onset of wrinkles I never thought I’d have. For the first time, my sense of self was no longer permanent.

I realized that my body would continue to look different, and in turn, continue to feel different. It was then that the pain of the injuries I’d accumulated started to become apparent. I couldn’t focus on a conversation without feeling tension in my neck and shoulders building into an unbearable headache. Every morning I’d wake up feeling weakness in my leg,

from the many years of brushing off the tear in my knee. My new body had become impossible to ignore and I felt utterly hopeless knowing there was no going back.

When I first tore my meniscus, I believed it was a temporary problem.

Not because I was told so, but because every physical ailment I had faced up to that point had been. Growing up with the privilege of health, you assume all ailments are problems your body can easily recover from. You’re young, they say. You’ll be fine, your body can take it.

You don’t need to rehab that. Recurring pain is for older people.

I assumed the same when my shoulder started hurting from one too many laps of the pool. I assumed my body could save itself, with no repercussions, or effort on my part.

This wasn’t the case. Each morning I’d wake up and immediately feel the aching toll of my injuries. While I shouldn’t have been surprised, I still was. My naive mind trusted my young body to heal itself like it had done so many times before. But what happens when you grow up, when a tweaked muscle isn’t “no big deal” anymore? What happens when you have to start actively thinking about how to take care of yourself daily, or face the consequences?

I admit that at my age, your mortality is easy to ignore. Even injured, my body is still able to support an active, mobile lifestyle. Yet, it becomes more obvious as you see your loved ones change with you. When I talk to my grandmother about her brother, who broke his hip, she wonders why it’s taking him so long to walk like he used to. It seems obvious to me, to tell her that he is old, and as we

age it’s harder for our bodies to heal. But she still sees him as the young man she grew up with, whose body could handle anything. And I know that when I’m 80, I’ll be crying to my granddaughter about my brother not being able to walk like he once could, confused how someone once so sturdy could grow into a frail old man. Just as you deny your own changing body, you deny that others have changed, wanting to believe that we all stay young and healthy forever, and our bodies will always be able to recover.

Let’s face it. We don’t want to get used to our new bodies. Because no, they don’t work as good as the old ones. But we must. Mourning your old body only increases the toll upon your new one.

Spending days staring at photos of your past self, looking back on those times you could easily run a 5k, or you didn’t need to stretch every day to feel normal, will only make the aching in your body more apparent. Worst of all, it’ll stop you from doing all the things your old body used to love, like dancing, skating, and swimming. But your old body didn’t just know how to do all those things - it learned them. While it may feel harder, your new body can learn, just as your old body did, to do all the things you loved to do. Because although you can’t stop your body from changing, you can stop mourning the one that has long since passed.

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I’m Not Looking at You in The Eyes, Corey Milligan

But I Hear What You’re Saying 43

As a person with ADHD, my morning starts just like anyone else’s. I put on my pants one leg at a time, I brush my teeth, I walk out the door and immediately turn around because I forgot to put on deodorant. Once I get to class, I’m like any other student… unless I forgot to take my Vyvanse before leaving the house, and if that’s the case then I may as well have stayed in bed. Regardless, despite having to allot extra time for my morning routine, I am just like any other student. I’m Corey Milligan, 4th-year Political Studies. I simply happen to have a neurodevelopmental disability.

That’s it.

I don’t need to introduce ADHD to you.

We all know someone with it. That one girl who sits beside you in lecture who clicks her pen and bounces her legs incessantly. Your housemate’s friend who you message during exam season for some “medicinal help.” Or maybe your boyfriend who you worry isn’t interested in you anymore because he’s too focused on that repetitive ticking noise he can’t find the origin of and he’s not paying attention to you. I have been all of these people.

I think it’s great that everyone is aware of what ADHD is. Kids like me can get the support they need. But sometimes I can’t take the increased awareness.

Especially the phrase I’ve heard from both peers and parents alike - “Did you take your medication today?” - when I’m in a mood that differs slightly from

the norm. Or if I’m in an excitable mood - “classic ADHD moment.” Trust me, if I haven’t taken my meds, you won’t have to ask me…you’ll know. Comments like those from friends make me wonder… would they like me better if I was normal? Do they like who I am naturally?

Am I not allowed the same emotions as them? I know they mean well, but part of me always gets a little bummed out.

Sometimes I wish I kept it a secret, and that I didn’t tell anyone. In my experience, neurotypical people see Vyvanse, Ritalin, or Adderall as “miracle drugs.” To neurotypicals, they may very well be, because of media portrayals, or the internet, or their buddy Eric who popped a 10mg, pulled an all-nighter, and aced his ECON 110 exam the next morning. To me, my pills are what give me the motivation to get out of the door when all I want to do is sleep. So yeah, I did take my medication, how I’m acting is just how I am. I don’t need my friends to coddle me like a baby or be sympathetic to me because I’m “disabled.” In that same vein, I don’t need them to get mad at me for missing Dollar Beers because I waited until the very last minute to write my essay. I will get distracted by every loud incessant noise, and I will lose my train of thought amidst almost every conversation, because that’s who I am and who I’m always going to be. I know that I’m not looking you in the eyes, but I do hear what you’re saying about me.

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Searching for Signs in Grief

Noor Nasr

Grief is an odd thing. My parents have been dead for nine years, and I see them everywhere. I lost them both to cancer in my early teens. They didn’t have the typical long and gruesome battle with the illness; my father faded quickly until he was no more, and my mother was fine until one day I woke up and she didn’t. Having grown up and gone through the hell that is being a teenage girl, I had to find ways to cope with life and keep my connection to my parents, particularly through music.

My mother and father were Syrian and Lebanese immigrants, respectively, and were raised in their homeland by people proud of their heritage. I, however, was ashamed. Surrounded by a majority of white peers in the wake of 9/11, I felt 45

ostracized by my heritage; my parents were too strict, my lunches smelt “weird,” and the music we listened to was bizarre. I internalized this shame, and in the end, found myself out of reach of both my parents and my culture. I wanted to come across as a typical “Canadian kid.” Now, I know that I had no reason to be ashamed, and am always exploring and reconnecting with my heritage, and by extension, my parents.

Experiencing grief and loss rekindled my connection to and appreciation of my culture… but it wasn’t easy to get there.

Going through immense grief at a young age undeniably affected me. I shut down emotionally and refused to feel the pain. These years of avoidance

left me with gaps in my memory. It was really tough growing up, and on top of the embarrassment I felt about being Arab, I had to navigate the world living with undiagnosed neurodiversity with no support in a household that would not recognize it. I was different, I was weird, and I really didn’t fit in. Excluded from my peers and withdrawn from my parents, I didn’t know where I fit into the world.

Grief is complicated. At the ripe age of twenty-two, I understand death no more than I did when I was fourteen. It’s strange to think that the last time I saw my parents was years ago, and yet I feel them with me every day. By avoiding the pain of their loss, I cut myself off from all my memories of them… both the good and the bad. I wouldn’t let myself think about them, not wanting to feel the pain or process the loss, and eventually, I started to forget. I couldn’t remember what my mom’s face looked like, couldn’t remember the sound of my dad’s voice. This was a warning that if I wanted to keep the memories of my parents and my childhood, I would have to force myself to think, process the things I can remember.

My mother had a beautiful singing voice. She was often compared to the influential Lebanese singer, Fairouz. She was passionate about classical music, and thus I was put in piano lessons at the age of four, which allowed me to perform Arabic music at the Lebanese pavilion in a cultural festival in my hometown. Nearing the end of her life,

I remember listening to Salwa El Katrib, another Lebanese singer, in the car with her. Sheepishly, I would smile and sing along with her.

My father, on the other hand, seldom showed interest in music, and so the rare occasions when he would really stuck with me. I can vaguely remember being nine years old sitting in our driveway in his pickup truck when he pulled up the music video for “Hello” by Lionel Richie. He told me he loved that song when he was younger. I did too.

Grief is beautiful. And it’s never-ending.

I will be grieving for the rest of my life.

But it’s through that grief that I have rediscovered my happiest and most upsetting memories of them. That makes it incredible.

Walking through my neighborhood, I see a man who slightly resembles my father. Suddenly, I’m crying while waving goodbye on the first day of school, thinking please don’t leave me alone. My aunt plays “Ana Le Habiby”

by Fairouz, and I’m being yelled at in the backseat of my mom’s car for something stupid, while Fairouz plays in the background.

Grief is funny. People are impermanent.

Mom and Dad are gone, but I’ve opened myself up to the painful memories, and in doing so, keep them with me wherever I am.

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My grandfather likes to say, “To know the daughter, look at the mother.”

Mommy Dearest

Reagan Feld

I thought a lot about this during the summer.

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I thought about it because, for most of the break, I commuted to my internship with my mother. We only traveled a few miles from our home in Alexandria, Virginia to the U.S. Capitol in Washington, D.C., where my mother has worked for years and where I was interning.

Traffic is bad – worse than Houston. Slightly better than Los Angeles. As we hopped into the car that first morning together, braving the congestion with early 2000s jams in the background, I was wary. I worried about our relationship.

When you think about it, how often do you spend a couple of hours together with a parent, every day once you reach early adulthood? As a kid, yes. Family vacations, yes. But this would be voluntary, day after day. These hours weren’t going to be quality time. They were exclusive time.

Anxiety kicked in because it always seemed to me that, unlike my mother’s relationship with my sister, ours was more volatile.

Our outings typically evolved into arguments and a few tears.

Jaunts to the mall, nail salons, hockey practice – even setting the table – ended in a fight. I mean, showing her my online shopping cart sparked disagreements that would shake the earth.

What can I say? I’m the oldest daughter. Just like my mom.

When my parents moved to the U.S. from Canada, my mom left

her own mother and family miles away. Always a working woman, when she had me and my sister, life got complicated. She lost her mother when I was two and my sister was in utero. Without her mother, who was supposed to give her advice during the terrible tweenager years?

When I decided to go to Queen’s, I wondered if part of the choice was to get away from my mom.

Coming out of Covid quarantine, what better way to escape any disputes than crossing an international border?

But I realized I had taken her path.

I was now somewhere fresh. My dorm room at Queen’s provided me context - maybe all those “I hate you’s” didn’t really reflect my feelings. Growing up is hard, but I don’t know if my mom realized my lashing out at her was my insecurity. Perhaps she did.

This summer, I committed to cutting her some slack. We’re both doing all of this for the first time: she’s never been someone’s mom and, honestly, I’ve never been a daughter. And it’s imperative that, for me to understand myself, I understand our relationship.

Without her, there would be no me.

So, as we sat in bumper-tobumper traffic, searching for another route, I realized this was the route I wanted to take: spend as much time with my mother as possible. I knew that never again would I drive to work with her.

Spend hours together. Healthily.

One day, I will experience what she went through: a hot and cold relationship with a child dealing with growing pains. At least then, I will have her to guide me.

Acculturation:: Individuality is Alive and Well

Creative Director: Tryphena Evborokhai Photo: Sheana Tchebotaryov Video: Jorina Lee MUA: Pearla Abdulnour Models: Sachpreet Grewal, Tori Jones & Rahel Efrem

Dalyah Schiarizza

Let’s peer into the impending birthdayhaver’s life. We’ll discover whom she holds the closest and what her favourite cake flavour is. Vanilla? Red velvet?

Chocolate. Celeste loves chocolate cake. Yellow streamers? Or red confetti for the big surprise? Yellow confetti.

She kept looking at those yellow tulips when we went to the florist. We’re putting together the perfect surprise party! It’ll be a day she’ll look back on fondly forever.

The guest list for any occasion is hard, but even harder for a surprise party. She posts with some, parties with others, and vacations with other friends. Who to invite?… Well, a surprise party needs more than just a cake to eat. There should be snacks, too. Drive-in movie popcorn, for sure. Maybe chips, too. All Dressed, Ketchup, and I’ll hide a bag of Dill Pickle in the cupboard for her to enjoy later. Another birthday surprise for our special Celeste. It’s coming together beautifully, don’t you think?

All the thinking, sneaking, planning, becomes distracting, decorating, dancing, before you even know it!

Don’t you think she’ll love it? Will she be surprised? I really hope so.

The chocolate cake has twenty-four candles, with lavender-coloured icing and yellow writing. Everyone is given a handful of yellow confetti for when she walks through the door. 10 minutes away! The lavender streamers are a risky edition, but the sweater I wore last week was lavender, and she said it looked cool. Now she’s 2 minutes away!

The house is now dark. Everyone is hidden. Anticipation builds. Can’t she just walk through the door yet?!

Silence… Silence… Steps. Keys. August evening chills. Lights! Surprise! Happy Birthday, Celeste!

The confetti flew, and she smiled so wide. She never suspected a thing and teared up with appreciation. She said the cake was beautiful and was surprised I knew to get the drive-in popcorn. “No one remembers that it’s my favourite.”

She’ll be even more surprised once she peeks into the cupboard.

I’ve never had a surprise party. I’ve always wanted one. It’s never the same once you say you want one, then it was just my idea. At a surprise party, all these people come together, thinking of you and wanting to make you happy on your special day. Someone thought of you for long enough, lovingly enough, to think, “I want to throw them a surprise party.”

When I was younger, I always thought I wasn’t the type of person people threw surprise parties for. Now that I’m older, I realize the right person will. But now that I’m older, I see more people with the person who would throw them a surprise party, and the sad thoughts of my younger self creep in. Maybe I’m the exception. I give myself all the love imaginable, even more, when those sad thoughts arrive. But I can’t give myself a surprise party, and that reality creates a pit in my stomach that no amount of red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting could ever fill.

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THE CLUB THAT Alex Stephens Sunday night. You’re downtown.

The lines are comically packed.

Clots of people huddle in awkward veins, down the street and around the corner. A cacophony of chatter, a sea of elbows. Fantastic.

So, you keep walking. Funny, you haven’t done that before.

Weirder, you notice you aren’t alone. Other wanderers, and their convening. You squint, add haste to your stride. Hear banter, laughing. You jog.

The graveyard.

Your befuddlement is cut short by a stranger. Didn’t catch their name, couldn’t describe their face. But whoever found you in that mob lost souls, handed you a tiny white pill. Skull-shaped, with buck teeth and cross-eyes.

Cute.

Yet, it has an insidious gleam.

Perhaps, if it hadn’t been so dark, you’d have noticed that.

You watch the people around you as they gorge on the pills.

Their excited hands trembling, gleeful grins spreading wide.

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Screw it. Down the hatch.

The ground begins to tremble, and rising from the afterlife erupts the Club that Raised the Dead.

The conical roof emerges first, led by a piercing spire. It’s followed by the pale mansion, with towering pillars and gaping windows. The behemoth engulfs the graveyard, glowing with a soft luminescence. Entranced, you step forward. But a firm arm stops you. Turning, you can’t help but flinch.

A bouncer. At least, in a past life. Cheeks sunken. Mouth distended. Bloodshot eyes, but there’s a gentle kindness behind them. A strange warmth fills you.

Whatever’s inside is protected by this kindred spirit.

The interior bathes you in that playful limelight, spotlights dancing with synchronized chaos. Then comes the music. A throbbing pulse, egging you on.

You stagger towards the heart of the club. The dance floor.

RAISED THE DEAD Your head begins to tremble.

No, nod. Feet begin to twitch.

No, tap. Your connection to the beat is seamless, a heightened melodic understanding. And you aren’t alone.

Ghouls, flailing rhythmically. You spot an emphatic dancer, their allure drawing you closer. But as you do, they backflip, blind to your presence behind them. You brace for impact…

But it doesn’t come. Instead, with a swift chill, they pass straight through your mortal form.

You swivel, frisking yourself.

Checking to see who the real ghost is.

A person. A real person. Drooling mouth agape, skin insipid, eyes so stupid and bloodshot they barely look human.

You reel. Is that how you look?

More ghoulish than the ghouls?

A deep groan emanates through the floor. A hole in the roof reveals the glaring sun. The ethereal mist evaporates, and the music hushes. The walls begin to fade.

Then, with a tired sigh, the Club that Raised the Dead returns to its rest.

You kneel, weeping upon its grave.

You dance for hours. Not a concern, not a qualm, not a care.

But, as always, the comedown arrives to reap the night.

Illustrations by Marcus Wright Smith

Sensory deprivation sets in.

What time is it? You rummage through your pockets. Nothing.

Must’ve dropped it. Manically, you wisp through the dancers.

Not fascinated any longer.

THUMP! You look up.

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FUNGI Jaimie Sieger

55

I am alone in the sun save the decaying squirrel in my backyard watching me on my porch wasting away on my porch fungus, rot pokes through the stretched skin Turning it unrecognizable Dewy deserted green I absorbed it all Into my smile Into my laugh Years crawled by in that summer sun I was a passionate girl, yet a passive one Chock-full of pep, yet a pushover My growth came from the source My fleshy frame flung out spores rapidly hoping one will stick that I was someone who could be craved, could be wanted I was no longer young enough for my soul to scream it to me

Until it becomes my cruelty Until it becomes my creativity Growing off of her words no longer Sustaining myself on my misery I float unmoving in the lake, chained to that dock Realizing the truth to the label she christened on my hull Pieces of glass poke through Am I basking or disintegrating in the daylight?

A bestial cry chokes me on its way out My skin taut, stretched Will I still forever gorge myself on the nothingness of the long forgotten numbing myself making myself full and sick on this nothingness?

I hold myself as I retch I am wretched

I looked at the mirrors of my youth, the ripples in the waves, and flinched at my reflection I stand on planks of sodden wood She ties an anchor to my chest and yanks Rather clever for an eleven-year old Fungi, my scarlet letter I am a pest a nuisance a leech sucking upon the blood of unwritten law Her word is my law I hold myself in contempt 118 months The sting she left behind long since soothed I still feel the phantom of its pain It pierces through me I let myself erode I eat off the dead memories of her cruelty 56

LILY OF THE VALLEY

Creative Director: Isabella Iantorno Photo: Jade Robinson Video: Thanasia Savas MUA: Abby Jacobs Model: Kyla Harry

ISSUE XXVII

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