ASYMMETRICAL

S Y M M E T R I C A L

Green Skirt With Pom Poms - made by Karly Madey Blue Sweaters With Pom Poms - made by Karly Madey Yellow Dress - made by Abby Rapoport White Jeans - made by Abby Rapoport Pink Blazer - Amanda Smith II Green Knit Sweater - Aerie Neon Skirt - Forever 21 Yellow Turtleneck Sweater - Damon

DIRECTOR

KARLY MADEY

STYLISTS

YOUMNA KHAN ABBY RAPOPORT

PHOTOGRAPHERS

KORRIN DERING RITHI VAITHYANATHAN

GRAPHIC DESIGNER

CARLY LUCAS

MODELS

TOBI AGUNLOYE SHARIFA DOUDI

My first English class was in sixth grade. I was 10. Once a week, I would come into class and learn how to say Hello; I vividly remember being taught Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.

Born and raised in Luxembourg, a country so obscure even I have a hard time placing it on a world map, I grew up rubbing shoulders with many cultures. I spoke French both at home and at school, took dance lessons in German, and learnt Luxembourgish in K1. I watched Rapunzel in Portuguese, High School Musical in badly dubbed French; I never watched The Muppets.

And yet English is now the language I live in: it’s the language I speak to myself every morning, the words that fuel my ink, the way I think. My sanglots have turned to sobs, and my rires to laughs; from amis to friends, and back to amis again, English is the tongue I live and breathe. As I wrapped myself in its melodies and its intricate Rs, English took on the form of a loving blanket of independence. English was something I could call my own, at a time where very few things felt under my control. I understood it as my ticket out, and I transferred to an English high school, leaping from my tender French to an entirely different world; one that would wreck me, force me out of my perspectives, and teach me more about myself than I could have ever imagined.

I clashed violently with a culture I didn’t understand. Knock knock jokes don’t translate, and neither does verlan; I was funny in French, never in English, and the way I laughed at the wrong things gave away my foreignness before I could even speak. In an effort to fit in, I avidly picked up on cultural references I’d never heard of, and studied them at home as if they were my homework. I learned how iconic Clueless was, bought the Disney Channel shows I didn’t grow up on, and curated playlists full of classics that felt all too new to me. I used to stand in front of my mirror, forcing the “th” sound I couldn’t pronounce. Fink grew into th-thhink, into tHink. I counted out loud, studying the shape of my mouth, forcing my tongue against my teeth- one, two, thhhree. TThree. Three. It rolls off the tongue so naturally now; but threes were my enemy.

I remember being given a paper back in maths class, with all my workings circled in red, crossed out. The very way divisions are written out are starkly different in both languages: while they give the same results, my English teacher assumed I had cheated because of my French way of thinking. Suddenly, I found myself existing in a world in which I didn’t belong; my logic was no longer buoyant, my thoughts, lost in translation, and my laughter, incorrect and incomprehensible. But in