Thread Magazine Spring/Summer 2019

ISSUE NO. 14

THE RADICAL ACCEPTANCE ISSUE

SPRING/SUMMER 2019

the rad accep

ical tance issue

TO WHOMEVER IT MAY CONCERN Students, friends, lovers, whatever – Together we’ve dropped the glasses – classes turning us voodoo kings, and queens, and queers – questions questioning the limits of hauntology, as in permission, as in to what degree do we own our own bodies – we slide so beautifully away from traditional norms; we feel fine but find foraging for validation quite exhausting – we destroy all binaries and boundaries and call it radical acceptance, a performance, a lifestyle – an unabridged embrace, a rejection of the singular, a sincere place of fearless devotion and emotion… We are all sharp things. We know this; so sharp! So we shed old skin in broad daylight.

Our efforts to being beings falls along the lines of a ground-sound song, absolutely filthy; We say if something doesn’t feel right, then it’s not right.

But if something doesn’t feel at all, then what?

It’s breathing. Laughing. Crying; society’s making noises, and we have to celebrate the fact that we can choose to listen or choose to ignore; it’s our duty to express ourselves and re-write these lies.

So pop a bottle of champagne, grab some beers.

Cheers.

Creative Director and Managing Editor Alessandra Basler & Alexander Schaef

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staff

President Omar Abdul-Rahim

Vice President Nadine Fuller

Managing Director Alex Schaef

Art Director: Gianni Valenti

Beauty Director: Charlene Pires

Business Director: Hyeji Suh

Celine Choo Isabella Yang

Kate Schrage Kayla Bouazouni Nikki Simonson Maddy Calik

Saumya Sharma Alexis Schaaf Beca Wajner

Concetta Ciarlo Georgia Manning Gwyeth Gravador or Odeya Rosenband band Zora Hahn

Avivi Wang Caroline Harrison Gabi Berchtold Lauren Crosbie- Walsh Min Ju Kang

Creative Director: Alex Basler Amelia Zohore Anjali Velu Beca Boudet Caroline Brown Yvonne Schichtel Risa Sunakawa

Market Marketing Director: Jackie Wang Dir

Styling Director: Juliana DaRoza

Photo Director: Gillian Harril Karina Guo Shoshana Swell Christina Li Crystal Navellier Marah Selim Nicholas Robins

Ryan Yee Savanna Lim Steven Cha Taliyah Truhart Thomas Engquist

Web Director: Cedric Castillo

Editorial Director: Gaby Leung

Kelly Fam Nakota Kinoshita Vivian Lee Wanxing Lu Jesse Zhu

Stasia Bartsch Chi Kyu Lee Melanie Metz Victoria Moore Tori Pietsch

Caitlyn Park Hanna Norris Melissa Belmont William Blankman

Emma Smith Marguerite Wang

contents Social Media

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Fashion

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Gender

Beauty

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Body

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photography Omar Abdul-R

ahim

creative Beca Boudet Zora Hahn Concetta Cia rlo

beauty Kayla Bouazo

uni

editorial Victoria Moore

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SOCIAL MEDIA

INTER-CROSSED LOVERS My soulmate is out there. If I came across them on the internet, would I know we are bound to fall in love? In a generation when meet-cutes are rare, we look to dating apps for love and likes for social fulfillment. But I wonder if I could tell who my other half was based on their social media profile alone, so I’ve decided to conduct a love experiment, like The Bachelor on a college campus. I’ve narrowed it down to three candidates:

curiosity, I look him up on Instagram. He has posted only one picture in which he buries his face in the side of his golden retriever. After we match, he messages me, and we talk until we finally make plans to have a coffee and split a croissant. He is a junior transfer, loves dogs and uses the ideal amount of emojis. I keep looking back at his Tinder profile, wondering how I got so lucky.

Later that week, I arrive at the café and find a cozy corner seat. I look around, but he’s not here yet. I do, however, recognize people I know on Instagram but have never seen in person: a Student Assembly member, a Miss USA runner-up, a boy I met during O-Week and…damn, the girl I hooked up with Contestant A. He/him/his. 1,839 Follow- last week. I slide down further in my ers. 2,140 Following. seat and pray that we unmatched on On day one of my social media love Tinder. Thankfully, she’s out the door quest, I swipe through Tinder and by the time a guy walks up to my table. match with a beautiful stranger. In the He has an uneven haircut, marshmalfirst picture, he photoshopped Capri low-shaped cheeks and eyes that bore Suns on top of Keystone Lights. Other into mine. He looks like a high school than that, his photos are aesthetic and student — a college freshman, perhaps, wholesome — and he’s cute. Out of with the right lighting. a. Wholesome-looking guy I matched with on Tinder b. Classmate I saw at a party who’s untraceable on social media c. My statistically-guided perfect match from an online quiz

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He says my name, and I narrow my eyes at him. Quickly, he explains, “I’m [Contestant A]. I know I’m not what you’re expecting, but I thought this was the only way you would agree to meet me.” Putting the pieces together, I realize the images on his Tinder were either of a different person, or skillfully edited with Photoshop.

“Was anything you messaged me true?” I ask.

He pauses before answering, “I’m actually a freshman, undeclared — but I really do like dogs.” One down. Two to go.

Contestant B. He/ him/his. Followers unknown. Following unknown.

When I meet Contestant B the following night, you can understand why I’m skeptical.

I run into him at a party, and since we vaguely know each other from Medlife, he hugs me awkwardly, as is socially

acceptable when you cannot properly say hi over the blaring music. We dance under the kaleidoscopic lights. His dark hair goes blue to violet, and a shadow settles over his forehead and cheekbones. At the end of the night, I ask for his social media information. I swear, this time, I will verify his existence with Facebook and mutual followers.

He shakes his head and murmurs, “I don’t have social media.” His gaze suspiciously flits down to his shoes.

“Sorry, that’s a lie, but what if we got to know each other without searching each other online?” What are you trying to hide?

I think, but what I really say is, “Sure. Let’s make a pact not to search each other until—” “—we can go on a real date,” he finishes for me.

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Contestant C. She/her/hers.

543 Followers. 498 Following.

I’m still on edge when I get an email from an on-campus business analytics organization in the morning.

According to the email, all I have to do is complete a five-minute online survey, and an algorithm will set me up with my perfect match.

Trusting that technology is a better matchmaker than my friends are, I check both gender preferences and submit my responses.

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It’s true that my Instagram account is glossy, but if I am still the one in the images and that’s how I choose to present myself to the world, why should I be judged? My profile is different than what I’m like in real life, but it’s not any less me. Although I can’t relay my life story on my profile, I carefully choose what parts of my identity I want to share and curate a representation of myself.

I’m confident in who I am without the confirmation of a screen, so I nod, halfsmile and say goodbye to my not-soperfect match. I know my own identity and will not let someone else’s interpretation distort my view of myself.

My online persona is made up of photo collages, Facebook activity, Snapchat stories, Venmo transactions and tweets.

Through social media, I might seem stylish, sarcastic and kind of messy but also passionate about social justice and public health. Outside that realm, I have the same characteristics, but they reveal themselves in different ways. Around him, I don’t need a flawless Instagram or dating profile because he already knows what I’m like here and now.

In the middle of the empty auditorium, long after the meeting is over, Contestant B and I exchange social media acRight when I’m about to lose faith in counts. I gain a new perception of him: college relationships, I receive a text Riley Truman. He/him/his. Followers from Contestant B, asking if I’ll be at to- 2.1K. Following 415. Turns out, he’s lowday’s club meeting today. I desperately key famous for a cappella and has his want to look him up online, but instead, own album on Spotify. I reconcile the I see him in person at the meeting and person in front of me with the rising Insbuild an impression without any pretagram celebrity. But to me, he’s still the conceptions I may have gleaned from same Riley — magic with a guitar and his social media accounts. I learn he a geek about Pi Day. As the sun sets is humble and into math and music: a outside and my love experiment comes surprisingly harmonic blend. After evto a close, I turn my phone on Do Not eryone leaves the meeting, we remain, Disturb and wholeheartedly listen to still talking. him explain how musical harmony only works when the relationship between I wonder how Contestant B sees me. two pitches is just right.

Fashion

photography Sarvanna Lim Marah Selim

editorial Melanie Metz

creative directors Juliana DeRoza William Blankman

styling Caitlyn Park Hanna Norris Melissa Belmont

special thanks to Marie Sirakos and The Vintage Industry

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My Pinterest exists in two spaces: the fashion sense I’m known for and the one I want to have. The former consists of warm-toned garments and Parisian flair. On a student budget, I don’t always look as put together as those Pins, but the root of this style is perceivable in my dress. I’m cozy and autumnal — and occasionally grungy, when the remnants of teenage angst decide they still want to control aspects of my fashion sense. I wear warm tones in hopes of conveying a warm personality.

though.” Her typical style matches the first half of my Pinterest, with an added bohemian twist. “I can’t pull off half the things I want to wear.” It’s funny she mentions it — I’d felt that way when I wore them. I encourage her, regardless.

“It’s all in your mindset,” I explain.

This lesson followed personal style experimentation during my sophomore year of high school. Athletically inept, I was lost in mesh Nike shorts and cleats at lacrosse practice. They only seemed adequate when I face-planted The latter space my Pinterest inhabits, on the muddy field at practice. The however, looks scarcely like me. Leggy first churnings of the athleisure craze blondes rock cargo pants with chained were beginning, though, and I wanted belts. Beanies complete track sweats to stay in fashion. As a self-conscious and platform Doc Martens. Champihigh schooler, this was important to me. on brand crewnecks, boho skirts and One Monday morning, I mustered the checkered Vans intimidate. This style courage to wear my new purple Nike overlaps with about a quarter of what’s Frees with my leggings. I bought pretin my closet; I hardly wear it, yet I’m zels from the vending machine, met my obsessed. classmates in the hallway and bit my lip to prevent stressfully acknowledging my “I like the pants you wore out last week- out-of-place footwear. Normal converend,” my friend tells me, regarding a sation ensued. pair that fits this second style. “The high-waisted black ones with the pockets. I don’t think I could pull them off,

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My eyes opened to the relief that the world wasn’t revolving around me: overcoming adolescent egocentrism was a jog across the field without a face plant. Next week, I wore a baseball cap for the first time. This lesson is something I try to carry with me, but my confidence still falters at times. I crutch along with the first half of my Pinterest style, knowing it’s an aesthetic that has always resembled me. As I get older, however, I feel inclined to branch out. I’ll never be leggy, and I’ll probably never be blonde, but I may be able to pull off chained cargo pants. I’m envious of my best friend who leads by example when it comes to edgy style.

Her love of flame-embroidered belts and black leather jackets is comically cohesive.

I’m a fashion major and she’s pre-vet, but she styled me this New Year’s Eve. Amidst heaps of sequined and glittery tops, she handed me a high-neck, black sheer bodysuit.

“If you don’t try this on, I’ll kill you.”

It was a hollow threat, but I winced in rejection. Bodysuits were out of fashion, and I wasn’t sure this one would match my style. Nevertheless, I entered the fitting room to appease her. I was surprised when the clothes transformed me: in a shiny black skirt, a red and black belt with a plastic side-release buckle, a cropped black tank and the bodysuit she chose for me, I looked like the second half of my Pinterest. More specifically, I looked like a badass — and I definitely didn’t look like me — or the me I thought I was. I smiled in toned-down disbelief. No glitter in sight, this wasn’t the traditional New Year’s look I’d had in mind. She tossed in chili pepper-red heels as I made my purchase. Come New Year’s, we were better suited for Halloween than a champagne-studded party.

I embraced the newfound boldness, using dark purple eyeshadow and red lipstick my mom later saw on Instagram and scolded me for.

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My choice to wear the outfit came from consideration without hesitation; as I branch out through fashion, I learn to override self-doubt. While I could have worn the outfit without her encouragement, I likely wouldn’t have thought of it in the first place. It can be difficult to dress out of my comfort zone, but I embrace the opportunity. I tend to start with my default, comfortable style, but remain unafraid to dress like my aesthetic interests. It can be difficult for me to understand why I don’t wear both styles equally, or why one feels more like “me” than the other.

It’s possible they converge and resemble one another in ways I don’t see; or perhaps it just depends on my mood — each style isn’t always me, but both sides resemble the person I can be.

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Since lacrosse practice in high school, cleats turned into red-heeled boots and baseball caps turned into beanies. I do my best to wear what I want, when I can afford it. When I reassure my friends, I also reassure myself: No one realizes you’ve never worn black cargo pants before. Wear them. You’re the only one who finds them out of place — and they’re not, if they’re what you want to wear.

My fashion management professor told me, “No matter what you wear, the part of your style that’s you will always be there.” My professor will always be edgy, she says, and I’ll always be warm, but we dress the way we want to be perceived.

Every morning is a game of dress-up.

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This morning, I changed my outfit five times before combining a pumpkin-colored blanket scarf with a beanie and platform Converse. The two identities of my Pinterest converge, and the unity among them surprises me: The hardest person to dress like is yourself.

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Gender gender

photography Shoshana Swell

beauty Nikki Simonson

creative directors Alex Scaef Alissandra Basler

editorial Chi Kyu Lee

Crying Like a Man at Leicester Square Station Is “I am an elegant man,” sings Jobriath, who was the first openly gay rock singer in America. When I first listened to his song, my mind immediately recoiled into a defensive position because ‘elegant’ wasn’t a masculine adjective, according to what I’ve been taught.

But why is this word only reserved for women?

Another memory entered the space of my thoughts:

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“I was writing in my diary, I mean, my journal...” I don’t remember why I was talking about it.

“Wait, hold on. Why can’t you say diary?”

“I thought diary was for girls and journal for guys, at least that’s what I’ve been told.” It was so matter-of-fact the way I said it, which surprised myself — am I really gendering a piece of paper? I remembered how my female friends’ faces changed into a combination of anger and frustration and, above all, exhaustion.

This and many other examples had been pointed out to me ever since I started learning English in kindergarten. When I said purse instead of wallet, the other person would chuckle then correct my vocabulary. And because English is my second language, I naturally worshipped the “correct” way of speaking.

There are some false and dangerous beliefs hiding in how masculinity is thought of today.

Men are taught, starting at their first encounter with the world, that crying isn’t masculine; that men aren’t men if they are weak or sick; and that men are allowed, even encouraged at times, to be violent and unempathetic. My father would say men aren’t supposed to cry more than three times, except for when they are born and

when their parents pass away. He would say this half-jokingly but since I’ve never seen him cry, I assume he is unwilling to cry, unwilling to feel his emotions in their rawest states. I could be missing out on a huge part of my father’s life, but willful ignorance and fear together can do great things.

What did he feel when I left for middle school in a foreign country, all by myself? What did he feel about his complicated relationship with his own father at the funeral? What would he feel when I ruin his version of me in his head?

A confession: I cried at a subway station in London a couple of weeks ago. (Correction: the Tube). It was not elegant. It was quick and quiet, though the tears came back every ten minutes or so. I was terrified because it was my first public cry, but I couldn’t care less about how ugly I must’ve looked. It was a moment of personal enlightenment because I’ve always thought I was an unemotional and cold person. But that mix of frustration and anger and sadness and guilt and who knows what was telling me that my brain wasn’t just a bucket for my consciousness, that it also holds an acceptance of implausibility, religion, identity, indecision. And I was grateful that I had enough courage to quietly sob with my arms on the luggage handle.

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Many people hold a distorted view of what masculinity should be because of their irrational fear of femininity. The “unspoken” bifurcation of emotional and cultural intelligence in the form of masculinity vs. femininity hurts us constantly.

Young teenage boys are much more likely to kill themselves because the culture asserts that emotions are feminine. Men police each other, ridiculing everything and anything feminine, thus “inferior” in their eyes. In the moment of ridicule, they forget about their mothers and sisters and grandmothers and teachers and friends and partners and every other woman in their lives. My dad once told me I walk like a girl when I go up the stairs. He said this out of care. He didn’t want me to get silently judged. So I take elevators instead. I police how I walk. I hate my legs. I hate my body. But I’m starting to say I don’t really care. Am I going to reinvent my gait and unnecessarily stress over something that small?

Or am I fine with being a bit feminine when I walk up the stairs?

person, I have biases and internalized homophobia. I’m constantly battling against sexism, even in my own head. I’m okay with myself one moment and find myself despicable the next. (Translation: I’m living in a hellish Venn diagram). Midst of these various forces, at this moment of my life, being Queer seems to be my most accessible path to discussing masculinity.

And so, here it goes:

Putting aside my “problematic” gait and my other feminine qualities, the “battle” of masculinity against homosexuality (and Queerness in general) has been ongoing since God knows when. And the idea of femininity being inferior to masculinity has been fueling toxicity and misplaced hatred amongst men. The reason I cried at that Tube station wasn’t heartbreak. It was me, lamenting the world I live in, how it distorts a simple goodbye with a kiss into a moment of terror. How I need to replace XOXOs with my date with handshakes. How I don’t have a guaranteed safe space. How I won’t A moment: During a Bible study at my high be able to give my mother the grandchildren that school, we played charades. It was supposed to she wants because I don’t want to lie to a be a fun little game. I don’t even remember which woman and myself. How other men think I word I was charading, but I heard a loud whisper shouldn’t count as a man. from the son of the teacher who leads the Bible study: effeminate. I silenced myself after that.

I’m an honest man. I’m a fragile man. I’m a graceful man. I’m an elegant man. I’m a Being a mere student, I obviously don’t have the gentle man. I’m an intelligent man (sort of). I’m answers to the issues surrounding dangerous a caring man. I’m a man who cries out of anger interpretations of masculinity. Being a Queer and frustration. I’m a man capable of saying I person only exacerbates my experiences with love you without being shitfaced toxic parts of “masculinity.” Being a religious

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photography Steven Cha Shoshana Swell creative Anjali Velu Odeya Rosenband editorial Stasia Barsch

beauty

roots

Etymologically, the term radical comes from the Latin term radix, or root. In the context of radical acceptance, this seems counterintuitive — we’re supposed to embrace each form of personal expression enthusiastically and reject our preconceived notions of beauty. Yet to fully realize this endeavor, we must address the history of our aesthetic reality and see how it came to be so exclusive in the first place.

Concepts of beauty have historically been anchored in the standards imposed by the elites of each culture. The wealthy members of Greek and Roman society, who popularized visions of perfectly chiseled bodies with symmetrical faces through the patronage of ornate statues, created the unattainable corporeal model for most Western civilizations.

They defined the beautiful as those with light skin, which indicated an occupation other than hard labor, and styled hair.

These ideals have been recreated ever since then, from Leonardo da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man to subtler forms of beauty propaganda in movies and magazines.

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All of this isn’t to say that the definition of beauty by the elite was restricted to Greco-Roman society. In Thailand, lighter skin came to imply wealth and prosperity as tanned skin indicated that one was a member of the working class.

Proof of the continuation of this belief is evident in East Asia, where skin lightening and whitening creams and lotions still take up a sizeable portion of the beauty industry. The practice of leblouh in Western Africa, where some women are still force-fed to achieve a larger figure, indicates the desire for the historical symbol of wealth. This practice has begun to fall out of fashion due to changing public perception, and only as its problematic nature has been brought to light. Increased globalization has served to connect these ideals, yet those established in Europe are still the most predominantly guiding in Western society.

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60 People who conformed to these standards, both in the past and present, were either the so-called “winners� of the genetic lottery, or more likely those wealthy enough to train and work to this standard. In turn, the association of these bodily ideals with power and success led many to believe that by virtue of being naturally attractive, one must certainly be attractive in the mind.

This is a dangerously irresponsible conclusion to draw as it implies that the inverse is also true. Patterns such as these create widely shared biases associated with a certain look, leading to issues of representation and diversity in the beauty industry when entire populations have been deemed unworthy simply because of the way they look.

The aesthetic norms of the ancient world varied greatly from region to region and amongst larger cultures, but history is written by the victors, and imperialist powers have had the strongest hand in controlling the aesthetic narrative. For most of the West, this means that our blindly accepted beauty standards are highly Eurocentric and rooted in these early elites. Today, their influence serves as an anachronism in our visual expression that keeps the aesthetic world rooted in the past. Beauty is an intersectional, nonconforming movement that must be unique to each participant. True radical acceptance comes from removing the historically restrictive beliefs that confine and exclude the individual from unimpeded expression.

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body

BO

DY

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Garden of Mine after the slow spring and its saccharine songbirds, i found a garden in this jumbled, colorful city.

during the midsummer madness of mine, i found myself anew. i see autumn in the distance, but i do not want to approach and embrace the whim of winter. i cannot sit in the frozen garden, where the silken sheets of white never quite hide the form of withered flowers. i am not ready for the barren patch, losing the hug of honeysuckles and the caress of carnations, craving the sight of sun.

in the midst of my mangled mess of mind, i lie on my side, cheek pressed against the floor, staring at the mirror placed for my wallowing. the air simmers with a heat that snaps like the jaws of a clock’s hands: the ravenous time. spring rain catches in the back of my throat, chrysanthemums clinging to the insides of my lungs as if i had swallowed the flowers themselves. loneliness had risen inside of me, reaching until i reached out, too. i remember the bouquet of flowers, petal by petal, budding into blooms in a bedside vase. i remember you taking me apart, piece by piece, whispering down the curve of my throat.

photogrpahy Steven CH Karina Guo editorial Marguerite Wang creative directors Alex Shaef Alessandra Basler

i remember the bouquet of flowers, petal by petal, budding into blooms in a bedside vase. i remember you taking me apart, piece by piece, whispering down the curve of my throat. i remember the wreath of flowers, its petals withering and its stem browning into the twine of rope. and i remember how i left those pieces of me, strewn like broken blossoms. every crease in the canvas of skin came as a blemish. the arch of my brow, the curve of my frame, the angle of my jaw, the curl of my hair — they were a shadow of what should’ve, or could’ve been. but as the sun ascends, its light gilds everything it touches. every garden watches as day and night comes and goes, turning east to west and watching the sun rise and fall. like the roots of flowers, my veins lace through the soil of my flesh. the wrinkles in the corners of my eyes, so akin to the crinkles in rose petals, deepen with every smile and every laugh. my eyes can hold whatever constellations they want; stars free to freckle my cheeks. like the vines of a honeysuckle, my fingers furl fast over what holds me steadiest: myself. i sustain this… garden of mine.

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special thanks to: The Rose Goldsen Fund Engaged Cornell Cornell SAFC Marie Sirakos and The Vintage Industry