Thread Magazine Fall/Winter 2022

ISSUE NO. 20

THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS

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Cornell University is located on the traditional Confederacy, an alliance of six sovereign Nations with a historic and contemporary presence on this land. The University, New York State, and the United States

to

these

lands

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waters.

talents of Cornellians from all disciplines, working

and engage in content creation at all levels.

Web Email Instagram

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The 7 Deadly Sins is said to have originated as far

In my opinion, calling them the “7 Deadly Sins” is an enjoy food, want materialistic things, enjoy sex,

took me a long time to accept that my sins shaped me into the person I am today, and I cherish them as

these sins.

Envy:

Gluttony: sick. I even eat the Martha Van Rensselaer vending machine spicy chicken sandwich.

Greed: material possessions. As a fashion major, I have a deep desire for owning clothes from my favorite Lust:

Pride: The sin of having an excessive view of oneself

Sloth:

soon.

Wrath: The sin of having strong anger and hatred. I commit this sin after every minor inconvenience.

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Andrea Cheon Creative Director

change a single thing in her college career.

This is my third time writing this letter and for the

So while it may seem like nothing has changed, to me on Thread which started 4 years ago.

there are certain moments that remain clear as day

go of something so special and predominant in my

With love,

in an interesting paradox, it is far different from the Thread that I joined in fall 2019. As I walked into the

mark at Cornell.

Editor in Chief

to the highest of standards.

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Editor in Chief

Managing Editor Maddie Woo Senior Print Director Lara Harvey Senior Communications Director

Collaborations Director Erika Yip Community Director Misha Caternor Social Strategy Director

Art Director

Assistant Art Director Rani Sheth

Digital Director Jasmine Chang

Creative Director Andrea Cheon

Events Director Carla Gaveglia

Assistant Creative Director Beauty Director Assistant Beauty Director Valerie Chang Editorial Director Assistant Editorial Director Director of Photography Assistant Director of Photography Shea Kinander Fashion Director Clarke Hicks Assistant Fashion Director

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Social Design Director Hannah Davis

Alumni Relations Director Casting Director Sales Director Krisha Desai

Sarah Addison Chavito Allen Nicholas Araya Adriana Arce Natasha Aysseh Krithika Bharadwaj Taylor Brown Bianca Cammarano Ignacio Cavero Viann Chan

Erin Choi Aleks Cornforth Chloe Coward Nina Davis Cynthia De Santiago Athena Deng Anya Dennison Flora Ding Emma Dow Nadine Elkasari Bryn Elliott Melia Ewing Macedo Jackson Feldman Irene Feng Alexandria Fennell Jennifer Gerfen Pia Glaysher

Caroline Graves DJ Green Ella Grimm Amelia Haggerty Amanda He Macarena Hesse Parker Hill Meskerem Hyman Alex Jordan Yewon Kee Jas Khan Andy Kim Sooyeon Kim Allison Kwon Philly Latore Mattie Lee Ashlyn Lee Bridget Lee Eliot Lee Aleena Li Pat Li Samantha Li Eric Liang Mia Loosmann Josephine Mavromatis

Mary McCann Nick Mendelssohn Natalia Meredith Francesca Mirthil Roxana Mora Marina Morgan Grace Myers

Jessica Park Alllison Park Christine Park William Ritter Jake Rosen Emily Rossman Isaac Saadi Kaelyn Sandifer Ona Sanomi Sophie Shadid Alexis Siegel Eden Siskind Seth Stephenson

Yada Tangcharoenmonkong Claire Ting Ella VanCora Sowmya Venkatachalam Ashley Wojcik Sally Zhang

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s l o t h s l o t h

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gluttony gluttony

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g r e e d g r e e d

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p r i d e p r i d e

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w r a t h w r a t h

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absolution absolution

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SLoth Atrophy & Apathy

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Directors: Isabel Padilla Bonelli, Carla Gaveglia Art: Allison Park, Lia Ponciano Diaz Beauty: Athena Deng, Philly Latorre Creative: Anoushka Aggarwal , Hope Cross-Jaya, Nadine Elkasri Editorial: Isabel Mina, Kaelyn Sandifer Photo: Andy Kim, Pat Li Styling: Emma Dow, Maura Mayhew Models: Kayla Lew, Zion Abrams

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with it.

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Good Evening,

life, how do I

know what the world has to offer? derstand that the things we

and all essay

they can do. An to ask, only

minimal

fectly pressed. The time and discipline it takes to look like something that

my peers.

rather large corporation. While they may have had that oil

of silence?

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they know, and that is a world to aspire to.

Kaelyn Sandifer

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Nothin g’s Good in Modera tion

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Gluttons We often don’t realize H o w i n c r e d i b ly o f t e n w e pa r ta k e In the sin of overindulgence S t u f f i n g o u r fa c e s w i t h s o c i e t y ’ s i n f i n i t e f e e d W e c o n s u m e m e d i a b e yo n d d i s c o m f o r t Letting the hours of our lives slip through our fingers Swipe Swipe Swipe T h o u g h o u r f i n g e r s g r o w n u m b , w e a r e n e v e r s at i at e d S o c i e t y h a s s t u c k u s i n m e n ta l fa m i n e S o m e o f u s c r av e f o o d T h o u g h o t h e r s c r av e s ta r vat i o n W e y e a r n t o b e c o m pa r e d t o t h o s e w h o o t h e r s f e a s t t h e i r e y e s u p o n We hunger for praise Hunger for control We indulge in our feelings Screaming C ry i n g S p o i l e d w i t h t h e f r e e w i l l t o p l ay v i c t i m t o o u r o w n p i t y W h at a p i t y t o b e s u r r o u n d e d by l u x u ry E x p e n s i v e f o o d s a n d fa s h i o n l a b e l s W e f u e l o u r m i n d s w i t h w h at w e ’ v e b e e n ta u g h t T h at w o r t h l i e s i n c o n s u m p t i o n So why is it the case T h at t h e v e ry t h i n g s t h at k i l l u s W e c r av e t h e m o s t A s w e f i l l o u r l u n g s w i t h s i c k ly s w e e t s m o k e And pour our bottomless chalice P e r h a p s w e a l r e a dy k n o w T h e r e ’ s n o b r e a k i n g t h e c yc l e So go ahead H av e yo u r f i l l

C a r o l i n e G r av e s 29

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IMITATION GAME

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A LIFE SENTENCE Grace Myers

he allowed himself to see everything. to take a criminal who walks free. and how i wish

the world has presented me with. i track his pickpocket victim, knowing he once looked at me the same way. and

he even picked me. he picked me and he of privilege and pride in the trail he leaves how

arrogance, taking

steal that smile and wear it as if it was my own. he is the worst type of person, one who thinks what he did was not me and to hold, captive in my own

into the depths of the hell he created. i am forever

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GREED Buy Luxury by Thread

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My mother taught me two things at a young age: that gold will always be valuable and diamonds will never break. Jewelry is traditionally the only thing passed down in India from parents to a daughter, to make sure she has a way out of any situation.

My parents have two daughters, no sons.

Jewelry isn’t the only thing they’ll have to give away.

Even gold earrings have a stem too thick for the width of the lobe piercing I had at only 5 months old. Before going to family gatherings, I would have to lay my head sideways on my dad’s knee so he could get them in my ears and sometimes I would cry from the pain.

When I go to the jewelry store in India, I am allowed to pick out an item of jewelry I like most. First, a pair of gold earrings with thin stems shaped like a rose catches my eye. I spend an hour admiring several others, only to leave the store The average human body has 0.2 mg of gold. It runs in our blood, courses through our veins, and gives our hearts a touch of gold.

My mother looks at my hands and tells me that having gaps her no, I won’t. They’re just a little thin.

melt, and resize so they stop choking or slipping through my

unbreakable diamond.

Sowmya Venkatachalam

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THREAD MAGAZINE Have More Fun - And Why You, Too, Should Satire by Ashley Wojcik

est trend: it is a more modern,

it on yourself? Fuck your friend and fuck anyone who tells you otherwise! Spend your money where it counts: on yourself!

After all, what do the airplanes say? Something about putting on After all of this, if you are truly

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In a dog-eat-dog world, I have found that kindness will not get you far. Growing up, we are

help others, but you are arrogant for thinking that other people aren’t subconsciously doing the same thing. The sooner you accept it and give in to your temptations, the faster you can reap

key to being successful in life and having meaningful relationships. And I tried doing what I was told: I kissed people’s asses, complimented them when I didn’t mean it, gave in to people: do what you enjoy. Why waste your time volunteering or help“Oh yes, Sarah, you can borrow ing your family when you can spend it on yourself? It’s not that my sweater.” “It doesn’t matter we don’t care about other peothat it’s my favorite sweater or ple, of course we all do to some that it was passed down from extent, but if someone isn’t my grandmother.” “Just try not to spill any grape juice on it this time” For years, I thought that this innocent, good-natured, altruistic bullshit would get me far, but in reality, where is the fun in that? I mean, for all the talk about equality and self-care these days, we have the societal right to stand up for ourselves. If you still aren’t convinced, let me elaborate further.

why should you do anything for them? After all honey, life is way too short.

you stop caring what others think of you and start unapologetically being an asshole, you will feel more assured in yourself and your decision. It is freeing to let go of the expectations and to just do you. To forget about other people and to feel no guilt for choosing yourself, it is magic.

When push comes to shove, people only really care about themselves. Even if someone is doing something for another person, it really is only to make them feel like a better person.

And who cares about being a better person? Just do you!

happier. When you do the things you enjoy rather than the bullshit expected of you, you will feel healthier and more carefree in the long run. Why spend your money on a birthday gift for your friend when you can spend 45

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LUST

Amanda He Chloe Coward Emily Rossman Irene Feng Jasmine Chante

Sally Zhang Viann Chan Alexandria Fennell

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SECRET CEREMONIES

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Sanjana Tarigopula

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The city. A mosaic of divergent identities: each constituent uniquely yet unknowingly crafted to sit congruently with another. Although sickening at times, the cliche percusses full swing every Friday.

We convene at our routine rendezvous, all playing dress up and using the guise to imitate a higher self. The pleasantries and its accompaniments. The sugar and its salt, albeit tangled with tequila. Stolen glances, nimble smiles, a spin here and there, we’ve seen it all. Nonetheless, each time feels like a new ritual. Inexplicably closer and gentler, yet our company and ourselves. Just as we begin to feel serene, our energy seeks the next level. The external heat is space to control. Time for a change.

Out the door, we move as a migrating assemblage, coiled together as an armament against the newfound chill. Slyly though, a communal sense of adrenaline galvanized the group. A new sense of purpose rallies us as we proceed to the next level. We’re transported to the familiar yet ever-intriguing myriad of lights and sounds. With each new coruscation comes a new attraction, separately alluring and collectively enticing. Each constituent of the mosaic somehow everyone adapts in unity. Observing how the architecture of this arena supplements the event inspires us to become one with it. The same curves, the same edges. The detailed lines run along the walls and conjoin above our heads to form a compact yet freeing insulation with intricate detail. It releases glass droplets that catch the ever slightest rays and center them as the spotlight. Nothing feels more right than the juxtaposition of exhaustion with the exhilaration punctuated by the familiar Friday rhythm. Although the set was reaching its height, it is almost as though the rest of the space goes silent. Our energy takes its descent and commands a calm to surround it. Time for a change.

Riddled with emotions, we’re hit again with the chill of the outside. With the comfort cigarettes materializing interfor an ephemeral juncture, and sometimes for an invaluable thread intertwining two souls together for an illusory eternity. Time for a change.

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Directors: Misha Caternor and Raquel Coren Photo: Pia Glaysher and Seth Stephenson Fashion: Bryn Elliott, Ryan O’Donnell, and Aleks Cornforth Editorial: Melissa LaFountain Creative: William Remoundos, Claire Ting, and Tioluwani Fabunmi Art: Alex Jordan Beauty: Flora Ding and Roxana Mora Models: Ashley Koca, Simone Jacobs, Isabella Lee, and Celeste Lim-Robinson

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Dear Diary, It is days like these when I wonder where it is that I misstepped to end up in such a rotten marriage. I spent the whole afternoon cleaning each and every one of Charles’ shoes, black shoe polish staining my new rubber gloves, and baking an intricate lasagna, dirtying multiple dishes in the process. The latter, however, would be worth it once Charles tasted his dinner. I hoped. I set the table somewhat haphazardly, trying my best to have and sat at the table to wait.

He was half an hour late. In that time, I had straightened out his napkin once per minute, taken dinner in and out of the oven twice, and poured myself a second glass of wine.

Rather than remark on how good dinner smelled Charles immediately gazed past me and into the kitchen sink.

“Are you only capable of cleaning if you can make an even bigger mess afterward? ” He rolled his eyes, tossing his briefcase on the ground and throwing his coat over the couch. I blinked and shook off the comment, getting up to bring his things to the closet. When I returned, he was sitting at the table and staring at me impatiently. Once I sat down, he buried his head in his food and I watched.

While studying him, I noticed that he looked a bit unruly. Certainly far less put together than when he left the house this morning. His hair was slightly out of place, and his shirt was messily tucked. Upon closer inspection, I spotted the giveaway clue. There, on the edge of his white collar, was a smudge of pink. It was faint, but it was certainly there, and undoubtedly the same shape as a pair of lips. I took another sip of wine and decided to test my luck.

“Darling, I think you might have something on your shirt,” I remarked, gesturing at his collar. He didn’t even look down.

“Yep, and it was just dry-cleaned, too.”

Not even a little bit of effort to lie. I dug in a little more.

The absolute audacity that he had! I’m wiping tears from my eyes while I write. How could he do this to me? I’ve been nothing but faithful, dutiful, and hardworking. I’ve been a wonderful wife, cleaning his shoes and cooking his dinner and ironing his clothes and mopand– and for what?! So he could go to work and screw someone else? I looked in the mirror before and tried to understand what it is that makes me not enough for

more and more frustrated. How dare he do something so inexcusable? And how dare I let him? Too many years have passed while I let this anger bubble up inside of me, pushing it aside as I baked another casserole or opened up a fresh pack of

Now all I see is red.

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Dear Diary, He thought he could fool me today. After giving me an endless list of household chores to complete, he assumed I would be elbows deep in dish detergent and far too preoccupied with scrubbing away last night’s lasagna to notice. home. And after the last shelf was dusted, I got to work on my real tasks for the evening. expensive bottle of red wine in the store and marched up to the cashier with my choice.

They eyed the wine curiously.

“What’s the occasion?” they asked. and this seemed like a nice companion. Nothing but the best for the man I love to death!” The cashier beamed back at me, nodding like the bobblehead on Charles’ desk.

My next destination was the grocery store. I weaved through the aisles until I came across my target– the spices. I picked my poison and headed off to ring up my items.

Once I’d returned home, I got to work cooking. I put extra care into cooking the

ered it with sauce, garnishing it with his favorite mashed potatoes and roasted carrots. After setting his place at the head of the dining table, I poured myself a generous glass of cabernet and waited for the show to begin.

So I was more than alert when he walked in the door, tie undone and hair ungelled. Lazy, lazy Charles… not even trying to hide it anymore.

“Would you look at this place?” he mused. “Almost spotless!”

Almost…

I rose from my chair to take his briefcase and coat to the closet, pausing for a kiss and glancing down at the lipstick on his collar. A new shade today– slightly redder, more bold. I smiled through gritted teeth, repeating the day’s mantra in my head as I walked to the mudroom.

“This is the last time.”

He sat eagerly at the table, practically drooling over the steak on silverware and begun to eat. Any minute now…

“Darling, this is great.” he muttered through a mouthful of potatoes. I smiled sweetly, waving off the compliment. continued.

“It’s pretty simple, actually. Cumin, some salt, chili powder, brown sugar, pepper, garlic powder…” I trailed off, counting down in my head. 10…9…

“Wait a minute.” Charles paused. “Did you say pepper?” he began to panic, eyes shooting back and forth. I nodded, the same innocent smile on my face. 8…7…

“Honey you…you know I can’t have…pepper…” he stood up, then immediately sat back down taking down deep gulps of air. I furrowed my brow.

“Really? Why is that?” I asked, feigning concern for my sputtering spouse. He groaned and coughed, eyes bulging. 6…5…4…

“I know.”

1.

As he thudded to the ground, eyes folded back into his head, I melted back into my chair. Finally, liberation.

I took another sip of wine, savoring the sweet darkness on my tongue.

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PRIDE Myopic Muse

Directors: Erika Yip & Meredith Hu Art Team: Catherine Vu & Ella Grimm Beauty Team: Jas Khan Creative Team: Asuka Kurebayashi Editorial Team: Parker Piccolo Hill & Francesca Mirthil Fashion Team: Bianca Cammarano, Brandon Leung, & Ruth Kim Photography Team: Yada Tangcharoenmonkong & Kyra Husen Models: Noorejehan & Hamza Ayad

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TELL HIM, I WAS BORN WITH PRIDE Francesca Mirthil

I told him a man never cries, He asked why, but I could not tell him.

I wear makeup with the intent that Somewhere under the night sky,

Tell him, that within my chest, pride tore at the frail pieces of a heart I could no longer even call mine.

Mascara will run down my face To paint an image, no one will understand.

My pride, my home, my lover, To be women. To be beautiful. To shatter.

Myself.

In the forests of Brazil, I was born alone marked by the teeth of insects, chosen before named.

Named to be conceited. A shell of a woman, The wrong kind of woman.

I am a lot of things the new world rejects.

I peel off the growing scabs of my wounds, To reveal a new print, a stamp of my existence.

Cigarette butts hang between my lips, But because discovering air in different Forms reminds me that I am but one thing.

I am myself. But to hold pride Is a sin. I was never born to be anything but A souvenir.

Boastful. Loud. Without error.

But I am here, caught in the arms of a crying man, Telling him he cannot cry. I am wrong and I know it.

Myself.

But pride consumes my heart tonight.

I am I, he is nothing.

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LAUGH TRACK PARKER PICCOLO HILL

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My mother always told me the key work go faster, she insisted. She was

entertainment, nothing to distract

chirping noise of alarm and threw the

what were my kids doing? Was the a second for what it was to register in and sleep as I was. Dish soap. It hit

they expect me to do? It was clear I

almost hysterically. thrown the soap, who had now

had never done anything with my on a Wednesday. It was inconvenient timing, as the middle school PTA had their meeting that day, and I knew the

then a chef, then a CEO, then a fashion designer CEO who is also an

hand.

feels exactly the same as it does on

town my mother and her mother washing dishes at the same sink. If one.

It was, to say the least, terrifying. And that was a little too prominent in the design of the room.

the cosmos.

their admiration of my simple chores

awakening was that I was in an The aliens like it. Especially when I few days, clearly looted from some

with somehow too many, yet not

long process of soaping, soaking, them. They chitter in their strange

thing.

wash dishes myself. Their eyes take in my every move, and whenever I

to the living room, leaving the door wide open as I raced after it.

own show, I cannot complain.

coopted the same paisley print that design. They were clearly aliens.

There was no other word for them.

away, and with my longer strides, I 73

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ABSOLUTION THE CONFESSIONAL REBIRTH

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“The Pool” Duke Jarvis The forest stretches endlessly past peaks and valleys, land to sea.

Its subtle starts and subtle ends convulse in manic revelry.

She pushes through; a path she wends.

Branches shudder: spruce defends.

But her ambition lights the way— into a glade her hand extends.

She catches, then, a morning ray.

The knotted branches fall away, and in the clearing, there she sees a crystal pool as clear as day.

Breaking past the ring of trees she falls, the earth against her knees.

The pool, it calls her closer still, its voice seductive on the breeze.

The sight ignites a burning thrill, numbs her pain, excites her will, and once she reaches the grassy verge, her heart, with hope, begins to fill.

The water is cold, a cleansing surge, a freezing stillness. Thoughts submerge.

She sinks beneath that lucid skin.

Bares her soul to purity’s purge.

Then out she lifts her wetted chin From gentle waters, free from sin.

Newly made and newly born, serenity pervades her grin.

Her body then is quickly shorn From soothing salve, brought back to thorn.

Back to fear, to forest glee.

Back to cruel temptation’s scorn.

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ABSOLUTION Jennifer Gerfen I only cry at night.

Sometimes, I wake up in the slimy darkness with tears in my eyes and sobs in my throat. It’s how I know my mind has betrayed me, that it’s allowed the terrors of my past to crawl through the years and settle in my dreams. My sleeping brain has gone soft.

On those nights, I accept the fact that sleep is dead. At least for me, at least for the night. I always end up making myself the same type of Lipton tea in the same, chipped cup. And on the first sip that burns my lips and scalds my tongue, I make a wish.

It’s the same every time: I wish to forget. I wish I could rip the heavy memories from the folds of my brain, deaden them with rocks and rip them to shreds. I wish I could forget the things I’ve crushed with my hands. The things I’ve broken with my words.

But I can’t forget my sins any more than I can forget who I am. The memories are like broken glass down my throat, but they’re mine. I deserve the pain they bring me, the emotions that they press to my skin like hot coals. I don’t deserve to forget. I don’t deserve to be unburdened from the past, happy but disgustingly ignorant. So I remember, even though it hurts.

The one thing I’ve never been able to recall is my dreams. Once I wake up, they’re lost to me. As real as dried tears.

I used to wonder about my dreams. How could they be worse than the memories that haunt me? The blood that coated my hands, the arrogance that blinded my eyes. How could anything be worse than the pain I’ve caused?

Today, everything began the same way. I woke up with tears in my eyes, made my hot cup of tea. But just as I made my scalding wish to forget, I remembered.

I’m sitting by a river. The water is murky, a brown so deep it’s almost red, and the riverbank is lined with dirt. There are no trees in sight, unless you count the blackened stump on the horizon. The moon sits low in the air, kicking its legs through a star-filled sky. This is my world now. The river, the dirt, the stump, the moon.

And strangely, I feel content. I’m not torturing myself with a particularly jagged memory or dragging the knife of my sins through my skin. I just watch the river run slowly by. I wonder if there are any fish in it, if they’ve adapted to the strange colored water. I hope they’ve managed to find each other in the murk, to love each other and form families.

That thought is a weird kind of comfort. Fish families.

I laugh to myself, bathing in this new world that I’m in. A world where I can think about fish and relax by a river. A world where thinking about my sins doesn’t seem to hurt as much.

The memories are still there. My mind probes the past like a child wiggling a loose tooth. But here, in this place of water and dirt, things are different than before. Somehow, I feel at peace, even though I can still sense my regrets. I still mourn the crushing and breaking I did as a youth. But in this world, the past is both on the horizon and under my skin. It’s with me, always, but it doesn’t try to cut or hurt. The past is the past.

Elated, I stand up from the riverbank and scream into the night. “What is this?” I yell, letting my voice fly through the ink colored sky. What is this place, that it’s lifted years of self loathing from my shoulders?

And somehow, something answers back.

“Absolution.”

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