Your Magazine Volume 23 Issue 3: May 2025

Your mag

Recognized in Spring 2012, YOURMAG ’s goal is to promote knowledge of the magazine industry by giving students the opportunity to be responsible for all aspects of a monthly lifestyle publication. With an audience of urban college students in mind, members create content across a broad range of topics and mediums, including style, romance, music, pop culture, personal identity, and experiences. YourMag’s overarching aim is to foster a positive, inclusive community of writers, editors, and artists.

volume 23 | issue 3 | MAY 2025

HAILEY KROLL

Co-Managing Editor

Siena Yocum

Creative Director

Emilie Dumas

Photo Director

REBECCA CALVAR Co-Art Director

Sienna Leone Co-Art Director

SOPHIE HARTSTEIN Copy Chief

PAYTON MONTAINA

Asst. Copy Chief

Anna chalupa Head Proofreader

VIVIAN NGUYEN Social Media Director

Izzie Claudio Editor-in-Chief

LAUREN MALLETT Co-Head Designer

MOLLY DEHAVEN Co-Head Designer

Emma Bowen Co-Editorial Director

Natália Oprzadek-Vodilková Co-Editorial Director

Mckenna Smith Asst. Editorial Director

ANNA BACAL PETERSON Head Stylist

Emily Hamnett Asst. Head Stylist

Lucy Latorre Co-Web Editor

GRAY GAILEY Co-Web Editor

Lily Brown Co-Managing Editor

SOFÍA ATTAWAY-JIMÉNEZ Community Chair

VARA GIANNAKOPOULOS Romance Editor

Molly Peay Asst. Romance Editor

ELLA MORDARSKI Style Editor

Kat Boskovic Asst. Style Editor

ISABELLA CASTELO Living Editor

Olivia Flanz A&E Editor

SASHA GAYKO YMTV Director

Copy editors: Madison Lucchesi, Anna Chalupa

GRAPHIC designERS: Abigail Tangonan, Hailey Kroll, Audrey Coleman, Lily Brown, Mckenna Smith, Izzie Claudio, Emma Bowen, Natália Oprzadek-Vodilková, Zack Yen

Proofreaders: Madison Lucchesi, Sophie Hartstein, Bella Nordman, Ella Posey, Izzie Claudio

Social Media Team: Natália Oprzadek-Vodilková, Emma Bowen, Lauren Mallett, Hailey Kroll

Don't Dog on Sex Toys

The Law of Detachment is Ruining My Relationship Nothing New Was I Cooler in Middle School?

Buttered Up Is It Off-Brand To Go Off-White This Grad Season? Your Hair Is a Recession Indicator

Proper Etiquette

Eating the Girls Up: Is Cannibalism the Hot, New Trope?

Nat's Declassified School Survival playlist

LettersfromtheEditors

Hey shawty baes,

This is my LAST EVER letter to all of you! Sadness. Anyways, for this final issue, we’re taking it back to a more retro time. Welcometothe’60s.Oh,oh,oh,oh,oh,oh.(Yes,thiswasaHairsprayreference.Yes,Isangitwhiletyping.No,Iwillnotapologize.)

Even if you didn’t get it, this era is iconic nevertheless. Mini skirts, go-go boots, twiggy lashes, civil rights movements, and psychedelia. What a strong finish for the semester. And while twirling in mod dresses or protesting with flower crowns has definitely evolved over the past few decades, spring has become a period of resistance and reinvention, of big dreams and even bigger hair. We at YM wanted to channel that same flower power, so we’re all about questioning the status quo, embracing the weird, and doing it all while serving looks in our vintage spreads. We’re politically engaged and deeply obsessed with aesthetics. The duality!

So, as we shimmy our way into summer, let this final love letter be your permission slip to be loud, proud, and utterly unbothered. Thanks for dancing through the decades with us. We’ve laughed, we’ve cried, we’ve absolutely slayed. Now go forth, little icons—start something, style it fabulously, and maybe, just maybe, change the world while you're at it.

Peace and love, Lily

Hi loves,

Spring has sprung! This issue is dedicated to the beauty of growth and embracing the new sprouts that have taken root. Springisalsoatimeofreleaseandreflectionaswelookbackonthewinterwe’veemergedfrom.Inthisissue,welookbackward. We reconnect with our sense of play and appreciate the people that made an impact in our lives. We ask “Was I cooler in middle school?” We also look forward. We wonder what dress to don at the long awaited college graduation ceremony and what hair trends say about our current state of the world. We turn to music and art to express ourselves, we observe how our relationships have ebb and flow.

We represent spring through pastel colors, the light breeze of hues that flow through each page. As the sunlight starts to stream in and the birds begin to chirp, let’s celebrate everything that has made us who we are and will continue to push us towards growth.

To Hailey and Lily, it’s been an honor to write these letters alongside you this semester. I can’t wait to see you both continue to blossom and share your beautiful souls with the world.

Keep seeking abundance, keep relishing in love and joy, and always keep fighting for what you believe in.

Love always, Izzie Claudio

Hi, readers!

We’re bringing it back this month, reminding ourselves where we came from and what it took to get here. This issue pays homage to vintage drag and the music that shaped how we see the world. It’s a tribute to the trailblazers who made it possible for us to live, create, and love out loud. So revel in every moment, even your not-so-secret guilty pleasures. Why? Because you can.

With spring in full bloom, the sun has brought its friend will to live back into our lives. Let that feeling warm your skin, your playlists,andyourperspective.WorkingasapartofYourMagazine’sEditorialBoardforthelastfouryearshasabsolutelychanged both my perspective and direction in life. Being a part of this team has taught me in ways no other experience could. I took a risk, placing all my eggs in the YourMag basket, and I feel so lucky to have made that decision. I have met so many creatively talented people with such brilliant minds. I am incredibly grateful for this team. So with that, all I have left is to say thank you.

With all my love, signing off for the very last time, Hailey Kroll

The Queer Flow

In middle school, I started filling a journal with ideas of my future girlfriend. Giddy with the thought of my first queer love, I scribbled down every scenario I could think of. Some of them came true. Some of them didn’t. Two queer relationships and a college-hookupbonanza later, I’m dating a man. After six years of declared lesbianism, this revelation of bisexuality felt like a step back. I’m still queer, right? Yes, I know I am. Yet, being in a straight-presenting relationship makes me feel like I don’t belong in queer spaces anymore. Even saying “straight-presenting relationship” makes my skin itch. I know I’m not a fake, but why do I feel like I need to prove my bisexuality to feel validated in my queerness?

Bisexuality is a spectrum. Still, many harmful stereotypes ignore bisexuality as a long-standing queer identity. Two glaring ones come to mind. First, the notion that bisexuality in men is just a stepping stone to complete homosexuality. Second, that many bisexual women are using the label to seem cool to attract men. It all circles back to centering men—but that’s an issue for another day.

Since reevaluating my sexuality in college, I haven’t been to any Pride events. It’s not for lack of want, I simply don’t feel the same pride I harbored in middle and high school. I miss it. Nothing beats the fearlessness of showing up to summer camp at age twelve with rainbow swim trunks and a giant rainbow towel to match; the joy of wearing my giant rainbow flag as a cape to my first Pride parade. I was bold. I was proud. I felt it dissipate once I started to tell people: “I have a boyfriend.” Words I didn’t think I would ever utter.

Queer spaces, specifically WLW spaces, often aim to decenter men. After seeking out these spaces for most of my life, bisexuality felt like a slap in the face. In the spaces I felt most comfortable, I was used to dismissing straight men, so discovering my attraction to them was mortifying! I felt like an imposter for introducing them into my love life. I treated my attraction to men as an act of treason. It felt necessary to beef up my still-remaining love for women. However, as months passed and I settled into my new relationship, my romantic and sexual experiences with women drifted further into memory. I lost the heart and energy to keep proving myself in WLW spaces. It felt like my membership card had lost its validity. The feeling had a lingering resemblance to when my ex-girlfriend and I broke up, and I experienced a stint of internalized homophobia.

I rejected all things queer. I sank into an abyss of self-hatred fueled by deep hurt and regret. I could only focus on the negatives: the arguments, the expectations not met, the accusations. Mistakes made became intertwined with my queerness. I believed the reason it fell apart wasn’t because of poor communication, distance, or fundamental differences; I convinced myself—for a time—that I simply didn’t thrive in queer relationships. I couldn’t do it anymore. I denied my being and pushed away my queer truth.

I laughed at the beautiful specificities of my past lesbian

relationships: the emotional understanding that is immediately established, the thoughtfulness in each letter and drawing, the intimate and gentle knowledge of each other’s bodies. I ridiculed myself for relishing in such niceties. I looked back at my younger self, jotting down her ideal queer love with an open heart, and belittled her. My insecurity in my queerness was a harsh sting brought on by my own hand. Eventually, I remembered the queer beauty that I had rejected for months. It shifted into a longing. I missed when my ex-girlfriend would pass me doodles in class. I saw a curly-haired figure scribbled on a piece of notebook paper, hearts surrounded my head both literally and figuratively in those moments. I missed their delicate hands lingering on my waist while making coffee on a slow Sunday. I missed having a consistent space devoid of men. This longing broke the spiral of self-oppression. But, now, I am dating a man. And I’m spiraling in uncertainty. In my queerness, I stood naked before myself, grasping for some fabric to cover my glaring fear—grasping for the pride I once savored. I felt like I didn’t deserve to take up space in the queer community anymore. I hesitated to rejoice in my love for women for fear of receiving confused looks.

Bisexuality is not clearly visible, especially when it’s hidden by a straight-presenting relationship. It can also be hidden by a queer relationship. From the outside, one is interpreted as either straight or gay, and this quick judgment leaves me in a state of unrest. Society perceives me as straight because I’m dating a man, but I have a fire of queerness inside of me, begging to be released.

Emerson student, Riley Miles, puts it plainly: “No matter how much we say it’s not, [our world] is very binary.” The binary that rules society permeates into our most private spaces. It permeates my brain, leading me to constantly second-guess my bisexuality. Do I really like women? Do I really like men? I miss lying next to a body that mirrors mine. And I like the different body that lies next to me now. Having lived in both relationship experiences, I find myself missing aspects of the queer relationship, but preferring other aspects of the straight-presenting relationship I am currently in. There’s a certain understanding in queer relationships that is difficult to explain. An understanding of what we experience as feminine-presenting in this world: the joys, the hardships. When dating a man, that lack of understanding is hard, but I’ve found intrigue in the differences. I’m learning about the contrasting textures of intimacy that exist, the unique colors and shapes that form. Through experience, I’m breaking down my harmful generalizations. Dating a woman isn’t better than dating a man, or vice versa. Each experience simply takes a different form.

My bisexuality puts me in a state of constant motion: a neverending current. I ebb and flow every single day, and that’s just the reality of bisexuality. I am but a dot, moving across the spectrum as I live my life. YM

WRITTEN BY IZZIE CLAUDIO

PHOTOGRAPHED BY EMMA BOWEN

Don’t Dog On Sex Toys

Irecently began my sex toy journey and once I stopped giggling about the bucket of dusty pocket pussies in the corner of the sex shop (shout out Good Vibrations Brookline), I realized some of the adult toys looked eerily familiar.

I have a pitbull-Great Dane mutt at home who requires some heavy-duty dog toys—XL Kongs, rubber bones the size of my forearm, and rope that looks like it’s made to moor a 40-foot party boat. I constantly have to buy new ones at PetSmart when they regularly get destroyed in exciting tug-ofwar games. Who knew I could also get them from my local sex shop?

Dog bones like this Pet Qwerks stick bone could work as a dual-action dildo—perfect for couples. The Unbound Bender vibrator, rated number 17 on Cosmopolitan’s “25 Best Sex Toys for Women: Tested and Reviewed for Your Pleasure,” looks like something I’d throw to my dog in the park.

“Come on, boy! Run! Come and catch your kinky tickling device.” For all the sensual romantics out there who relish the ticklish part of a pedicure, there’s not much difference between this TugE-Nuff Rabbit Skin Squeaky

likely used over 28,000 years ago. Archaeologists have found plenty of conveniently phallus-shaped fossils, suggesting that cavepeople weren’t prudes. The oldest toy was found in southern Germany and was made of stone, bronze, camel dung, and bread—I know some people like texture, but talk about a yeast infection. Yeesh. Another carved out. This toy was much prettier and made of jade— classy.

The first vibrators were made for medical purposes, curing women for what was then called “hysteria,” now known as: horny as fuck. It was a respected medical practice, and when at-home vibrators were invented, they were advertised in local newspapers—nothing to hide here.

,I thought about how animalistic it all was. Some people dog on sex toys, especially about using them during sex with a partner. They say it’s “unnatural,” like you’re having sex with the toy rather than the human being.

I’m here to tell you that using sex toys is one of the most primal instincts we have in the

The first sex toy was

When did we make the switch? At what point did sex toys become so stigmatized that most sex shop windows are covered with tacky film so no one can see inside? Why did getting my new, hot-pink vibrator feel like a top-secret mission? We used to use dildos made of poop freely and now

my pretty silicone one has to be hidden in a bag that’s in a box covered with a blanket under my bed.

All this to say, using toys for pleasure is nothing new. Whether it’s a dog using a suspiciously shaped squeaky toy, ancient women using jade dildos to ward off evil, or me, experimenting with my new 10-speed, water-proof, bullet-proof vibrator, we are all having fun and all deserve to talk about it. You don’t have to use sex toys if you don’t want to; that’s your prerogative, but leave Lucy and me out of it. YM

The Law of Detachment is Ruining My Relationship

Like many hopeful romantics, my guilty pleasures include: my favorite rom-com, coffee or tea, a sexy lingerie set (typically under unassuming clothing), a good snack—oh and anything that may possibly bring my romantic inclinations to life. This so happened to be: the Law of Detachment.

If you are unfamiliar with this manifestation technique, let me run it down for you. According to one of the many sides of social media, the Law of Detachment is a principle where detaching attracts what you want; if I could release my desire to be in a romantic relationship—to have a partner—and become okay with being alone, only then would that relationship come to fruition. I took this on the chin.

So, for five years, I slowly loosened the ties. Yard by yard, the distance encroached between me and the romance I yearned for, a relationship becoming a possibility I considered less and less viable. I would joke: If I just have chocolate, vibrators, and romance books, I’ll be set for life! Now, five years later, I have met someone. Our love developed like the romance books I’ve consumed. Meet-cute and all. However, a separation permeates the space between my partner and me.

I had an anxiety attack not too long ago. He saw me in the midst of it. But I left, saying I just had to use the restroom, unsure how to let him in, scared that letting him in would show him how much I wanted— needed—him. I found him after my anxiety settled.

“You looked like a deer in headlights.”

“I promise, I’m okay.”

“Honey.”

“I’m fine.”

He reached for me. A quiet reassurance. Something he often does when I am scared, sad or as a reminder of the love we share. And, sometimes, I pull away. I am not used to his steady sureness. It often leaves confusion that creates creases in our unfolding relationship. Or, more simply, I am scared he is going to disappear, and my impulse is to pull away—to detach—so he may remain attracted to me. I know it is not healthy or true. Yet, this confusion, this fear, is sloth to unfasten its grip on my mind.

My therapist reminded me recently that attachment is natural. Attachment is good. In a highly individualistic society and the TikTokmanifestation-epidemic that preaches hyper-independence, my brain often refuses to compute this new information. If I allow myself to attach to another human being—the one I want—doesn’t that mean they will no longer want me? In the same vein, wouldn’t their detachment cause my subsequent attachment? The Law of Detachment would say yes. However, aren’t the purposes of a relationship—connection, love, and a secure base—factors of a healthy attachment? The answer is also yes. When I asked my therapist these questions, she mentioned I should read Attached by Amir Levine, MD and Rachel S.F. Heller, M.A. They break down different attachment systems: secure, anxious, and avoidant. The avoidant type is described as desiring intimacy but getting overwhelmed by it, pulling away to protect their independence—the self-sufficiency mindset impeding attachment, and usually realized as an issue after the relationship fails. This quick synthesis does not fully encompass the scope of an avoidant attachment system, though it is in alignment with the Law of Detachment. Both frameworks promote self-sufficiency: the avoidant attachment defensively, the Law of Detachment intentionally. In either case, the focus on independence can cause emotional distance through withholding affection or vulnerability to maintain control or due to fear of wanting someone too much.

My partner has a primarily secure attachment system. I tend to be more anxious. And due to absorbing media aimed at detachment, I have several avoidant behaviors, which include sometimes getting scared and having the urge to pull away when things are more emotionally close—learning triggers and where they come from is key to healing these tendencies.

Over the past month, I’ve come to recognize how severe this issue is. I am in constant awareness to keep my heart open and stop contracting my heart from fear. Feeling my emotions for five minutes is way healthier and better for myself and our relationship. And, as time progresses, it becomes easier to communicate my struggles sooner.

“Honey, what is going on?”

“My brain is having a hard time processing everything.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Yes.”

I am slowly relaxing into the reliability of his love. The dependability, patience, communication, honesty, consistency, and affection. It is, though, the choice to not let fear interfere with our relationship and my love for him, that has helped cultivate the grounds for a healthy attachment—we are individuals who choose to share a life and whose relationship provides a secure base to explore oneself and life.

The Law of Detachment’s dilemma is: What do you do when you are with the one you want? The true answer is to love them. We may never know how long someone will be in our lives, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t love them like they are forever. Deciding to disengage with detachment is unfamiliar and, occasionally, trying. Yet, ever the hopeful romantic, I understand that only by stepping out of fear’s shadow can a meaningful relationship unfold. YM

nothing new

DIRECTED BY SOPHIE FLORESCU

PHOTOGRAPHED BY NATÁLIA OPRZADEK-VODILKOVÁ

STYLED BY ANNA BACAL PETERSON AND EMILY HAMNETT

MAKEUP BY SOPHIE FLORESCU, EMMA LAVENSON, TRISTAN YOUNG MODELED BY EMMA LAVENSON, TRISTAN YOUNG, FINN DUNKELBERGER

CENTERED AROUND THE PRESENCE OF TRANS PEOPLE IN AMERICA THROUGHOUT HISTORY, “NOTHING NEW” EXPLORES GENDER NON-COMFORMITY THROUGH A RETRO LENS. THE FOCUS ON DIFFERENT VINTAGE DRAG STYLES, PAIRED WITH '60S-'80S FASHION SERVE AS A REMINDER THAT TRANS IDENTITIES HAVE ALWAYS EXISTED, AND THAT THEY ARE NOT A NEW EMERGENCE IN THE PAST DECADE. ESPECIALLY IN LIGHT OF RECENT ANTI-TRANS LEGISLATION, IT IS VITAL TO REMEMBER THE HISTORY OF DRAG—THE ART OF DEFYING CONSTRAINTS—AND THE TRANS WOMEN WHO ARE THE FOUNDATION OF THE QUEER COMMUNITY. THIS PHOTOSHOOT AIMS TO HIGHLIGHT VINTAGE GENDER QUEER STYLES, AS WELL AS THE FACT THAT TRANS PEOPLE ARE “NOTHING NEW.”

Class of 2025

Was I Cooler in Middle School?

IWRITTEN BY TEHYA TENASCO

PHOTOGRAPHED BY TEHYA TENASCO

often look back on my middle and early high school outfits with disgust. However, I can’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia pang in my chest. Every time one of those ancient “fit checks” taken in the school bathroom mirror pops up, I’m reminded of who I used to be. An ill-fitting black and white pleated skirt, paired with an oversized graphic sweater, and fishnets. Yes, that outfit was as awful as you’re imagining. But there’s something unmistakably pure and real about the way I felt walking through the halls of my middle school wearing it. Even with my grown-out pixie cut, acne-spotted face, and uneven eyeliner, I sat in my classes with my head held high and my spirit even higher. I was confident about styling an outfit that felt so completely me. I was ignorant of the idea of being perceived—something that is intensely popular on platforms such as TikTok and Instagram today. Sometimes I think the last time I felt truly cool and comfortable with myself was the times I tend to shun and feel embarrassed by today.

Fashion has always been a large part of my life, and if Emerson College has drilled anything into me thus far, it’s to never be caught wearing a bad outfit. Whether you’re walking to your 8 a.m. or taking a late-night trip to The Max, what you wear is who you are here. Isn’t it every fashion fanatic’s dream for your identity to become synonymous with how you dress?

My question would be answered by an identity crisis hitting me over the head during the spring of my freshman year. Gone were the days when I knew exactly what I liked and disliked about clothing. Rushing in came constant uncertainty about what to wear and how I would be perceived by others on Boylston Street. Where my middle and high school self would have worn mismatched accessories and baggy band tees with pride, college me suddenly felt embarrassed for ever having worn such things. In

a way, I fell victim to the “clean girl aesthetic,” which was so out of left field for me that I knew, deep down, that something wasn’t right.

Fiending for Brandy-Melville-level basics, I spent money I didn’t have on clothes that I thought would make me feel better about myself. While I did tap into the maxi skirt trend (which has become a staple in my wardrobe), I traded my layered necklaces for simpler, more subtle pieces. My dark eye makeup for lighter, “no makeup makeup” looks. A thread of desperation ran through my style choices, and I slowly became obsessed with turning myself into someone others would see as “put-together” and confident. No matter how much cash I threw at unnecessarily overpriced pieces, the desperation to be seen as “cool” slowly morphed into embarrassment that enveloped every aspect of my life. I turned my back on my middle school self, who I could picture shaking her head in disappointment every time I stepped in front of a mirror. I couldn’t help but ask myself... was I cooler then? I liked what I liked and wore what I wanted, at the expense of nobody.

Freshman year came and went as every school year does, and outside of the Emerson fashion bubble, I began to feel like myself again. Something akin to dormant flowers blooming in the spring, I no longer noticed what style was trendy or labeled by the majority as something I needed to emulate in order to feel more confident about who I was becoming. Instead of pushing my middle school self away, I took the time to learn a thing or two from her about self-expression.

Slowly but surely, I gravitated back to clothing that simply felt right to wear, and discarded trendy styles that had invaded my personal style. If you’ve ever struggled with the uncertainty of yourself, simply wearing an ancient, well-loved pair of pants can have a surprisingly positive impact on your day. Who would have thought that looking back on your past with an open mind would be the key to being content in the present? YM

WRITTEN BY ELLA MORDARSKI

It seems a delicious new color has arrived on the scene for summer.

Her name? Butter Yellow.

Like every year before, another spring/summer fashion week has come and gone. While this display of style typically occurs in the chilly months of deep winter, it provides an excellent menu of upcoming trends, usually predicted by the best in the fashion forecasting biz. This year, almost are spread with butter yellow. From Chanel to Mui Mui, designers are harnessing the creamy color of a classic baking staple.

As per-usual, this love for the color has trickled down from couture showrooms to more accessible retailers like Abercrombie or Banana Republic. It seems whatever store you pop into these days, there is at least one butter yellow item waiting to come home with you. From jeans to purses to water bottles, there is simply no escaping the trendy color. KitchenAid has even jumped on the trend, releasing a new “2025 Color of the Year” butter yellow edition of their famous stand mixer. I was even recently the victim of a targeted ad featuring a butter yellow vibrator by Dame.

I work as a sales associate at Athleta, and our store has been a butter yellow haven since before the holidays. At first, I was not sure of the trendy color, one may even say I hated it. Actress Sydney Sweeney was even photographed wearing one of our iconic bra and legging sets in the color. I remember quipping, “We have so many other great colors…why that one?” to a co-worker one late-night shift. But as I write this today, I now own a full butter yellow Athleta look, with a matching cross-body saddle bag and knee high socks.

ART BY ELLA MORDARSKI

So… why butter yellow?

Well, the unique shade offers a fun twist on your classic spring or summer neutral. Most consumers have been taught to fill their summer wardrobe with khaki, cream, or bright white pieces, as they tend to complement other common warm-weather colors well. Butter yellow easily styles the same way as these other neutral shades, but also adds a bit of dimension.

A cream dress is a nice classic, but arriving in butter yellow instead completely elevates the look. That’s why the color has plagued all retail at the moment—even the most unqualified shoppers can put together a strong look centered on butter yellow. It gives off the impression of someone not scared to play with color, while still being as simple to style as melting a stick of butter on the stove. The key is: butter yellow has both warm cool properties, meaning it can easily be paired with a plethora of other colors, most likely already hanging in your closet. Styling butter yellow with cool tones like light blue, jewel-toned purple, and matcha green creates a vibrant display that can brighten even the most tired under eyes. On the other hand—or rather on the other side of the color wheel—styling butter yellow with warm tones like chocolate brown, rusty red, or zesty orange helps to highlight the darker colors, while not overpowering the model wearing them.

So, as we move into the warmer months and you begin a wardrobe refresh, try butter yellow. If you’re having trouble, Pinterest is a great place for some buttery outfit inspo. You never know, the color may just melt your heart, like it has mine. YM

Is It Off-Brand To Go OffWhite This Grad Season?

WRITTEN BY LILY BROWN

Eggshell. Ivory. Cream. White. Shades of stress for 18-year-old me choosing her high school graduation dress. You see, in the dark ages—okay, post-COVID spring 2021—white was basically the only option. It was tradition. It was expected. It was uniform. And of course, I obsessed over the difference between “off-white” and “warm ivory” like it was a life-or-death situation.

Fast forward four years and one very overpriced degree later, here I am again. Staring down the same color palette. Except now? I’m wondering if I really want to play it safe again… or finally shake things up.

With spring blooming and graduation looming, everyone is starting to plan the outfits that will live underneath the gowns. But let’s get one thing straight: white isn’t required anymore—high school Lily wore white because she had to. Half of me wants to try something new, but the other half thinks it might just be easier to wear white again. Call it what you want, but if you didn’t spend a questionable amount of time in high school debating the subtle differences between these “colors” for your graduation dress, were you even graduating? So, does the tradition of girls wearing white dresses still stand in college?

Still, the white dress remains a staple for a lot of graduates. And look—no shade to white. It’s timeless. It’s clean. It gives off “I have my life together” energy. It also photographs chef’s kiss under the typically black or school-color gowns. Just you, hopefully the sunshine, your definitely-not-yet-arrived diploma, and your Classy in Cream lewk. It photographs beautifully, doesn’t clash, and checks every box, but let’s be honest, it’s also the expected choice.

So maybe white feels a little… safe. A little too been-theredone-that. Traditions are great when they mean something to you.

PHOTOGRAPHED BY MCKENNA SMITH

Otherwise, they’re just fashion peer pressure. For some, she’s still the go-to. But for others, white feels like just another uniform. And after four years of figuring out who you actually are (spoiler: not who you were at 18), maybe it’s time your graduation fit says something about that evolution. And listen, if your entire aesthetic has shifted from pastel-prep to dark academia or coastal cowgirl, who says your graduation outfit can’t reflect that growth?

College has been basically a crash course in self-expression. Maybe this time you want to go for a silky champagne slip dress. Or a bold red jumpsuit. Or a floral two-piece set that screams “I’m graduating and I’m the main character.” The beauty of college is that no one can stop you—except maybe your grandma, but even she’ll be fine once she sees the cute pics.

I know my style has changed a lot over the last four years. When I first got to campus, I was all about the soft, pastel aesthetic. Then came my fast fashion phase: one-time statement pieces that now collect digital dust on my Depop and Poshmark pages. These days, I gravitate toward bold colors: blues, reds, pinks. But really, who is a girl without her basics? White is still a staple in my day-to-day closet, but now, it’s on my terms. That’s the difference, isn’t it?

So this graduation season, wear whatever makes you feel powerful, gorgeous, and like the educated icon you are. White dress? Slay. Purple pantsuit? Slay. Vintage denim with a sequin top and boots? Honestly? Also slay. Just don’t pick something because you feel like you have to. White or not, own it because you’ve earned this. You’ll still look like the smartest, most stylish student walking across that stage (and yes, probably crying a little). I know I will be. YM

Once, I paid $120 to go blonde. Now, I trim my split ends in my bathroom mirror.

I’m not alone; I know many who are surrendering their platinum hair for dark roots, swapping regular salon visits for $8 box dye from CVS, and getting free haircuts in friends’ bathrooms. Whether we read The Wall Street Journal or not, we know when bleach starts to feel like a luxury rather than a six-week upkeep. Like hemlines and lipsticks, hairstyles too respond to the broader economic climate. Since President Donald Trump came into office, we’ve seen a whirlwind of speculation as tariffs increase and trade wars ignite; the mighty word “recession” whispers in articles, news headlines, and even in passing conversations with your neighbor or grocery store cashier. But it also lives in your hair, and it always has, even in the curls of your mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother.

As the United States’ traditional economy metamorphosed into a free market economy in the face of a war-ridden Europe, the American twenties roared. The auto industry flourished, washing machines and refrigerators became household staples, commercial airlines took off (literally), and men from all over the country flocked to Wall Street in hopes of capturing the American Dream. In just nine years, the U.S. had grown its economy by more than 30%, and it declared itself an economic superpower as devastated European countries leaned on America for support under the Marshall Plan. From this economic boom and newfound global influence, a tidal wave of social change swept through the blossoming country as its people not only embraced technological advancements, but also a new cultural identity that rejected the conservative restraints of the past.

So then came the flappers. These women were modern, fearless, and free—and they didn’t lack pocket money. Their sleek bobs just gently reaching their chins styled with playful waves demanded frequent salon visits to maintain their precise shape, and various pomades or oils were needed to achieve the desired shine. The bob became a badge of status for women who not only embraced their new freedom, but also the luxury of money to mark themselves as the cultural elite of the Jazz Age. And thanks to an economic boom, they had plenty of spare change to do so.

But the bob collapsed with the stock market in 1929 when Wall Street’s frenzy over a 4.6% decline in market value shattered the American economy into pieces, and the Roaring Twenties fell silent. A decade of scarcity and survival rolled over the country as the Great Depression set in with unforgiving force; millions lost their jobs, breadlines stretched for blocks, and those who had been evicted from their homes set up camp in Hoovervilles of cardboard and scraps of metal. Americans stretched meals, patched clothes, and even a measly trim was no longer a casual expense, but a calculated decision. Where the bob once represented indulgence, hairstyles now shifted toward practicality. Women took scissors into their own hands, growing out their hair, twisting pin curls at night, and repurposing household goods for homemade pomades and setting lotions. The salons were now desolate.

Your Hair Is a Recession

Indicator

Until the Fabulous Fifties, that is. After the hardship and rationing of the Great Depression and World War II, the postwar years brought an economic boom—and with it, a return to glamor. The “Golden Age of Capitalism” marked one of the most impressive economic expansions in U.S. history as Americans weary from scarcity were eager to spend. Factories that had once produced tanks and planes now churned out cars, radios, and televisions, and under the GI Bill, returning soldiers who wanted homes could get them fast. Productivity soared, and companies could afford raising wages without cutting profits. While the 1930s forced women to use what they had, the 1950s coaxed them to spend.

Enter the blonde bombshells: Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield, and a country of imitators whose peroxide curls defined mid-century femininity. A weekly visit to the hair salon was penciled into every housewife’s calendar to achieve these flirty waves they drooled over. Once husbands were off to work and children were driven to school, women spent hours with their gal pals and stylists, emerging with fresh curls and bouffants. These salons weren’t just places of grooming; they were rituals of glamor and community. Camera-ready hair became a visual cue that life was stable, husbands were earning, and America was winning.

And over time, this pattern continued. The women of the seventies stagflation opted for long, natural looks they labeled as “bohemian,” the women of Reagan’s presidency sported voluminous perms, and the discretely expensive “Rachel” haircuts took the women of the nineties by storm. More recently during the subprime mortgage crisis of 2008, box dye sales rose exponentially as women sought cheaper methods for their MySpace glam—a trend coincidentally characterized by DIY bleach jobs, jagged bangs, and clip-in extensions. Hair has been shortened and grown, curled and straightened, as our economy expands and diminishes. In my teenage years of the 2010s, I experimented with hair dye more than I studied for math tests (and honestly, the results were just as unpredictable). My hair was brown, then blonde, then ginger and dark red and black and every shade in between; it was long, then short, then long again, sometimes with layers and curtain bangs and sometimes without. On random afternoons when I was bored and had finished my homework, I’d book a salon visit or buy random box dye. My hair would turn gray from dye before stress about the money in my pockets.

Now, my mousy brown roots threaten the lingering auburn of my hair, and the split ends that cling on for dear life will be trimmed in the bathroom sink. When even a morning coffee at Starbucks has my eyebrows furrowed in financial worry, a $120 salon visit would send me into a panic attack. The shade of my hair shifts down the color wheel alongside my priorities, just as countless other women turn to costeffective box dyes and at-home styling tools as we enter this recession, like the pin-curled women of the thirties, the boho women of the seventies, and the women of 2008 and their hot-pink extensions. We adapt to the world around us, and as history has confirmed, whether it’s a flapper bob or a grown-out root, our hairstyle often mirrors the time we live in. YM WRITTEN BY KAT

YOUR CLOSET YOUR CLOSET

INTERVIEWED BY ELLA

Sienna (she/her)

BY

MORDARSKI

PHOTOGRAPHED

EMILIE DUMAS

How would you describe your personal style in three words?

My personal style is maximalist, whimsical, and lowkey giving Ms. Frizzle from TheMagicSchoolBus.

Where do you typically get outfit inspiration from?

I like to scroll around on Pinterest, but honestly, a lot of my inspiration comes from finding a new article of clothing/ accessory that I style an outfit around. Or sometimes, I assign myself themes to follow (huge fan of spirit week).

If you could only shop at one place for the rest of your life, where would it be?

Savers in Worcester, Massachusetts. I’ve gotten most of my wardrobe from there since they opened in elementary school. I basically live there anytime I’m home from school and it’s my go-to place for sourcing costumes as well. What movie character's wardrobe do you identify most with?

Luna Lovegood. I don’t think I need to elaborate—she is me.

Three favorite accessories to add to an outfit?

Earrings, necklaces, and a tote bag loaded with pins. An outfit needs to be an escape room when it’s time to shower.

Is there anything else you would like us to know?

I used to change into princess dresses everyday I came home from school when I was a kid, and that never really left me.

YOUR CLOSET

YOUR CLOSET

INTERVIEWED BY ELLA

MORDARSKI

Paige (she/They)

PHOTOGRAPHED BY EMILIE DUMAS

How would you describe your personal style in three words?

I would describe my personal style as comfortable, eclectic, and nostalgic.

Where do you typically get outfit inspiration from?

I get my outfit inspiration from my grandmother! She had the coolest '80s sitcom mom style that I loved and try to emulate. It helps that we also look very similar to one another.

What movie character's wardrobe do you identify most with?

I love the wardrobe for the women in Thelma & Louise. Louise's clothing especially was something I really appreciated my first time I ever watched it because it guided me towards the kind of silhouettes I was interested in wearing. I've gotten a lot of style inspiration from that era of film in general, but that movie in particular has played a large role in developing my personal style.

A unique story about a piece of clothing in your closet?

I have a Harley Davidson leather vest that was given to me after my grandfather died. He was a biker for a large portion of his life, and that vest was one of the first things I knew I wanted to have when he passed. It's decades old but it is by far the sturdiest piece of clothing I own, and it gives me a direct connection to him.

Three favorite accessories to add to an outfit?

For me, three accessories an outfit must always have are a statement necklace, a fun earring stack, and a pair of headphones. I refuse to go outside without headphones on my head and my jewelry on.

WHILE FEMININITY IS SOMETHING THAT CAN BE TO, I THINK IN SOME WAYS, THE SOCIETAL EXPECTATIONS OFTEN BECOMES SOMETHING DISTANT FROM MUST LEARN AND PERFORM. THE LAMPS AND DETACHMENT AND HOW THIS PERFORMANCE

TURN ON!

DIRECTED PHOTOGRAPHED

MODELED BY MADDIE

BE PERSONAL AND SOMETHING YOU CAN FEEL ATTACHED EXPECTATIONS OF WHAT FEMININITY SHOULD BE IN MEDIA FROM OUR ACTUAL SELVES AND MORE OF A DANCE WE AND LIGHTS ON THE MODEL’S HEADS SYMBOLIZE THAT PERFORMANCE IS SOMETHING WE HAVE TO “TURN ON”.

TURN ON!

DIRECTED BY OLIVIA FLANZ

PHOTOGRAPHED BY OLIVIA FLANZ

MADDIE POPE AND ARSHIA NAIR

The Tree

WRITTEN BY ELYSE GOBBI

ART BY HAILEY KROLL

Do you dream in color?” My occupational therapist, Brad, once asked.

“Of course,” I said, “Doesn’t everyone?”

No, not everyone does. Brad dreamed in black and white. But, he told me he once dreamed of a massive, colorful oak tree. It was one of the most vivid things he had ever imagined: a thousand shades of red, orange, and yellow. I love dreaming in color, but from the way he described it, I would take black and white if it meant I got to see the tree just once.

I have Cerebral Palsy, so I spent a lot of time in occupational and physical therapy as a kid. Two mornings a week I’d have 45 minute sessions of each. I had a lot of therapists, but Brad was one of my favorites. He was a balding man in his mid-40s with a goofy laugh and a goofier smile. I’ll never forget the things he taught me. If you freeze a Charleston Chew it tastes immaculate, or that my favorite beach had an amusement park nearby when he was young. And yes, how to write my name, how to button things, and other dexterity skills most kids don’t need a therapist to learn. Twice a week when my classmates were piling onto the rug for a morning meeting or yelling out the answers during a math lesson, I was hanging out with Brad. He told a lot of dad jokes even though he was not a dad, and by the time we stopped working together, the kids in my class weren’t telling me I scribbled.

It was around the year Brad left I saw a bit less color in those therapy mornings. Occupational therapy (OT) could be fun when it involved putty or bracelet-making, but physical therapy (PT) was lots of stretching. Each session my PT and I ran through the same monotonous routine: lunges, wall sits, squats, on and on. And, unlike OT, PT came with homework. I was expected to stretch four times a week—and they knew if I skipped.

“Hamstrings are a little tight this week,” Jodie, Darla, or whoever the therapist was that year would say.

“I know, I’ve been busy with school/band/Girl Scouts.” I defended.

The excuses didn’t matter though, stretching was important. I knew that, but by age ten, I was over it. My sisters didn’t have to stretch, and no one ever asked them why they ‘walked so funny.’ My friends didn’t have to stretch, and they could kick a ball in gym class just fine. It didn’t seem fair, and frankly, it wasn’t fair. Disability was often a black and white experience for me, and I resented that I had to wait for nightfall to see anything in color. I wanted to play outside instead of going to an appointment where a doctor warned me, at 11-years-old, “

not to gain weight or I’d end up in a wheelchair. I yearned to be in English class and not to be getting frequent Botox injections to loosen my hamstrings. And I should have been the kid shouting answers in math, not the one who knew the rough texture of a blue PT mat better than the hard back of a classroom chair.

I needed to find a way to see color when the sun was up. At ten, I turned to writing. I had loved books for as long as I could remember, and when I learned that I could spend my life writing stories, it felt like everything in my life made sense. I couldn’t change the things that made me different—the stretches, the doctors, the missed classroom time—but my words were in my control. I could create worlds more idyllic than my own, write characters who found strength in their disabilities, and societies where disability was respected. I could describe the aspects of my disability that make navigating the world difficult—show a new perspective to those who can’t relate. At the very least, I could write a sentence that shows someone the tree.

As I portrayed my experiences on the page, both good and bad, my perspective of my disability shifted. I finally saw the colors that were hiding in plain sight. I realized that not many kids got to know Brad. I was lucky to know him for so many years. Sometimes when I was done with all of the stretching, the PT let me go on the tire swing—in the middle of school mornings, I was flying through the air. Not to mention, Botox surgery was not all bad; My parents let me pick dinner after surgery, and one time the hospital gave me a teddy bear.

My physical therapists were also great people. My favorite PT Margie went to Catholic school as a kid, like me, and we used to complain about how annoying it could be to wear a uniform every day. She once said “Don’t forget about me when you run a marathon some day.”

While I doubt I’ll ever be a runner, I’ll use her name in a book one day. I’ll always be grateful she believed in me and all I could become.

I no longer resent any aspect of my disability. All of the difficult and beautiful moments of growing up disabled have shaped me into the writer I am today. I am excited to write stories that embrace disability, stories that show other disabled people the same empathy and empowerment I learned from my therapists. I hope someday I can show the world all the radiant colors of disability.

I had a lot of moments where I saw my disability in black and white, but I know now all of those black and white days are worth it for even a glimpse at the technicolor tree. YM

IThey’re Not Alien Sex Cultists, They’re My Friends

WRITTEN BY MADDIE BARRON

PHOTOGRAPHED BY

CATE BANKS

went to the alien sex cult meeting on a Sunday, but opted to wear the Monday pair from my days of the week underwear to act as a good luck charm and guarantee I’d make it to the next day.

I first learned about the Raёlists when I encountered Kasyo in Downtown Boston. The older woman, with bleached hair and rough skin, stood in the sun like Jesus on the cross. I took a pamphlet from the fanned pile in her hands advertising the Raёlian religion.

The Raёlians believe in Elohim, exceptionally intelligent extraterrestrial scientists devoted to advancing human civilization. Claude Vorilhon, the founder of Raёlism, created the religion in 1973 after an encounter with a singular Eloha who visited “to monitor and watch over the development of humanity.”

Vorilhon aptly changed his name to Raёl (derivative of Israel) and documented

the visit in his 412-page book Intelligent Design. The alien described stands at four feet tall and is adorned with long black hair, an angular goatee, and liver-failure yellow skin. My first encounter with Raёl’s alien happened 52 years later, when I found myself in a stranger’s living room in rural Massachusetts watching a Raёlian introduction video that depicted the alien as a chibi/anime artist’s forlorn interpretation of Michael Jackson.

I emailed Kasyo, the woman I snagged a flier from, to attend the Raёl Boston First Sunday of April celebration. The e-vite listed an address inauspiciously labeled Rob’s house under the guise of peaceful meditation and “sharing news, food, and laughter” to honor the anniversary of Elohim creating humankind. Raёlians believe Elohim created all civilization then

“Extraterrestrials created all life on Earth!”

selected human-Elohim cross-breeds to spread their messages. The list of prophetic dignitaries include the Buddha, Mohammed, Jesus Christ, Joseph Smith, and Raёl himself. Elohim distanced themselves from humanity after Jesus to force the teenage human race into selfdetermination.

Direct contact resumed in 1973 with Raёl—humans entered the Age of the Apocalypse when the first atom bomb tick, tick, exploded! Elohim provided more explicit moral guidance to humans as we approached an unprecedented era of scientific advancement.

“We can embrace peace and use technology to better our lives, or we can choose destruction…” says Pastor Rob, who is not a pastor and did not ask to be called Pastor Rob. Everything the Raёlians believe is explained by science: the Holy Mother Mary’s immaculate conception was artificial insemination and Elohim mastered the art of cloning to achieve immortality.

Pastor Rob looks significantly younger than he should, perhaps because of cloning, an organic homegrown diet, deceptively youthful septum piercing, or all three. He speaks in the cadence of a yoga instructor. Accessing his remote house cost me a $27 Uber and cell service.

The other First Sunday attendees included Kasyo, Poncho Mark, and my under-informed roommate.

Kasyo joined the church 35 years ago following the tragic death of her sister and after moving from Paris to Scituate, MA, to escape city living and start anew. “I heard Raёl talking,” Kasyo says, “and I said ‘this is it.’ His words really touched me. Everything just made sense. [Raёlism] is about love and happiness. I’m not here to suffer.”

Raёlians believe in prioritizing happiness, carpe diem; The guilt-free pursuit of pleasure. But the pejorative “alien sex cult” label has more to do with Raёl’s 1976 book, The Extraterrestrials Took Me to Their Planet, where he writes about his second encounter with Elohim in which he boarded a spaceship, fornicated with six robot women,

and met his clone. Raёlian doctrine says that if an individual can coordinate their sexual climax with the orbit of an Elohim ship, the aliens can upload one’s biological material and clone them.

I didn’t ask much about the sex stuff, because my Raёlian compadres seldom mentioned it (Pastor Rob: “So much of what we [Raёlians] do when we’re together isn’t about [the sex stuff], it’s about the philosophy and putting into practice love, patience, compassion, and meditation.”), and I wasn’t apt to talk shop with Poncho Mark. Poncho Mark, with his purple diamond stud earrings, thigh-length poncho, Ayahuasca retreat bracelet, and shaved head save for a rectangular patch of black hair behind his skull, arrived at Pastor Rob’s house during the screening of the Elohim Michael Jackson introduction video. Before we were introduced, he surreptitiously fumbled under his poncho dangerously near his crotch. Fortunately, he was just reaching to silence his phone.

Poncho Mark became a Raёlian via telepathy, compelled to read his former Raёlian brother’s books. The three Raёlians before me say they discovered the religion through a sixth sense: telepathy. This is a regular form of communication in Raёlism—compulsions to peruse Raël’s literature or locate other believers. While Poncho Mark remains loyal to the religion, his unfortunate brother was scammed out of a good chunk of change by a Raёlian gold digger during a flight to Canada. He is now a proud member of the Freemasons.

The purpose of life is to “enjoy it; Laugh for no reason,” Poncho Mark says. The group owes much of their personal developments like patience, communication, and emotional stability, to daily meditation.

Pastor Rob managed to double-down on his yogi-speak when we transitioned to the meditation portion of the afternoon. Perhaps it was the nature of the day, the alien sex cult of it all, but my head was in the gutter. Pastor Rob spoke off the cuff, mantras chock-full of sexual innuendos: “Is there a taste lingering in your mouth? How does that make you feel?” and “feel all the intricate systems happening

within you…” With all the sensual encouragement to “feel infinity,” I should’ve felt existential dread, but all I could think about was getting laid.

Before we arrived, my roommate and I agreed not to eat or drink anything they offered, but after the meditation I indulged in an amusebouche, hoping the symbolic drinking of the Kool Aid served a similar purpose to splashing my face with water.

Then Pastor Rob showed Poncho Mark the curved blade he uses to slaughter his chickens and that did the trick. ***

Raёlians are in a constant state of preparation to formally greet Elohim at the Embassy, a conceptualized temple that demonstrates humankind’s gratitude toward their creators. Millions of dollars from Raёlian tithes are set aside to build the Embassy, but constructing a diplomatic structure for extraterrestrial beings requires an amendment to the Geneva Convention, an agreement that has not been updated since 1977. But Pastor Rob remains optimistic: “It’s not a pipe dream.”

Participants in the “structure” of the church are expected to pay

an annual tithe, 10% of their income. Tithes aren’t mandated (Poncho Mark: “They’re not going to shoot you”), so contributions vary greatly among members. Kasyo and Pastor Rob have individually donated thousands of dollars to the church, and receive cost breakdowns of said donations. One year, Pastor Rob’s $2,000 contribution went directly to a “Go Topless” campaign, which is exactly what you think it is.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sat around Pastor Rob’s living room, littered with the Raёlian symbol of infinity, Raёlist pamphlets, little pink toddler shoes, a glass display case of porcelain dolls, and a sign that read "WiFi kittycat." His placid partner Noora with two O’s, three-year-old daughter, and mother joined us on the couch.

Pastor Rob’s mother carried with her an oxygen tank, the fullest goblet-style glass of wine I’ve ever seen, and a tiny white dog named Ruby, who was two years old but stank like death. The two shared a slice of pineapple; Ruby got the first lick, and the mother unflinchingly had the rest.

The group was profoundly warm and generous, invested in our lives as much as we were theirs. Much to my mother’s disdain, Kasyo volunteered to drive us to the train station. Kasyo works as a massage therapist and spends weekends in the Boston Common giving free hugs to anyone who really needs it. Pastor Rob welcomed us into his home and answered every question we had. Poncho Mark and I danced around with the free-roaming chickens and laughed at each other’s jokes.

Every morning, Kasyo decides “Today is going to be the happiest day of my life. [I] don’t know if [I’m] going to die in 10 minutes. If a bomb will go off…You never know what’s going to happen,” she declares.

When she delivers us safely to the train station, we embrace and part ways. “Our first mission,” Kasyo said earlier that afternoon, “is to give love to this planet, to humanity.” YM

THINGS

WRITTEN BY LUCY LATORRE

Things” have a history that is swept under the rug because of their supposed commonality. Priceless art and linguistic masterpieces are praised for their originality, being held in museums and erected across the homes of the richest people on the planet. Shielded by glass cases and velvet ropes, they spend their time being viewed, not used. They are not things, but sights. Real things are used. Things serve a purpose, and their purpose manifests in bruises, breaks, repairs, and reformations. Wooden spoons with burn marks from scalding skillets hold more memory than the "Mona Lisa" because they were allowed to be burnt.

I’m unnaturally enthralled by anything antique. I was raised on garage sales, thrift finds, and flea markets, so from the moment I booked my train ticket to Berlin, their culture of flea markets dominated my mind. To me, the trip meant dragging my two travel companions to the Mauerpark Flea Market, one of the highest-rated in Europe. All it took was one lemon-flavored beer to get me off track. I left my group to purchase the beverage, and by the time I turned back around, they were gone. With our train leaving in an hour, it was imperative that I rejoin them. That’s when a beckoning call came. It began quietly, but soon crescendoed into a bellowing chorus. Jabbers and jests floated past my ears. Alarm clocks buzzed about the morning routines of their previous owners. Teacups teetered and tottered, talking of guests who attended the parties they had gracefully served. I had lost my companions, but found a hidden world. I fell down the rabbit hole, journeying deeper and deeper, spellbound by hundreds of vertical vases reflecting the rays of the sun onto bruised beer steins. My search for my friends became more passive. Maybe they were farther down? Clinging to that convenient sentiment, I had to continue my journey. I was sure they’d turn up somewhere.

I barely walked 100 feet before becoming entranced by a table of candle holders, all stained with the evidence of their past lives, unable to be wiped away. Rust graced the long poles and grime glowed on the base. The ones that held the most memory were those with the remains of a candle still stuck to the bottom. Someone, somewhere, lit this candle for a reason. Power outage? Romantic evening? Spell? Seance? These endless possibilities made me feel like a child again, when nothing was exactly what it seemed. For children, there are no real rules. “Play” is an open-ended term, one that can be flipped and reshaped in however many ways one can imagine. Here in this market, I was playing again. I was surrounded by everything, yet nothing at all. It all became malleable to me. A table of forks and spoons begged to be bricks stacked into a great wall. Ornate lamp shades almost jumped onto my head, the perfect hats for a sunny day. Nothing was what it was; it was the wonder I had wished for, what I planned when I booked my ticket. It was just me and forks and bowls and baskets and books and pens and knives and tiles and records and cards and knobs and maps. I vowed to stay in Wonderland forever. It was a mixed-up sort of feeling, yet my desire to create a new life, to cling to this inspiration and form something completely unique, almost eased me into a slumber-like peace. But I knew it was unrealistic. On the cusp of young and old, there are choices that have to be made. Life cannot be spent drumming on pans, eventually you have to cook with them. But was it a choice that I was ready to make? Wonder gripped me so hard that it became intoxicating, and the thought of being without it glued my feet to the pavement. I wanted to run back to the starting line and begin my journey all over again, but I knew I couldn’t. I had to get out. I yelled out against the Berlin sky begging for answers, but the clouds simply morphed into a thin, catlike smile. As I attempted to pull myself away from my personal Wonderland, I was left with a relic of my own: the urge to play. I looked to my left and spotted an empty bottle just the perfect size to be

fcf

PROPER ETIQUETTE HOW TO HAVE

THROUGH THE EFFORTS WOMEN HAVE MADE FOR EQUALITY, THEY’VE BROKEN THROUGH CONFORMING TO "RETRO MEDIA STANDARDS", UTILIZING FASHION AND MAKEUP AS A FORM OF REBELLION IN THE 1960S.

DIRECTED BY EMILY HAMNETT

PHOTOGRAPHED BY EMILY HAMNETT

STYLED BY ANNA BACAL PETERSON AND EMILY HAMNETT

MAKEUP BY SASHA BRUK AND EMILY HAMNETT

MODELED BY VIVIENNE LAM AND GABI MITCHELL

ASSISTED BY MCKENNA SMITH AND VIOLET MASTERSON

OR DON’T

NEATLY fcf fcf BUT MAYBE NOT

DO WHATEVER YOU WANT

Eating the Girls Up:

Is Cannibalism the Hot, New Trope?

WRITTEN BY LAUREN MALLETT

ART BY NATÁLIA OPRZADEK-VODILKOVÁ

I“Carnivore, animal, I am a cannibal. I eat boys up, you better run” -Kesha

think it would be fair to say that most of us remember the groundbreaking controversy from a few years ago, when it was outed that actor Armie Hammer, best known for Call Me By Your Name and The Lone Ranger, was allegedly into cannibalism. The internet exploded at these rumors, with social media users rushing to cancel the actor and expressing their immense disgust at the accusations. However, with a multitude of media pieces in recent years centralizing cannibalism as a plot point, I dare to ask an emboldened question: Do we, as consumers, find cannibalism sexy?

Anyone who is even remotely active online has probably read something about the show Yellowjackets, which is currently taking over the internet with the conclusion of its third season. The psychological drama follows a girls’ high-school soccer team as they struggle to survive in the Canadian wilderness following the crash of their plane en route to nationals. Spoiler warning: the girls turn to cannibalizing their dead teammates when the harsh winter weather destroys their hunting regimen. The first case of cannibalism evokes extreme shame and disgust, with the girls struggling with the moral and ethical consequences of their dire actions. However, as the show progresses, so do the girls’ feelings on this moral dilemma. The girls turn to cannibalism wholeheartedly, treating their cannibalism as a ritual, making sacrifices to the wilderness, and preparing their peers’ corpses as feasts.

In a similar notion, the 2022 film Bones and All, starring the internet’s favorite white boy Timothée Chalamet, revolves around a young couple—Maren and Lee—who are both cannibals, romanticizing not only their relationship, but their less-than-savory eating habits as well. As we follow their journey, we as viewers find ourselves rooting for these characters, cheering them on as they eat old ladies, carnival workers, and eventually each other, culminating in Maren’s final act of love for Lee: eating him, bones and all. Their identity as “eaters,” as they are called in the film, is directly intertwined with their relationship, and as viewers root for their romance, they root for them to survive by eating the flesh of their fellow humans.

While I do not, for reasons I hope are obvious, condone cannibalism in real life, I do find that I enjoy the use of it as a trope in the media. Some of my favorite books that I’ve read in recent years have involved cannibalism as a major plot point, such as “A Certain Hunger” by Chelsea G. Summers or “Tender is the Flesh” by Agustina Bazterrica. Both of these stories are centered around the consumption of human flesh, yet they have both become incredibly popular in their own rights.

Even the music industry has seen cannibalism become a topic of interest, most notably with Kesha’s 2010 hit “Cannibal.” The song details Kesha’s attraction to an unnamed person, using the metaphor of cannibalism to emphasize the extreme nature of the attraction. With descriptions of how she would eat the subject, and references to notorious serial killer Jeffrey Dahmer, this song is a clear-cut example of how media portrayals of cannibalism can become popular. The song is certified platinum in the United States, and its long-standing popularity saw it reenter Top 40 charts over a decade after its release. Why is it that we as a culture have come to enjoy seeing this

corrupt habit portrayed on our screens? Is it that we enjoy the discomfort it evokes, the fear of the taboo, or could it be deeper than that: Do we find cannibalism intriguing, powerful, even sexy? A great number of cannibalist media focuses on how women (and the female body) relate to the act itself. Whether it’s watching teenage girls devolve to such desperate attempts at survival, a famed food critic killing and eating her lovers, or women being bred as cattle to turn into meat for consumption, we often see women at the focal point of our cannibalistic stories. With this predator versus prey mentality, there’s no doubt that consumers are drawn to women engaging in this morally corrupt act.

Cannibalism has become, in a twisted way, a metaphor for sexuality. Women eat their lovers, overwhelmed by an insatiable desire, their arousal confused for hunger. They cook their victims into gourmet meals, devouring them sensually. They consume every last bit of flesh, down to the bones, licking their lips and fingers, their eyes glazed over in a physical show of pleasure. These acts feed into a representation of the extreme nature of a woman’s sexuality, the moment that a woman experiences her so-called awakening, realizing not only her attraction to others, but the power she holds in the way she is perceived. There is nothing more powerful than a woman who knows how men fall around her, and power leads to hunger, an appetite that can’t be satiated by anything less than complete control. And so we see women eat. We see them consume those around them, striving to relinquish control over themselves and others, only growing more powerful with every drop of blood they spill. These women know what they want and take it, ripping any obstacles limb from limb.

We long for the violence, we crave these desperate acts on our screens—how else do you explain the popularity of shows like Hannibal, movies like Fresh and Jennifer’s Body? The inherent intimacy of cannibalism is not unlike that of sex. After all, how different are they, the mouths on flesh, the transfer of fluids? Cannibalistic media blurs the lines of desire, blending our most intimate forms of connection with those that are most violent. So next time you watch a woman consume human flesh on your television, consider this: are you turned on right now? YM

Nat’s Declassified School Survival Playlist

Asitcom from 2004 might’ve helped many Nickelodeonwatchers survive junior high school, but what about a survival guide to college? Post-grad? Life? How about—as per Jaden Smith—the socioeconomic state of the world right now!? This feels unfair, Ned! Where’s the survival guide for that?! In your disappointing absence, I’ve tweaked your concept to meet our current needs: Nat’s Declassified School Survival Playlist. I hope that’s alright.

One of the first songs to ever make me cry was “Colors of the Wind” from the original Pocahontas. I loved the song so much that I begged my Mom to download it to her iPod so that I could listen anytime I wanted. I still tear up every time I hear it, the most recent time being last week. Maybe it was the nostalgia of listening to the song again, or maybe I had just spent too much time reading the news, but when I heard “Colors of the Wind” playing over a video of Yellowstone on my screen, I just melted into tears.

Can you sing with all the voices of the mountain?

Can you paint with all the colors of the wind?

Instantly, I felt like a kid again, watching my favorite princess sing and dash through the forest. My mom was right—music is the closest thing we have to time travel or mind-reading. With the weight of such a heavy world coming down hard on our shoulders and spirits, especially as of lately, this song from my childhood reminded me of the true power of music. It’s the one way we can always find understanding and comfort, even when we are alone. It transcends time, place, language, and walks of life. Our favorite songs become the soundtracks to our stories, holding the power to make life smoother, warmer, and less lonely. Our playlists become lifelines, a rhythm to lean on as we carry ourselves through harder things.

When you call my name, it’s like a little prayer, I’m down on my knees, I wanna take you there!

As a young girl, I really thought this song was about praying. Now I’m older and I’ve come back around to believing that a prayer can be anything you want. It can be a song, a dance, an act of resistance, or love itself. Anyway, all the women I knew adored “Like a Prayer.” I learned the words to it for that very reason—I loved scream-singing along with my Mom and my Babka, who didn’t speak English, but spoke fluent Madonna.

I sang it with my cool older cousin and her friends, and later, with other girls in college or at apartment parties. Every time I hear those lyrics, I have to smile. It’s my Mom’s favorite song and she loves to sing, but, to put this nicely, she wasn’t exactly blessed with perfect pitch. She loves to make a joke of it and sing intentionally bad, shouting loudly and off-key at you, but she’s so happy during the song that it’s infectious. It’s true, you don’t have to be good at something to enjoy it. You can grow happy by osmosis if you open your heart to it.

I’m beautiful in my way

‘Cause God makes no mistakes

I’m on the right track, baby

I was born this way

No matter gay, straight, or bi

Lesbian, transgender life

I’m on the right track, baby

I was born to survive

No matter black, white, or beige

Chola or Orient made I’m on the right track, baby

I was born to be brave!

My love for music was a hand-me-down. Love and compassion for others were second nature from there. I remember Mom blasting music while cleaning or cooking, and myself dancing and straining for the notes alongside her till I was out of breath. She had a hot pink iPod, loaded with our favorite songs. Mostly late '90s and early 2000s classics with a mix of Slovak folk and jazz, and they were always playing in our house.

When she got a new phone, I begged her to give the iPod to me, and she agreed under one condition: that I treat her songs with respect. She handed it over with a matching pair of hot pink earphones— athletic ones, the older kind that wrapped around the outside of your ear. Now, I could listen to music anywhere and anytime I wanted. Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way” was my personal favorite.

At that age, I had a difficult time making friends. I was the new girl and often got picked on for having a weird accent and "stinky food" for lunch (courtesy of my daily cabbage rolls). That song made me feel like the coolest girl in the world. It reminded me of singing along to Madonna in the car while my Mom reassured me that weird was actually a backhanded compliment––they’re calling you unique, Natalka. I didn’t see it then, but that iPod gave me the courage to connect with others by asking if they wanted to hear my favorite song. I realized I still do the same thing now, sending people playlists and songs to express my closeness to them.

In the words of Gloria Gaynor: I will survive! Long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive!

I often ponder how the fear of failure or embarrassment has influenced all of our choices––our lives, jobs, beliefs, the country we inhabit. How often has this fear created isolation, where it could’ve fostered a connection? Maybe our obsession with being successful and correct all the time is impeding on our destiny to freely connect as humans.

The right playlist can become a survival guide, creating a safe place for our emotions to be seen, heard, and understood. Unfortunately, none of us can wave a magic wand and erase all forces of evil and sadness. However, I still believe humanity’s most valuable quality is our empathy. Let us never stop loving each other and our communities. Let us never stop fighting for what we believe in.

Even when the world feels bleak or hopeless, we can always turn to music to remind us of the indomitable human spirit. Listen to your favorite playlist, send it to a friend, and take a deep breath. We will survive! YM

WRITTEN BY NATÁLIA OPRZADEK-VODILKOVÁ

PHOTOGRAPHED BY HAILEY KROLL

Politics…What’s That Got to Do With Broadway?

WRITTEN BY CAMEO NAPOLI

One night of doom scrolling on TikTok led me to a clip of Cabaret from the 1993 West End Revival. Admittedly, the clip first caught my eye because of a young Alan Cumming, but my focus quickly shifted once I became aware that someone in a gorilla costume was alongside him. I watched the clip through and was struck by the end at the last line delivered:

“But if you could see her through my eyes… She wouldn’t look Jewish at all.”

Set in 1929-1930 Berlin, Cabaret focuses on the nightlife at the Kit Kat Klub and the doomed romances of main characters Clifford Bradshaw (an American writer) and Sally Bowles (a British cabaret performer) against the backdrop of the rise of Nazism. I decided to research the song from the TikTok clip and learned that the song being performed was “If You Could See Her (The Gorilla Song),” performed by the Emcee (who acts as a narrator and commentator of the events happening in the musical). The song is about how outlandish it could be that the Emcee is in love with a gorilla, but maybe the audience would understand if he could see her through his eyes. The final line, the one that I was taken aback by the most, is him basically saying though she’s an animal at least she doesn’t look Jewish.

In the more recent Broadway adaptations of Cabaret, there have been reports of audience members laughing at this part of the performance but it, of course, hasn’t been solved as to exactly why: Cabaret, overall, is not a comedy, and this part of the musical, though seemingly outlandish and theatrical, is not comedic either. Actors who have taken on the role of the Emcee in recent productions (notably Adam Lambert and Eddie Redmayne) have pushed back during performances where this has happened, doing things like breaking character and asking the audience why they’re laughing, and repeating the line back to make a point of what they’re saying.

Cabaret, notably, is one of the musicals that better incorporates political themes with the storyline and music, but this incorporation isn’t something that’s only happened in recent years and in newer productions—this coming together of art and political themes dates back to ancient Greece. With productions created by Greek tragedians Sophocles and Euripides (among others) when attending these theatrical performances were considered to be civic duties. These beginnings that were set by these tragedians have set the precedent for musicals and stageplays to come. The precedent that musicals and plays are, at their core, meant to tell stories from real life.

Musicals are a commentary of life and art, and even though musicals have created a wide spectrum from heavily political to straight-up comedic, it’s important to remember and incorporate the darker parts of our history so we remain aware and continue to learn, remember, and educate ourselves.

ART BY LAUREN MALLETT

Another recent musical production that addresses our dark history is Parade. It was brought back onto Broadway in a 2023 revival and is based on the true story of a man named Leo Frank, a Jewish factory manager in Atlanta, Georgia, who was wrongfully accused of murdering a teenage girl in 1913 and, in turn, went to prison. In 1915, Leo Frank was kidnapped from prison by a mob and was lynched in Georgia. Throughout the musical, at least with the revival, there are incorporations of actual pictures of news clippings from that time, as well as certain settings used in the story as a backdrop to the production as the story unfolds to the audience, indirectly acting as a reminder to the audience that this is a true story. The lynching of Leo Frank is no different—there are pictures of the lynching included in the production, as well as news clippings reporting what happened. This is where these real pictures are the most powerful; This was real life, and is a real and, reportedly, ongoing case (the 2023 revival at one point states that this case was reopened in 2019).

The act of confronting audience members with themes like Nazism and antisemitism is what makes bringing political themes in general into musicals work. The topics and themes can hide behind or be cushioned by the music and stage production, like “If You Could See Her,” and then suddenly the audience is forced to realize the deeper meaning behind what they just watched and listened to. The forcing of being confronted by these themes in contrast with a lighter, more whimsical instrumental backing could be why audience members have been reported to laugh at certain parts of Cabaret. But the awkwardness that could come from being confronted by these themes are no laughing matter: this is real life.

The incorporation of politics in musicals is a tactic to make sure stories are remembered, yet today’s administration is working on overthrowing our freedom to create those stories. The Trump Administration has become Board Chair at the Kennedy Center, which previously served as a beacon of hope for the performing arts. One large thing he’s trying to change in the Kennedy Center’s programming is the prevention of putting on productions with political themes, and wants to put on, what he calls, “non-woke” musicals. When citing musicals he considers “non-woke,” it was reported that he named Cats (explores community and the search for meaning), Fiddler on the Roof (explores oppression and resilience), and Phantom of the Opera (explores societal class and acceptance).

The first performance of Cabaret was in 1966, and others mentioned were put on years prior. Musicals and plays have always tried to incorporate politics and the dark sides to life, and will continue to for years to come no matter the oppression—in fact, it’s the oppression that these mediums need to remember to keep themes in the light. YM

The Power of the Bleak: An Ode to Sad Art

WRITTEN BY LIV

MAZZOLA

Iam no stranger to melancholic art. Memoirs written by the griefstricken, haunting melodies that result in tears, and unconventionally dark Tim Burton movies have always held the top spots on my shelf of favorites.

This admiration for sad art has been present ever since my first memory of connecting to music when I was seven years old: I heard "Für Elise" playing on my mother’s music box, and gasped at how the simple melody tugged at my heartstrings. I felt a mix of emotions I didn’t even know the meaning of yet: gloominess, wistfulness, wonder, and angst.

A few years later, I experienced loss and grief before even graduating elementary school. Emotions of sorrow that were all too big for my 10-year-old self to comprehend manifested deep within me. Amidst this unchartered territory of grief, I found myself relying on the familiar feelings that the music box gave me just a few years before. Simply hearing a mournful melody that emulated my feelings or watching a film that dealt with grief had the power to help me understand a part of myself I wasn’t yet able to address on my own.

To this day I still prefer sad music and enjoy sad books, and cannot help but be fascinated by this idea of why people like to use art to revel in their sadness. According to Psychology Today, the phenomenon of people avoiding sad emotions in real life, but feeling drawn to sadness in art, is called “the paradox of tragedy.” Despite it being a common pattern, there is no one answer to explain why this phenomenon even happens in the first place, but many theories exist.

I am not the first to be curious about why people love tragic art. In fact, this curiosity was first recorded in 330 BCE when Aristotle . He theorized that the reason why sadness in art is so loved is because it allows us to address negative emotions with complete catharsis, giving us a sense of enjoyment.

Picking up where Aristotle left off, I sought out to discover what

PHOTOGRAPHED BY MCKENNA SMITH

some of my Emerson peers find so appealing about tragic art. Heather Thorn, class of ’27, is a self-proclaimed lover of all things sad art. Her favorite author is Sylvia Plath because Plath “knows sadness like no other.” For Thorn, “It’s a very powerful experience to revel in sadness. There’s a comfort in witnessing someone else express their own sadness through art.” Not only does sad art help her feel understood, but it also gives her gratitude: “It makes me feel more appreciative for the happiness that I do feel throughout the day. Sad art helps me know myself better and know the world better.” For Thorn, sad books, music, shows, or media of any kind give her a comfort that other genres cannot do.

Shannon Cullen, also class of ’27, is another Emerson student who often finds the beauty in tragic art. For Cullen, sad music is an integral part of her life and well-being. “I experience emotions very deeply and it’s been like that my whole life . . . I’ve learned to appreciate how I feel things. That’s why I like listening to sad songs; because I feel like I can take in and understand the music.” When asked what exactly makes a sad song a comforting one, Cullen says it’s all about the lyrics. “The artists I listen to, Elliot Smith and Adrienne Lenker, write songs like poetry. Poetry is a way to describe emotions like nothing else can. Their lyrics make me feel comforted and understood, which weirdly makes me feel happy.” It may sound counterintuitive, but the feeling that Cullen describes as happiness from witnessing sad art is common, and is a major aspect of the paradox of tragedy.

As humans, we have no greater desire than to feel understood and connected. Perhaps the reason we are drawn to sad art is because it gives us a chance to face our pain while holding the hand of the artists we relate to so deeply. We suddenly realize that we are not alone in the sorrows that life throws at us when artists turn their pain into works of art.

To feel understood is to feel loved, and that is most apparent in this paradox of tragedy. YM

The Revolution Will Not Be TelevisedGil Scott-Heron

Zombie - The Cranberries

Gimme Shelter - The Rolling Stones

National Anthem - DE’WAYNE

Alright - Kendrick Lamar

They Don’t Care About Us - Michael Jackson

Let It Bang - DE’WAYNE

A Change is Gonna Come - Sam Cooke

What’s Going On - Marvin Gaye

I’d Love to Change the World - Ten Years After The Times

They Are A-Changing - Bob Dylan

American Pie - Don McLean

Ohio - Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young

Blackbird - The Beatles

Street Fighting Man - The Rolling Stones

Which Side are You On? - Pete Seeger

Run Through The Jungle -

Creedence Clearwater Revival

Eve of Destruction - Barry McGuire

American Teenager - Ethel Cain

Revolution Radio - Green Day

Prison Song - System of a Down

Big Yellow Taxi - Joni Mitchell

Blowin’ in the Wind - Bob Dylan

ARTIST

Describe your work in one sentence.

My intention is always rooted in storytelling, workshop nation, emphasizing process, and vulnerability.

How and when did you get into dancing?

Dance was the first thing I gravitated towards. One of my earliest memories is standing on my dining room table, attempting to learn the choreography to Beyoncé’s “Single Ladies” music video. From that moment forward, dance has always been a central pillar in my life,

Who/what inspires you?

Inspiration can find me truly anywhere—in class, on the T, at a party—but often it is all prompted by music. I’ll hear a song blasting in a car on Boylston or see a 15-second snippet online and I always try to follow where my body instinctively leads. I take so much inspiration from the company members of Emerson Urban Dance Theatre— artists who constantly challenge me to expand my creative palette.

Why dancing?

Dance is everything. It’s visceral. It’s communicative. It’s cathartic. It’s

Who are some of your favorite dancers/artists?

There are so many incredible dancers and artists that I am moved by, among them being: Shay Latukolan, Gabriella Toth, Paris Cavanagh, Parris Goebel, Sergio Reis, Tessandra Chavez, Dre’moni Watts, Haley Fitzgerald, and Jade Chynoweth!

What is it like to be Instagram/TikTok famous?

Although I’m certainly not Instagram/Tik Tok famous, it has been extraordinary to witness the outreach that Emerson Urban Dance Theatre’s social media accounts have amassed, and I’m incredibly grateful that my friends and family from all over the country are able to share in EUDT’s love for one another online (shoutout Lucia Johnson & Serenity Holland).

Where do you see yourself in 10 years?

In 10 years, I hope to be spending an abundance of time with my loved ones and to continue creating fulfilling art on a larger scale.

What is your favorite performance you’ve done? What makes it special to you?

I always struggle with favorites because I’ve been so lucky to have had so many meaningful dance experiences. Though, one of the most magical dance performances I’ve done was quite recently in EUDT’s last production, FAME, wherein I had the privilege of choreographing a piece to a mashup of songs from Beyoncé’s Homecoming (The Live Album) with the most stellar cast of dancers. The process of creating the piece was deeply fulfilling, and I had the best of times workshopping every section with a team of dancers that are so relentlessly passionate.

What advice would you give other/new dancers?

My advice to other/new dancers is to try their hardest not to judge where they are in their growth, and to lead with passionate curiosity. Spend time developing your own personal voice, and explore the movement that naturally flows from you. Take class from others, and challenge yourself to be vulnerable and authentic in the space.

Where can readers see more of your work?

The best place to follow along is definitely @nikkiyar on Instagram!

And, as always, remember that you have something to share, not something to prove!