I see friends who hug, hold hands, and say “I love you.” Friends who tell each other their dreams and fears and put their heads on each other’s shoulders when they cry. Friends who exhibit a level of comfort that distinguishes a friend from a best friend. I long for this kind of closeness in my friendships. However, I have struggled to act this comfortable around even some of my closest friends for quite some time. I have incredible friends, and I want to form deep, lasting connections with them, but I almost feel as though I have forgotten how.

I’ve come to realize that I stopped treating and accepting treatment from, my friends in this way after going through a friendship breakup. I became friends with a girl during my sophomore year of high school who, almost instantly, became my best friend. I felt like I could tell her everything, even as I was going through a time when I didn’t feel super comfortable sharing my deeper thoughts and feelings with others. Every weekend was spent at her house. We’d watch cheesy movies, swim in her pool, and walk her adorable dogs. We’d sit in her hammock and tell each other secrets. 

We would say “I love you” when I left her house. 

As time went on, it became expected that I would spend almost all my free time with her. I couldn’t hang out with my other friends without receiving some kind of passive-aggressive comment or text. But I always still enjoyed spending time with her—she was my best friend after all.

The true toxicity of our friendship began to set in when I got my first boyfriend. My friend would try to invite herself on our dates; when I said I thought that would be a little weird, she told me I wasn’t prioritizing our friendship. Maybe she was right, the last thing I wanted to do was become the girl who lost all her friends because she only spent time with her boyfriend. But deep down I knew I was never that girl—I always made a conscious effort to balance the time I spent with my friends, family, and boyfriend. Yet, no amount of time I spent with my friend ever seemed to be enough. 

The more jealous she became when I would hang out with other people, the less I felt I could trust her. I began to realize she hadn’t kept many of the secrets I had told her. Her mother, brother, and other friends knew personal things about me and my life that I had simply never told them. Her advice began to hold a manipulative undertone, and it became difficult to believe her when she said “I love you.”

As the situation became worse, I knew I had to distance myself. This was not easy and resulted in a chain of long, angry texts. I initially felt guilty when my friend would tell me I wasn’t prioritizing our friendship. But as time went on, guilt turned into frustration, and I didn’t even really want to fix the damages to our relationship.

I think it was after that point that I stopped being completely comfortable around my friends. I no longer held their hands or told them I loved them. Looking back, I think I developed a subconscious fear that becoming best friends with someone could lead to a toxic friendship. I put up boundaries after my friendship breakup—but I think I built my walls too high. With some of my friends, I feel a sense of disconnect which I can only attribute to the fear of becoming “too close”. I resent this fear and want that kind of closeness, that sense of sisterhood, back in my friendships again. 

In my new friendships at college, and even in my old friendships at home, I am trying to reset my boundaries; trying to take down some of the walls I have built up around me. I tell my friends I love them, and I really do. I’m learning to rest my head on their shoulders without feeling so afraid.

Written by Johanna Ryder

Edited by Karima Ribeiro-Hassounah and Kate Castello 

I have always been more hung up over friendship break-ups than romantic ones.

I don’t really know why. Maybe it’s because I read too many romance books as a kid, where the couple would break up just as often as they would get together while the main character’s friends stayed by their side through thick and thin. Maybe it's because I didn’t consider that anyone I dated before college would be long-term while I traded ‘Best Friend Forever’ charm bracelets on the playground. Whatever the reason, I’ve always been able to walk off my romantic heartbreaks pretty easily. Friendship break-ups? Those are the ones that hurt like a bitch.

Sure, I've had peaceful friendship break-ups: the ones where you slowly drift away from someone until you only interact by liking their Instagram posts and awkwardly waving at their mother in your hometown’s supermarket. Unfortunately, though, I have a tendency for friendships that blow up in my face. (What can I say? I have a talent for ignoring red flags; they’re my favorite color, after all.) Those are the ones that have stuck with me months or even years later. I sit with the endings, friendship crumbling between my fingertips, wondering how things possibly could have ended the way they did. They haunt me– just a little bit.

With all those little ghosts, I wish I could say I am an expert in getting over friendships; I am definitely not. Every time I lose a friendship I find myself getting lost in my emotions. I stay up crying way too late. I see old photos and get so angry I want to throw my phone across the room. I lose myself in the possibilities of how things could have gone differently. I go days without feeling anything at all and then wake up so overwhelmed that I want to crawl back into bed. It’s hard, it’s awful, and god, it sucks. But I have learned a thing or two to ease the pain, to help myself move forward. The biggest thing I have learned? Never regret loving someone.

Of course, you’re going to regret some things in the aftermath of a ruined friendship. Maybe you’ll regret how the friendship ended, or maybe you regret not confronting a problem earlier. You can have a thousand little regrets about the ending, but I never want you to regret the friendship itself. I find that regretting loving someone puts the blame in the wrong place. Things didn't go wrong because you loved them, after all. If you blame the love for the hurt, it can make you think every friendship will destroy itself in the end. You’ll sit there and think, “Well, if I never get that close to someone again, then I’ll never be that hurt again.” Been there, done that, and I don't recommend it: it never helps. You’ll feel just as awful alone as you did after the friendship ended. 

And, well: you can never unlove someone. One of my favorite quotes is from the novel Nona the Ninth: “You cannot take loved away.” I read it months ago and it still sticks with me, because you can’t! After you end a friendship, you probably don't want any reminders of your ex-friend. You might delete pictures; you might block their number; you might turn the other way if you see them in public. But even if you try to ignore it, you can't make the old love you shared go away.

A few weeks ago, I was scrolling through Instagram and paused on the story of an ex-friend of mine. They were posting about songs they had listened to recently, and one of the songs was from a small artist I love. I sat there, staring at my phone and thinking to myself, “They probably got this from me. We haven't spoken in months. They have deleted every photo of me from their social media but they still haven't killed every remainder of me."

Those traces of love will always exist, no matter how hard you try to erase them. If you try to push them away, they're just going to rear their heads back up and bite you later. So, listen to the song that reminds you of them, or wear the bracelet they got you for your birthday. The reminders will hurt at first, but as with all wounds, they will eventually heal up. But only if you acknowledge it, take what is left behind, and make the most of it. 

Recently I have been trying to approach what has hurt me from a softer angle. I'm used to getting angry and depressed in the aftermath of a friendship, but honestly, I’m tired of that, and I’ve found that it never helps me in the end. Now, I am trying to take the broken bits old friends left behind and create something better out of them. I am not always good at this. Sometimes, I want to scream and cry all over again. But now that I am coming to terms with the fact that I did love each and every one of my ex-friends, I am learning to not regret that. 

I hope you can too, dear reader. I hope you can too.

Written by Emma Moran

Edited by Emma Krizmanich and Elisabeth Kay

The teen soaps of the 90s and 2000s changed network television forever. Beverly Hills 90210 was the blueprint; though I would venture to say that Dawson’s Creek took what 90210 had and perfected it, seeing that it was able to stand the test of time. These shows pushed the boundaries and described teens as they wanted to be seen and heard, and however cringe or untimely they may seem now, they created a dynasty–one that’s still trying to be maintained today. 

I started watching Dawson’s Creek out of morbid curiosity: I had heard the name thrown around, as well as the mention of specific plots, specifically the love triangle between the titular characters. I knew, since so many people recommended and raved about the show, that it had to have been somewhat well done, but I still had my drawbacks. Having watched my fair share of older shows and quitting a few seasons in, I didn’t have much hope for Dawson’s Creek, but boy, was I wrong. 

There is a reason that this show is in everyone's mouths. Though it’s often boisterous and agitating (I find myself hating quite a few characters throughout the six-season run), it does one thing right: it makes me feel understood. Even with the two decades of distance, I still feel as though they describe the teenage experience accurately, and even if I can’t see myself in the characters, they seem real. They’re messy and deluded, and although that might just be the result of poor writing, I feel for these characters, particularly Pacey and Joey–the couple that started it all. 

Shows today are still trying to mimic what those two had. It’s the second love trope done with the utmost of care. I believe that these characters work together, not just because we’re told so–looking at you, Dawson and Joey–but because the series proved it throughout seasons 3 and 4. It makes it all more worthwhile when, spoiler alert, they end up together against all odds. I find myself going back to rewatch their story, dedicating my time to seasons worth of TV-watching so I don’t miss a beat. It’s unfortunate, then, that I feel as though nothing has measured up since. 

There seemed to be a drop, somewhere in the 2010s, of this network formula teen series. Shows like The O.C. and One Tree Hill tried to profit off of the newfound success of this form of series, but, in my opinion, never seemed to measure up throughout the seasons. A bit later, there were mainstays like Gossip Girl, Pretty Little Liars, and the Vampire Diaries, but these don’t have the same magic to me. They are larger than life spectacles that focus more on plot than characters, which is where Dawson’s Creek shined. I have begun to notice recently though, with the smash hit of The Summer I Turned Pretty, no matter how wonderful or awful you think it may be, a sense of the teen drama spirit coming back. This is a show that focuses on relationships above all else, for better or for worse, and you can catch many people arguing on Twitter about who the Pacey and Joey of it all are. 

This isn’t the only series I’ve spotted making a teen drama comeback, however. Though it may be more aimed towards younger teens, the final series of High School Musical: The Musical: The Series, of which showrunner Tim Federle was greatly inspired by Dawson’s, relies on the found family and second love tropes of teen drama’s past. Other shows like Sex Education and even Riverdale (surprising, I know) have undertones of their predecessors. 

I’ve been seeing a bit of a shift in other shows nowadays as well. Though teen soaps of the past were gritty in their own ways, shows like Euphoria (whether you clarify this as a teen drama is your opinion) and On My Block depict more diverse casts in urban settings. And yes, they are very gritty. Heartstopper, a charming story featuring two queer characters (amongst others), is also pushing the boundaries about who these kinds of shows are about, and they have Jack McPhee from Dawson’s to thank for that. 

Whether these shows employ their tactics well or not is pretty irrelevant. I think it says more about where we are in society, just coming out of a pandemic with waves of nostalgia picking us up like riptides. If we’ve learned anything from the 2020s so far it’s that teenagers matter. Not just their likes, but also their ideas, beliefs, and spirit. Teens are the future, so it’s today that we need to start caring about them, whether it’s as large as mental health resources and getting them involved in politics, or as small as creating fun, if not good, shows that remind them that who they are is enough. 

If your interested in a further deep dive, a very interesting one I might add, into the ship that changed it all, I would suggest reading this article by Constance Grady: https://www.vox.com/culture/2018/1/25/16911234/dawsons-creek-20-years-love-triangle-joey-pacey

If you are suddenly feeling nostalgic to high school, here’s a list of the “best” teen dramas, featuring many I discussed above: https://www.glamour.com/story/best-teen-dramas

Written by Leighton Curless

Edited by Anna Taché & Elisabeth Kay

I love college…but it also makes me want to scream and pull my hair out. 

There’s this perception that college is supposed to be the best four years of your life, and it can be really wonderful—full of freedom, the chance to express yourself on your own, learning about things you’re passionate about—there are so many things that can make college amazing. Yet, college is also really, extremely, sometimes overwhelmingly, difficult. 

College is a different kind of workload from anything I’ve experienced before. I took lots of APs in high school and often felt like I was doing the absolute most, and for high school me, I was. But college is a whole different ball game, with massive amounts of reading, writing, and attempts to grasp abstract concepts on my to-do list every week. College is a constant stream of work, you’re never truly done with anything, at least not until the semester is over. There’s always something else you could be doing, something else that your energy could be pouring into. Not to mention, being a college student doesn’t mean only doing schoolwork—it also means trying to figure out your career aspirations, finding internships, and probably working at least a part-time job, all while maintaining a semblance of a social life. College is an extreme balancing act, demanding your attention in many places at many times. 

Being a sophomore, I’ve been feeling this more than ever (and I anticipate it only growing); not only are my academics intensifying, but I’m also more involved with various organizations on campus, and at the same time feeling more of the pressure of being a “grown-up”. It’s a lot to take in at once. There are moments when I feel my heart is bursting open with big dreams: excited for what’s ahead, for the possibilities that college is opening for me, for the friendships I have, and for the beautiful city I get to go to school in. And then there are other days where I feel the crushing weight of growing up, of responsibility, of trying to figure out what exactly I’m doing with my life. And I think—a part of college, and a part of growing up—is learning how to hold both of those feelings. 

This semester has proved to be a big learning curve for me in getting better at holding and balancing both. After being incredibly excited to come back to school, I found myself overwhelmed with my assignments and responsibilities. Then, my great uncle passed away shortly after the beginning of the semester and I found myself back at home much sooner than I expected, mourning someone who was an integral part of my life. When I came back to school, I felt that grief hanging heavy over me—the feeling of knowing that growing up also means losing people—trailing close behind. Even now, halfway through the semester, I still find myself falling asleep with the teddy bear made from my grandpa’s (my great uncle’s brother’s) shirts after he passed, a reminder of two people I loved deeply, and who were my biggest supporters, hugged closely to my chest. It’s been harder than I thought to get into a workflow, to really settle into my space, even when I’m living with some of my favorite people in the world in an apartment I love. But there’s also been really beautiful moments, in little things like my friend’s laughter, the way the sunlight comes through my window, or a reading I find particularly interesting; in bigger things like conversations with friends from home, going to concerts, and just spending so much time with people I love. There is pain and there is beauty—all at once. 

Basically, the thing I most want to say is that college isn’t always “the BEST”. College is an intense environment, and you’re often there at an intense time in your life. College doesn’t have to be good all the time for it to still be something you love—there will be major highs and major lows, but finding the beauty, the hope, and the people you love in between, while still giving yourself permission to feel all your emotions, is enough reason to keep moving forward, to keep finding yourself, and to keep loving. 

*** 

As an extra note—it is always okay to ask for help. It doesn’t make you weak, it just means you’re a living, breathing person going through a hard thing, or dealing with an imbalance, or feeling unsure, or so many other things and that’s okay. I am able to work through so many of the hard parts of college because of therapy and because of the support system I have—all because I asked for help. You are loved, you are valued, and you deserve to get the help you need. You got this, and if anyone hasn’t told you recently, I’m proud of you, for being here, for being you.

If you’ve been on any social media for the past two weeks, you may have seen the words “Roman Empire” trending. This trend started as a way to laugh at the fact that men admit to thinking about the Roman Empire multiple times a week. When I first heard this, I thought it was absolutely absurd, but then I started thinking, and realized I actually had my own Roman Empire: Princess Diana. 

I went to two of my roommates and they agreed me about how influential Princess Diana was to the world, historically and fashionably. After discussing with them, I was curious to see what other girls thought about daily, and if there were any overlaps. 

After asking a lot of different people, Princess Diana and the Salem Witch Trials were people’s  most common “Roman Empires.” Those who said Princess Diana talked about how the Royal Family treated her, as well as how much of an influential icon she was for people all over. In regards to the Salem Witch Trials, one person said they like to compare it with about how many things in modern times can kill women.

Another topic that was brought up was the Titanic. Some people said when they were kids, they were obsessed with the Titanic and consumed all the media they could about it, but then moved on as they got older. That was, until the OceanGate Submarine sunk earlier this year.  All the news and information about a similar tragedy grabbed their attention again and restarted their obsession. 

Throughout the past few weeks, I spoke to more and more women about regarding their Roman Empire, and while every response was different, they were all still connect in one way or another.. A professor of mine once said that people love to be obsessed with the mystery behind things—the “what if’s.” As a woman, I’ve noticed that other women love to take on something that has been unresolved or is niche, and it made me wonder why.  

I obviously don’t have the answer, but I’d like to think it’s because women throughout history have been seen as inferior and were pushed to the side, and many of these historical events/people are related to women. When I told a couple of guy friends about Princess Diana, some had no idea who she was, or they had no idea how important she was for people everywhere, especially women. It’s important to keep history alive, and even though these events are different, women will always support women, and continue to attach themselves to historical events where women were wronged.

Written by Isa Gattamorta

Edited by Emma Moran and Kate Castello

The idea of religion scares me. 

I know that might be a strong statement to make, but it’s the truth. I grew up in Brazil, a very religious country, and I was raised to pray every single night and ask for help from my “guardian angel.” If things went wrong, I was taught to believe by my family members that it was because I didn’t pray hard enough. Thankfully, my parents weren’t extremely religious. They definitely are believers but they never forced us to go to church—we were more of a lowkey version of Catholics. My grandma, however, had a small chapel in her home where she prayed every day. She had a collection of rosaries, and many statues of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, and angels. Even though my grandma and I had different views, it never affected our relationship. I remember calling her on Facetime when I was around 16 and explaining to her how I didn’t feel comfortable being religious, specifically Catholic, due to the exclusionary attitude the religion held towards different groups of people. She explained to me how she understands my feelings, and for her, religion is a helpful tool in experiencing peace. She loved the idea that she would be able to watch over her family after death and spend the rest of eternity in Heaven with her family around her. 

The idea of Heaven never sat right with me though, I truly believe that after death there is just emptiness. Not a bad emptiness, just peace really. I always loved the idea that this life is all there is for us, it has made me appreciate every single day more knowing that after this, life is really just over. 

When I tell my mom this, she asks me if it doesn’t make me feel sad, knowing that I don’t believe in the afterlife, and for a while, I told her it didn’t—and that’s because I never really experienced a death in my family. But, in June of 2021, I finally experienced the feeling of grief. My grandma died on June 24th from COVID-19 after fighting for a month. Before her death I kept having dreams of being back in Brazil with her, as if I had never left. It felt peaceful, it

felt warm, it felt like I truly was there with her. And every day I would wake up feeling the dread of knowing I was 5,059 miles away from her while she was fighting to stay alive and all I could do was hope she would get better. I couldn’t be there for her—none of us could.

 One morning I woke up and felt weird, I had been crying all night, unable to fall asleep from thinking about my grandmother. I went downstairs and saw my mom sitting down on the couch, she looked up at me and I saw her face. I knew at that moment that my grandma was no longer with us. 

I didn’t know what to do except be mad, mad at a “god” who took away one of the most important people in my life. I wanted to believe that there was a heaven so I could see her again, and feel her spirit around me, and I tried so hard and looked at every single “sign” as a message from her. I felt so alone for months because no one in my family understood what I was going through, they all believed. But this loneliness ended when I listened to the song Chinese Satellite by Phoebe Bridgers. The lyrics from the song that stood out to me are: 

You were screaming at the Evangelicals 

They were screaming right back from what I remember 

When you said I will never be your vegetable 

Because I think when you’re gone it’s forever 

But you know I’d stand on the corner 

Embarrassed with a picket sign 

If it meant I would see you 

When I die

Sometimes when I can’t sleep 

It’s just a matter of time before I’m hearing things 

Swore I could feel you through the walls 

But that’s impossible 

I want to believe 

This song helped me strengthen my beliefs that there truly is nothing after death—and that can be really beautiful too. I find happiness in knowing that my grandmother is at peace. And though I wish I could believe in some form of the afterlife, what brings me the most comfort is knowing that we are living our one life to the fullest extent possible, whatever that means to each person. Whether you are a believer or not, we can all enjoy our life on Earth and look back on beautiful memories of the people who are no longer with us without longing for the time you are finally reunited. Live your life for the people that have left you, live your life knowing they are proud of you and you don’t owe anyone anything. I believe in peace and serenity because of Chinese Satellite.

Written by Gabi Amorim

Edited by Lauren Myers & Kate Castello

POIDH: Pics Or It Didn’t Happen

An acronym coined when social media was first created that still holds its meaning to this day.

At first, this phrase was used to refer to crazy or unbelievable things that needed visual documentation in order to be believed. As social media has developed, it has taken on a new meaning and is now applied to the more simple things.

Every once in a while I may find myself drinking Starbucks outside, reading a book, wearing some cute sunglasses, and thinking to myself: I need to document this on social media. This would make a great Instagram post. Everyone needs to know how I’m reading this book, how good my drink looks, and how the lighting in my backyard is perfect. And then when I try to take a picture and it doesn’t look the exact way I want it to, I get irritated or stressed out. Thoughts like “If I don’t post this, no one will know I have great taste in books,” or “If I don’t post this, no one will know how good my Starbucks order is,” or “If I don’t post this, who’s going to see my awesome outfit,” run through my head. 

Why can’t I just enjoy a peaceful moment alone, reading a book outside in the sun? Why is my brain conditioned to turn every nice moment into a social media opportunity? I’m sure many of us are guilty of the very same thing– at least, I hope it's not just me. This doesn’t just have to apply to documenting “cool” things you are already doing and then whipping your camera out after the fact. Maybe it means going to a party for 5 minutes with the intent of just taking a few pictures, and then leaving so that people will think you are a person who goes out and parties, when in reality you are a person who prefers to stay in. 

Our generation has grown up with Instagram, Snapchat, TikTok, Twitter, and more. Constantly comparing ourselves to posts we see online, whether it be other people's cute outfits, expensive vacations, or delicious meals. Social media is a huge, unavoidable part of life. Sometimes it can be a wholesome thing, showcasing pictures of cute puppies or videos of best friends reuniting with each other. It can also be an anxiety-inducing environment, from promoting unrealistic beauty standards to inducing severe FOMO.  

I’ve been trying to teach myself that there are so many more important things to worry about than curating a perfect Instagram post. This is a hard lesson to learn as a person who has grown up with social media, as I’m sure many people can relate to. 

In an effort to make social media more personal and less stressful for myself, I decided to hide comments and likes on everything I post. For me, this turns my Instagram account into more of a collage, a representation of who I am and the things I find beautiful that have nothing to do with seeming cool to anyone else except for myself. 

Documenting your life on social media, whatever form that may be, can often be an enjoyable, uncomplicated thing. But it can also quickly turn into a stressor. I am hopeful that one day social media can become more authentic, more positive, and more simplistic. It’s becoming increasingly important to remember that just because you didn’t post an Instagram story doesn’t mean you didn’t have a beautiful day at the beach. Just because you didn’t make a TikTok of your outfit doesn’t mean you never wore it or that it went unappreciated.

I think we are on the right track, one that will lead us to a world where posting is not a priority, but instead more of an afterthought, because I think that’s a healthier way to live.

Written by Julia Brummel

Edited by Lauren Deaton and Elisabeth Kay

“You’re half and half,” she said. “Just like a creamer!”

Half and half. Two halves of a whole. American Asian. Amerasian. Coffee creamer, if you will: what my mother called me playfully. I’m made up of my mother’s resilience and my father’s perseverance. Internally, I embody my mother’s culture while I physically favor my father’s skin color. I am half Filipina and half Caucasian. Despite my Asian heritage, I am frequently presumed to be Caucasian due to the fairness of my skin (although with a tan in the summer, I am considered otherwise). As someone who is half Filipina with what many would call white-passing looks, I struggled to fully embrace and understand my cultural identity during my childhood. I was, although I hate to admit it, ignorant of the culture I am now proud of. Even so, ever since I was little, my mom always instructed me to be proud of being half-Filipina.

Growing up in a school community seriously lacking in diversity—the main component of the racial demographic being white—I found it embarrassingly easier not to mention my Filipino side or talk about it around my Caucasian friends in order for me to “fit in” more. Having to explain why I call my aunt and uncle Tito and Tita, and Grandma and Grandpa Lola and Lola on my mom’s side of the family felt uncomfortable and awkward to talk about. I know now that respect for elders is a huge aspect of Filipino culture, but at the time I didn’t fully understand that. I really regret not embracing my Filipino side when I was younger, and I wish I had felt more confident in my cultural identity. 

Throughout my childhood, it felt as if people at my school were playing a guessing game with my race. I often felt my biraciality was something people found difficult to wrap their heads around—something extraordinary. Especially at a young age, my peers saying, “You don’t look Asian” and my mom affectionately saying “Just tell them your mom’s brown,” made me feel conflicted about my identity. The assumptions of people trying to guess my ethnicity made me feel out of place—I was a puzzle being critiqued for the interlocking of its pieces. I felt tethered between my appearance and self, having no choice other than to voice the half of the identity no one could see on the surface. I didn’t want to do it in the way of just simply “proving” my Asian heritage because someone didn’t believe me, but rather in the way of voicing my pride for my Filipino side because I feel it is my responsibility to do so. My Filipino side may be invisible to many, but my looks don’t define me and my upbringing.

My cultural identity is not a perplexing jigsaw made for you to comment on the presentation of the pieces—Who are you to question the puzzle maker?

After I graduated, from what the locals call the “Wexford Bubble” of a school community and moved to college—it was eye-opening for me to experience such an inclusive community compared to the one I spent years growing up in. I finally felt like I belonged on campus; I was suddenly surrounded by others from many different backgrounds. My biraciality was no longer seen as something out of the ordinary.

“I never want to ride the subway again.”

Although I was born favoring my father’s fair skin, I sometimes wonder what life would be like if I had been born resembling my mother. Simply because I favor the caucasian features of my dad, I feel that I’ve dodged the bullet of the distressing, ever-present anti-Asian and anti-Asian American hate crimes. Yet I still feel fear, grief, and guilt for wondering if my feelings are justified by having white-passing privilege while being Asian American. The guilt of feeling scared for my mother while I myself will never be able to live vicariously through her and ever feel the amount of terror she feels. 

Are only 50% of my emotions acceptable?

Looking at Olivia Rodrigo in her prime today, I see her as an inspiration not only for her talent and success in her singing career but also because I can relate to her culturally. As she is also Asian American—half Filipina, and half Caucasian—I feel proud that she is open about her family heritage and ethnic background to the public. However, there has been an ongoing debate if Olivia is perceived as white-passing or not, to which there is no definite answer. One thing is certain, although she may have some privileges other Asian artists don’t, due to her being half-white, that doesn’t eliminate the Filipino half of her identity.

I still struggle with identity issues with being biracial, but I have come to terms with the fact that my physical appearance is not equivalent to an absence or diminishment of the culture that has been instilled within me ever since I was little. I can confidently say that both sides of my heritage combined have shaped my upbringing and made me the person I am today. By speaking out on my experiences and understanding what it means to have white-passing privilege while still fully embracing my Filipino culture I hope I can serve as a reminder for others to fully embrace their culture and who they are. Coming to terms with understanding my own cultural identity has been a journey from childhood to adulthood, but one that I’ve learned to embrace wholeheartedly.

Written by Sofia Brickner

Edited by Sydney Williams and Kate Castello

I once knew a girl who had a scar on the right side of her bony nose—a deep red circle from her glasses nose pads. It’s what she’d tell people when they asked for a fun fact. She thought it was the most interesting thing about her.  

I once knew a girl who hit her growth spurt early. She towered over her classmates, including the boys. It made her feel like a boy. She tried to be smaller by forcing her shoulders to the ground. Her back morphed into the letter “S”, a snake that betrayed her. A male classmate once asked her why she had more arm hair than he did.  

I once knew a girl who had blonde hair. She rolled her khaki skirt too many times. Sitting behind her you could see her shoulder blades leaning in for a kiss periodically. I saw her present in class once, it sounded like she was crying.  

I once knew a girl who lived for others' happiness. Every day she would shuffle to the locker room after school, and trade her crested button-down shirt for a reversible jersey. She ran up and down the court, up and down the court, up and down the court. Her coach told her she could play next level if she tried hard enough. That was all she ever did.  

Tried.

I used to know all these girls very well because they used to be me. They still are me—but I’ll never be them again. Sometimes I think of them as lost friends, girls I left on good terms with and whom I look back on warmly. Other times I think of them as enemies, lurking in the shadows awaiting my eminent downfall, waiting to get their revenge on me for betraying them. I think all of them look at me with a tinge of anger—they never thought they would be replaced. They all thought they’d be me forever, laughing at the girl they sent to the sidelines, never thinking it would be them. Now they all sit in severance, waiting for the next transition, waiting for the girl I am now to get dethroned.  

I try to defend myself against them, ripping them apart. My cruel attempt at a power play.  

Why would she wear that?  

She looks fat.  

Why would she say that? 

Her smile looks dumb.  

These girls have no way of talking back to me—they’re defenseless. But sometimes I imagine what our interactions would be like, what they’d think of me now. Would they recognize me? I like to imagine nine-year-old me would look at me with pride, she dreamed of being an author and designer. 14-year-old me would probably look at me with confusion, you don’t live in New York? I don’t like to imagine what 17-year-old me would think. I worry she’d look at me with disgust upon the realization that I will not be graduating with a doctorate or any science-related degree. I know 19-year-old me would be proud that I found friends and love.   

As I get older my awareness of these girls grows—just as my awareness of time passing grows. Next year I’ll be popping the comfort of my university bubble. I still remember the girl I used to be when I stepped into this bubble, I can’t seem to grasp the fact I will not be the girl I am today in a year. I worry what 21-year-old me will think about myself in one year. Two years. Ten.   

I claim that all these girls are from my past, but really, they’re always present with me. Sometimes I catch a glance of them in the mirror or see them in the audience when my voice shakes. I pass these girls on the street, in class, at parties, in private. I carry all their baggage, all their anxieties, all their fears. It’s heavy—I can feel the pressure pushing down on my shoulders. But I also carry their memories, their joy, their passions. I would not trade those for the world. 

Written by Belle O'Hara

Edited by Kate Castello

Growing up a girl, you don’t realize when you start looking at the women on your television screen more as guidelines rather than characters. You notice how they’re dressed, how they speak, how they are spoken to, how they react. You start seeing it in real life through an interview with your favorite character at the Kids Choice Awards, then red carpet events. You see negative posts about your favorite artists plastered over social media, news outlets, YouTube—erasing the woman you looked up to and replacing her with a villain, a crybaby, a drama queen. In one way or another, most girls experience a handful of these events growing up, but we don’t realize the impact the presentation of successful women in the media has on us. 

At age 10, Taylor Swift was my idol. I adored her in every sense, her music, her presence—I wanted to be her. At age 13, I hated her. I stopped listening to her music, poked fun at those who worshiped her the way I had years prior, viewing her as a grown woman who could only write music about her many boyfriends. The Times had dubbed 2014 “The Year of Taylor Swift”, but by 2016, the general media had turned against her. Her new media-produced image was reflected in the shift of her fan base: the many young girls just like me, who had idolized her, suddenly wanted nothing to do with her. In 2016, The Vulture described this period of Taylor Swift's adoration to have “vanished”, clearly showing this sudden (but thorough) erasure of the love many had previously held for her. Many media outlets painted her as anti-feminist, shallow, and “fake”, pulling evidence from song lyrics written by a fifteen-year-old girl, “feuds” elicited by grown men, and media-trained answers to targeted questions from reporters. We were conditioned to hate her through news stations and teen magazine articles. I held this hate until 2020, as a sophomore in high school, and I have my younger sister to thank for it; one of the—still many—“Swifties” who had not abandoned ship. I share this story to encapsulate the fact that, even as a self-identifying feminist for as long as I can remember, I was successfully brainwashed into hating Taylor Swift simply because, at the end of the day, she was a woman, she was successful, she was not sorry and would not stop. 

I recognized my passion for this unfortunate occurrence around the same time. Sitting through my first thorough listen of the “Lover” album, I came across the song “The Man”. To this day, the impact this song has on me is immeasurable. At age sixteen, I sat in the car with my mother and sister in tears after listening to an eye-opening pop song; every reason I had found to hate Taylor Swift was finally disassembled after three minutes and ten seconds. Taylor Swift’s “The Man’ captures the exact dilemma presented to successful women in the media: “I'm so sick of running as fast as I can, wondering if I'd get there quicker if I was a man, and I'm so sick of them coming at me again, 'cause if I was a man, then I'd be the man.” Regardless of how many awards a woman wins or records she breaks, she needs to do double the work, have double the impact, to even stand a chance of being placed on the pedestal beside her male counterparts.

This theme is carried across into the realm of the most classic Hollywood tradition: the red carpet. Events where celebrities of the highest caliber are mixed with up-and-comers, all dressed to the nines, and there to discuss their look and their work. While women and men working in entertainment face similar challenges in the sense of scheduling and work-life balance, the differing questions asked to male and female celebrities at these events paints a different narrative. Jennifer Garner presented this issue in her acceptance speech at ELLE’s 2014 Women in Hollywood event, where she described how her and her husband were on the same red carpet, but the questions asked to them were drastically different. She explains that, while she received questions about how she managed her work life and her family, he received no questions of the sort. Not only had he not heard these questions on that particular night, he never had, not once. Many other female celebrities have had similar experiences, and ELLE recognizes that they are also guilty of subjecting celebrities to different questions based on their gender. This led to ELLE’s initiative to flip the script; they decided they would be targeting work-family balance, beauty routine, and diet questions towards the men present on the next red carpet event—not the women. Many men responded to these questions in a joking manner, not taking them seriously, and the ones that did answer honestly shared that they felt no pressure to look a certain way or put a lot of time and effort into their appearance for these events. While this alone shows a drastic difference between the societal pressure on men and women to appear a certain way, it is also important to address the fact that a woman would not be seen as funny for responding to questions this way. A woman would be seen as rude, ungrateful, and condescending. 

Taylor Swift says it best in her interview with CBS, “There's a different vocabulary for men and women in the music industry…A man does something? 'Confident and bold.' A woman does it the same way, and she's 'smug.' A man 'stands up for himself,' [whereas] a woman 'throws a temper tantrum” (2). While working in the same entertainment industry, the spotlight shed on men and women are inherently different. This is portrayed in every aspect of the media and is a trend that can be found in every professional setting a woman enters. A woman’s success can be diminished with one article, her strategy painted as manipulation, her talent tied to the man she’s dating at the time. What society is asking of us is not the same. This is made clear to us at a young age, before we can even recognize the disparity we are signed up for at birth. I was lucky enough to be surrounded by strong women, and raised by a stronger one, who saw this discrepancy, which allowed me to see it too. As women, we should not have to accept this societal pattern on our television screens, or in our favorite magazines, and we definitely should not have to face it ourselves on a day-to-day basis.

Written by Olivia Ciampi

Edited by Briana Malik and Kate Castello