Growing up in Miami, Florida was a blessing and a curse. 

A blessing because I was around my culture and roots at all times—allowing me to be my true self ethnically. A curse because there were body standards within the culture that I, and many others, were expected to achieve.

Growing up, I would watch telenovelas with my grandmother and would see tan-skinned, tall women with curves in all the right places. I would look at myself after watching these and think:

Why don’t I look like them? 

Going to school didn’t help either. There were many girls who were tanner than me, thinner than me, and overall fit the image of the Latina women I would see on television: the image everyone thinks of. These girls could also speak Spanish just a bit better than me. Needless to say, my insecurities were through the roof.

As I got older, I began to see these expectations on social media, which is hard to avoid no matter who you are. I would not only see actresses with a similar background not look like me, but friends of mine look completely different—better. They had thick dark hair and nice lines all along their bodies, something I can’t achieve.

Being around them made me feel very different. We looked nothing alike, most of them fit the Latina look, but I didn’t feel like I did. No matter what I did, I never felt like I fit the look of my culture. I was wider in the wrong places and was hairier than most girls. Of course, genetics plays a huge part in my look, but as a kid that’s the last thing you think about.

It didn’t help that a lot of the older women in my life would make me feel like I didn’t belong because of how I looked either. This happened because they were also of a bigger build, and wanted to make sure that I avoided getting to that point myself. I never understood why though—they were all beautiful. They would compare my build to the girls around me, saying I needed to be thinner and look more like them. I would exercise as much as I could, but it was never enough.

I of course appreciated their overall message, but I do wish I could just have lived a life without those cares. Moving north for college didn’t end these insecurities, unfortunately, but it did get better. The Latina women I would meet would still fit the image I had seen on TV all those years ago, but this time I didn’t care as much. 

I have learned to embrace who I am and accept that I don’t look like those women, but that doesn’t make me any less Latina. I am proud of my culture and as I grow older, I am proud of my look.

Written by Isabella Gattamorta

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Kate Castello

Emptiness.

“Ms. Schwartz?” A gentle voice asked, pulling Nan from her thoughts. “Ms. Schwartz, did you hear me?” Numbly, Nan nodded, heart slowly moving up her throat as she struggled to breathe in.

“You said–” she stopped, voice trembling. She cleared her throat. “You said I have breast cancer, and I–”

“And you need a double mastectomy.” The doctor prompted, eyes filled with concern as she leaned across the desk, angling herself closer to Nan. “We can try chemo, of course, but with the aggressive nature of this cancer, to avoid further pain, I’d recommend immediate surgery.”

Further pain? Nan questioned, her thoughts frantic as her eyes scanned the informative pamphlet being pushed across the table to her. How is complicated surgery to remove my breasts a way for me to avoid ‘further pain’?

Taking her silence as an answer, the doctor smiled warmly and patted Nan’s hand, which she had forgotten lay motionless on the desk. “You can take a few days to decide. When you’re ready, give me a call.”

“But please,” she continued, leading Nan to the door, “decide quickly. The sooner we get in there the better.” Her smile, while intending to be kind, suddenly seemed saccharine, utterly artificial and cloyingly sweet. Nan pasted an equally fake smile on her face, and headed out of the door. As she walked down the hall, she hugged herself, wrapping her arms around her chest and squeezing herself tightly. The familiar swell of her breasts greeted her, comfortably firm under her forearm. Her throat tightened, a tell tale sign she was about to cry. Refusing to cry in her oncologist's office, she rushed to her car, silent tears falling as she ran, hand clamped over her mouth. She closed her car door with a slam, and sat, panting, her heart beating loudly in her chest, face growing redder and redder as she began to let herself go. Within seconds, her car was filled with the sounds of her loud, howling, uncontrollable sobs.

***

“It’s been over a week! What more is there to think about Nan? You have to do this! Don’t you want to live?” Her mother demanded, pacing in front of Nan, who was slouched back into the familiar red couch at her parents’ house. “Where is the phone? I’ll call her right now. Sometime next week would be perfect. I could drive you there and pick you up after. I–”

“Mom, stop!” Nan leaned forward with a grunt, her head in her hands. She took a breath, rolling her shoulders back. “I can’t have this conversation again. This isn’t about you. This is my choice. Mine.” She pointed emphatically at herself, hands shaking with tension.

Her mom’s chin trembled, face crumpling. “I know sweetie, I’m just trying to take care of you. Please–” her voice broke, as she stifled a sob. “Please. You’re my daughter. Let me take care of you.” The pure devastation in her voice made Nan pause. She sighed. The look of momentary hope on her mom’s face broke her heart. 

I can’t do this to her again. She crossed her arms across her chest, a motion now familiar to her.

“Fine,” she said, swallowing heavily, fighting back now familiar tears. “I’ll do it.” A sinking feeling entered her chest, weighing her down as her mom hugged her tightly. 

Emptiness.

***

Nan woke up to a steady beeping sound. Hearing snoring, she turned her head, groaning slightly. Her mother was asleep in a chair by her head, opposite the row of machines, her arms crossed across her chest. Gingerly, Nan moved her non IV-bearing arm to her chest. Her gentle fingers brushed against the neck of her hospital gown. She pulled it up slightly, revealing thick, tightly wrapped bandages. Shaking slightly, she dropped the gown, her fingers lightly tracing her chest. 

Emptiness.

They were met with an unfamiliar flatness that caused Nan’s breath to hitch. With a start her mother woke up, ending Nan’s private moment. “Oh my, you’re awake! I’ll go get the nurse!” Before Nan could protest, her mother had jumped up, ran across the room, and burst through the door. A single tear rolled down Nan’s cheek as she stared forlornly at her bandage-wrapped, hospital gown-clad chest. 

Emptiness.

***

“Come on Nan, it’ll be fun.” Her best friend Anastasia pleaded, rolling across Nan’s bed. As she neared, Nan tucked the pillow closer to her body, relishing in its cover. “I can’t,” she answered simply, “I’m not supposed to be outside too long while my stitches heal.”

“It’s been a month! They’ve healed! Please come! It’s the first nice day of the summer, we have to go out and enjoy it.” But Anastasia’s pleas were lost on deaf ears. Nan’s arms tightened in silent protest as she pressed the pillow against her chest. 

Emptiness.

“I can’t go outside Stas, leave it alone.” Anastasia opened her mouth to respond, but, upon seeing the look on Nan’s face, backed off. “Okay,” she held her hands up in defeat, “we’ll just stay in.”

***

“Nan! Let’s go!” Her mother called, fluffing her hair in the entryway mirror. Nan jammed her sneakers on, making sure to keep her gaze aimed at the floor as she walked down the hall. 

Emptiness.

She stepped outside, the bright sun making her wince. She wrapped the cardigan tightly around her, her arms covering her flat chest. Her mom beckoned to her, a bright smile on her face as Nan walked towards the car. “We’ll have a girl’s night! We’ll drink margaritas, have some tacos, it’ll be great!” She chirped as Nan slid into the passenger’s seat. Nan glanced over at her mom, whose smile faltered, and gave her a flat grin. “Yeah, it’ll be great.” Her mom sighed, tipped her head back, and swore silently under her breath. “Okay, scratch dinner. I have an idea.” She canceled the GPS’ directions to the restaurant and entered a new address. Confirming the drive, she pulled out of the driveway. After driving in awkward silence for a few minutes, Nan’s mother flipped on the jazz station. She hummed along, tapping the steering wheel as she swayed to the beat. Nan closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cool window as she let the sun warm her face. 

“Nan,” her mother whispered, shaking her shoulder. “Get up, we’re here.” Blinking the tiredness out of her eyes, Nan unbuckled her seatbelt and hesitantly opened the door. Her mom had parked at a strip mall, full of cheesy-looking pizzarias, pawn shops, and liquor stores. She turned to her mom, eyebrows raised in question. Her mom smiled slightly, and pulled her forward.

***

Nan dragged her feet, eyes trained stubbornly to the ground as her mom bounced into the tattoo parlor. “Hello!” She chirped, walking up the reception desk. “My daughter would like to get a tattoo.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo,” Nan grumbled, arms bundled around herself protectively, “and besides, you don’t even like tattoos.” 

Emptiness.

Her mom waved her off, eyes trained on the buff receptionist with a neck tattoo and nose piercings. “Why don’t you just talk to an artist? Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

The receptionist led them to a private room at the end of a long hallway. Nan ducked inside, taking a seat on the appointment chair. “I’ll be in in one second hon,” her mom called after her. She lingered outside, mumbling something to the receptionist, who nodded solemnly, and disappeared back down the hallway. 

***

After a few minutes, a slim, dark-haired woman who Nan assumed to be the tattoo artist, based on the tattoos on her thin arms, walked into the room. “Hi Nan,” Her cheery voice said, “I’m Victoria, and I hear you’re in the market for a tattoo today.” Upon seeing Nan’s stony expression, her resolute silence, she smiled warmly at Nan’s mom. “Ma’am,” she began, “if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I think we could do with some privacy.”

Ha! Nan laughed bitterly, Good luck getting Mom to leave. 

To her surprise, her mom nodded amicably and left the room. Victoria grabbed her mother’s once-inhabited chair, and pulled it over to Nan. “So you had breast cancer.” Nan flinched at the blunt words, her face blushing furiously. “No, no, no,” Victoria exclaimed, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” She began pulling at the buttons of her shirt. Nan flinched, covering her own chest.

Emptiness.

“I had breast cancer too,” she said as she hastily undid the buttons. Nan relaxed, arms sliding to her side once more. “I got a double mastectomy. And I felt like a piece of me was missing after that. I shut myself in for months. I didn’t want to go anywhere and see these whole, happy, feminine women walking around, enjoying their lives.” She laughed bitterly, reaching the last button. 

“I had nearly given up on ever feeling beautiful, or even whole again, but I joined a support group on Facebook. And I saw a woman, a tattoo artist, who had gotten a chest tattoo after her incisions healed. A lotus, to symbolize rebirth.” She pulled her shirt open, revealing a beautifully shaded peacock. Its body was a brilliant blue, seeming to shimmer on her skin. The feathers were light and detailed, and appeared so real Nan wanted to reach out and touch them. Their iridescence spread across Victoria’s chest, covering her scars entirely.

“I wanted to feel beautiful in my body again. I wanted to be able to walk proudly, strutting, if you will, like a peacock. So my friend gave me this tattoo. And it’s the best decision I’ve ever made.” She smiled shyly, buttoning her shirt back up. “And, if you give me the chance, I’d love to give you one too.” Tears welling up in her eyes, Nan nodded, her mind instantly made up. “I’d really like that.”

***

Two weeks later, Nan walked out of ‘Pins and Needles’, the name of the tattoo shop. After five painful sessions with Victoria, her tattoo was complete. Her mother sat in the car, waiting in the parking lot. “How does it look?” She asked eagerly, clapping her hands together. Nan shook her head. “I haven’t seen it yet.” 

“What? Why not?” Her mother asked. “How can you not have seen it?”

“I didn’t want to,” Nan replied simply, “Not until it was ready.” Her mother threw up her hands in exasperation, but Nan could see a bright smile cross her face. They drove home, listening to familiar jazz. They hummed along, spirits high as they danced in their seats. As soon as they got home, Nan ran up to her childhood room. “Don’t you want to see it together?” Her mom called. She was answered with the slamming of Nan’s door.

Nan leaned against her door, breathing heavily. Her heart pounded and blood roared as she slowly unbuttoned her red and black checkered flannel. It’s okay. It’s not empty anymore. She thought to herself as she stood with her back to the mirror. Just turn around. Arms clenched by her side, eyes squeezed shut, she inched around. Slowly, she cracked open one eye, then the other, and a sob broke out of her throat.

Victoria had drawn a beautiful tree. Its roots were strong and defined, curving around her scars. The leaves were shades of blue and green, bright and vibrant against Nan’s pale skin. Their carefully drawn lines gave them the appearance of being in motion, waving in an invisible wind. The trunk was supple, yet strong.

Nan pulled open the letter Victoria had written to her.

The Tree of Life, Victoria had written in delicate cursive, To show that your life is strongly rooted. It’ll go on, growing and changing, just as you will. 

Sinking to her knees, Nan cried out in relief, eyes trained stalwartly on her reflection. 

Whole.

Written by Teagan Chandler

Edited by Leyla Akselioglu and Kate Castello

I didn’t get my first A minus until my first semester of college. 

It’s a perfectly respectable grade, especially as a new college student, yet part of me felt strange to see the foreign minus mark next to the A. I was an overachieving perfectionist in high school—to put it lightly—and my status as a distinguished honor roll student was both a source of pride as well as one of shame for me growing up. So when I saw that dreaded A- appear on my transcript, I couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed. 

Mostly, though, I felt relieved. 

This small, pale stain on my academic record would finally relinquish me of the “perfection” that claimed my identity in high school.

When I look back now, I realize my perfectionist problem started much earlier than high school. For as long as I can remember, I’ve always excelled in my school work. I’ve loved reading even before I could actually read, and as early as second grade, I was labeled “gifted” despite the fact that my tiny, rural school offered no real opportunities for kids like me. 

In middle school, my classmates started calling me “Robot,” for my high grades and strong participation in school. Usually, I simply laughed or brushed it off, pretending it didn’t bother me that the only thing kids saw when they looked at me was my ability to rapidly solve algebra problems or earn an A on a challenging science test. 

In high school, I decided to try to change the way people saw me. I sat strategically near the back of the classroom. I didn’t share my grade when the teacher passed back tests and answered questions only when called upon, hoping people would forget their nickname for me. 

This strategy (shockingly) didn’t work out so well for me. I wasn’t willing to compromise my desire for academic success, and I couldn’t bring myself to refuse to try at something so important when I knew I was good at it. I’ve always had a passion for learning, for being deeply curious about the world. My hard working nature was already ingrained too deep. And like my love for learning, the perception everyone in my life had of me felt too rooted in place to ever change. 

This lingering Robot perception of me extended beyond my involvement in academics. Being noticed only for my brain reinforced negative self-images I had of myself, and I thought that no one found interest in me romantically. I thought that the problem was me: I wasn’t attractive or desirable enough. I had to be a brain, I couldn’t simply be a girl. 

It was true I had never been particularly feminine. Actually, growing up I had an aversion to all the conventional “girly” things. I hated school dances and renounced anything pink. I never liked wearing a dress or makeup or jewelry. I never wanted to go shopping or get my nails done. My mom teased me for wearing only sweatshirts and jeans but it was what I found most comfortable, especially at an age when I simply wanted to disappear. All of this made me feel like I didn’t know how to dress or date or even truly be feminine. I struggled to feel beautiful, confident, and worthy of love. 

It took a long time for me to realize this glittery pink version of femininity wasn’t the only way to be a woman. In fact, there is no one right way. Contrary to what society might condition us to believe, women can be both smart and beautiful. It sounds obvious, but it took me longer than I’d like to admit to realize I shouldn’t have to sacrifice part of myself in order to feel desirable. My intelligence isn’t the only facet of myself worthy of notice from the world. There isn’t anything wrong with me for the way others choose to characterize me. The problem was never internal but external, and I realized no matter what I did, how other people perceive me isn’t necessarily a true reflection of who I am. What’s wrong is their perception, the fact that they only cared to look at one piece of my identity.

This simultaneous struggle to define myself as a woman, see myself as beautiful, and be perceived as something other than a Robot is my fight to overcome what I call the Robot-Barbie Dichotomy.

Society has countless expectations for women, many of which are contradictory: Be smart but not the smartest person in the room because no one likes a know-it-all. Be pretty but make it look natural, even effortless, don’t wear too much makeup. Be confident but don’t flaunt it; no one likes a girl who’s arrogant. Smile. Be nice but not a pushover. Let guys pursue you, but don’t be too easy. Be a cool girl, don’t let anything make you emotional. But be strong and assertive, don’t let anything get in your way.  

It’s easy to see why so many women struggle to make sense of their identities, to break free from the dichotomy society tries to pigeonhole us into. Sometimes it feels like the world will only ever see you as one of two things: a Barbie or a Robot. And although some of these statements may seem outdated, the reduction of women’s identities remains a very real and prevalent issue. I’ve experienced it and I’m sure many of you have too, whatever your version of the dichotomy might be. I’m still working on letting go of the versions of myself I once thought I had to be, and even more difficult, the shame that accompanied the desire to fit myself into a neat box within the dichotomy.

So my encouragement to you now is this: be contradictory. 

Be surprising, be creative, be whatever you want to be. Don’t let anyone convince you that you aren’t capable of becoming whoever you wish to be. And don’t feel like you have to choose between identities; embrace them all.

Written by Lauren Myers

Edited by Kate Castello

When I was younger, I was obsessed with Justin Bieber. When it came to birthdays, Christmas, or any other holiday that required my family to buy me a gift, any piece of Justin Bieber memorabilia was their first thought. So, when going back to school, I had to have at least one notebook with Justin Bieber’s face on it.

I remember walking in on my first day of school, so excited to show my friends my new school supplies; I thought the mass-produced notebook I had bought from Target was so special—as if Justin himself had hand-delivered it to me. 

While my friends were just as excited as I was, some people—mainly the boys in my class—had begun to tease me for it. While the comments weren’t malicious, they still bothered me.

As years went by, my obsessions grew. I had a One Direction planner all throughout middle school and chose to wear 5 Seconds of Summer shirts on the days our Catholic school had allowed us to dress out of uniform. I was proud of the things I enjoyed and wanted to showcase them to other people.

So why were people constantly making fun of the things that made me happy?

I remember feeling a need to not be too ‘girly’ in elementary school; I never admitted my favorite color was pink because it seemed too feminine. But, as I grew, I began to love the different aspects of femininity, like playing around with makeup or dressing myself up for different school events. 

When telling people that I’m an English Writing major, and have dreams of becoming an author, they’ve asked if I’m going to write cheesy romance books, or instantly make a joke about me writing smut for the rest of my life. 

As I discovered my body, and what brought my body pleasure, it felt as though it always got pushed to the side. The other person values their own pleasure and desire before mine, and when they’re fulfilled it’s over. My body is just another body to them. 

For a while, I’d wondered if the fact that this upset me so much made me a narcissist– I was just being too selfish, and my pleasure shouldn’t mean this much to me. That maybe I was just meant to settle in the state of being averagely satisfied. But that’s not true.

To want to experience pleasure and satisfaction, and to simply enjoy what you’re doing, isn’t rooted in narcissism; it’s a basic human need.

Written by Elizabeth Kay

Edited by Wendy Moore and Kate Castello

Dear Little Me,

Lately I’ve been spending a lot of time wondering what you would think of me—if you’d be proud, excited for where your future is headed. Your eyes were always so full of love and joy and your heart so full of hope. Would you still look proudly at me, with my weary eyes and weighted smile? I don’t know, but on good days I like to imagine you would. 

I do know for a fact you’d be glad you never stopped reading, delighted that you’re an English major, that your life is still steeped in story. You read and you write all the time, and it’s so much harder than you thought it would be but somehow you still love it. And you love college—you spent so much of your life being told you were an old soul and now you feel like you’re finally growing into your personality. You do miss home, kind of a lot more than you thought you would. You, who were so desperate for a new adventure, to be in a different place, with big dreams and an even bigger heart, turned out to have a big soft spot for home. But in a way, missing home is something you love—calling your parents,  being grateful for the incredible people who make your life so bright. And you’ve found some really amazing friends in Pittsburgh too—that’s right, Pittsburgh, a city you had absolutely zero concept of as a kid. Through a series of taking chances and oddly specific signs from the universe, you ended up here. 

And you are fun and funny, obsessed with movies, with a music taste you think is incredible and a parasocial relationship with Phoebe Bridgers. You don’t swim anymore, or really even run, but you love exercising again. The body that as a kid you so happily called your home you now have a complicated relationship with; with its curves and its stretch marks, but also with its memories and its smiles and its capacity to dance. You have bangs again, and you absolutely love them (bet you never thought that would happen after you chopped them off). You wear clothes you like, and sometimes ones you don’t, but you’re figuring it out. 

You’re figuring a lot of things out. Anxiety is really hard and scary and daunting, but I think even as a kid you were already beginning to learn that. Your health will be worse and more frustrating than you want it to be, your body not keeping up with everyone else’s your age—but even still that doesn’t stop you from living as best as you can. Most of your life is really good, and you’re really thankful. 

If I could look back in time and tell you anything I would say: 

1) Please for the love of God save more of your money, you really do not need all of those clothes I promise.

 2) It really is all about balance, of work, of food, of fun, of everything. 

3) The right people will stay, and they will make your life so amazing. 

4) Be who you want to be, not who other people tell you to be. 

5) Love yourself; you’re always going to be stuck with you, you might as well love her. 

6) Be nicer to your parents, they’re really incredible. 

7) Keep chasing those dreams, they’ve gotten you this far, keep going after them.

You’re a really cool kid, like honestly I look at pictures of you and you’re kind of iconic. Life is gonna be life, make the best of it, you got this. I love you. 

Love, 

You

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Kaitlyn Seydel & Kate Castello

I tell people my favorite coffee shop is a local cafe downtown.

I go to Starbucks every day

Ask me where my outfit is from, and I’ll respond; "it's thrifted".

A closer examination of the tag would tell you it is from Zara

The best concert I have ever been to was this indie band in a small venue.

I would sell my soul to see Harry Styles live again

We all strive for this sense of difference. In this quest for individuality we chase what we were originally running from: being basic.

Being called basic in today's society is always said with a little edge in the voice. Meaning, I cannot recall the last time someone described someone or something as basic with the intention of flattery. When searching for insults or jabs at someone, basic always seems to be in the top three options. I myself am guilty of this belief in the idea of basic equating to bad, which begs the question:

Why?

Since when was liking a universally accepted item, song, person, or clothing item, “embarrassing”?

Personally, I find it to be most evident in terms of music or clothing. Whenever I am in public listening to Harry Styles, Taylor Swift, or anything you can find on the Billboard Top 100, I’m constantly afraid someone with a microphone and camera will come up to me and ask me what I am listening to. Embarrassed, I would have to admit “Meet Me In the Hallway” or “Cardigan” and then suffer through the endless TikTok comments calling me basic or lame. This is a genuine fear of mine, a very unrealistic one, but a fear nonetheless. I worry that Harry Styles will be my most listened to artist at the end of the year in my Spotify Wrapped and not some random Indie band I found one day and convinced myself was good because the album art was cool.

It’s the same idea with clothing—I thrift my clothes mostly because I like the challenge of walking into a thrift store and finding a gem that sometimes feels like it was meant for me. I also thrift because I appreciate the individuality my clothes represent. I know no one else will have my exact clothing item,eliminating the possibility of being considered basic. Yet, whenever I walk into a thrift store, I am surrounded by about ten other college-aged girls. We are all participating in the same act, so does this make Goodwill basic? Are we all becoming exactly what we told ourselves we would never become?

This is the main issue I have with being “basic”. When does it begin? While everyone was running from the designated trend of the season, we arrived at the same point, convincing ourselves we are different. There is some sort of superiority complex that comes with convincing yourself you go against the curve, causing you to look down on those who stick to the trend. Yet, if you stop looking down and instead start looking around, you will see you are not the only one up there. We are all basic, and that is not a bad thing.

I am in no way saying we all need to be little cookie cutters of each other and that everyone needs to like the same thing. Having your own interests and opinions are important—it’s what makes us who we are. If you happen to find your interests and opinions lining up with the majority, that doesn’t make them less important, less valuable, or “basic”.

Whenever I am with someone and we admit that something is basic, I back it up with “That’s because it's good!” Because it’s true! Something gets coined “basic” because multiple people enjoy it, and participating in that enjoyment is supposed to be fun, not embarrassing.

I think so much about how others will perceive me and my preferences, that I lose sight of why I like those things in the first place, because they make me happy. I am aware of how incredibly cheesy that sounds, but I think it is important. Basic is not an insult, it’s a community, and one that I am teaching myself I am proud to be in.

Because being basic just means we all have good taste. So go us.

Written by Belle O’Hara

I’ve been a swiftie ever since I can remember. The Red stadium tour was my first concert, and you’ll see me in the Ticketmaster trenches so I can get my ticket to the Eras Tour. Here are some standout tracks from Midnight, including the 3 am releases I have been listening to on repeat.

You’re on Your Own Kid

This song reminds me of young Taylor with the youthfulness and fun she brings to the music while also delivering a punch with the lyrics. These lyrics make me think of my childhood and growing up while also realizing how much we have seen Taylor mature through her music career. I recommend checking out the Spiderman: No Way Home edits to this song if you weren’t already feeling emotional.

Anti-Hero

Let’s talk about the sexy baby line. The first time I listened to the song, I didn’t think much of the line. It sounded silly, but I thought I knew what she was trying to say, that she feels like a big monster compared to all of the small and cute women surrounding her. As someone who always tends to be on the taller side of women, I understand her strife. This line is also a call out to a joke from 30 Rock where a woman puts on a” sexy baby” act to impress a man. Either way, I think that my interpretation stands, and this bizarre phrase only adds to the theatrics of the song.

Would’ve, Could’ve, Should’ve

I am so excited to go home to scream this song while I drive with the windows down. It makes me feel like I had just gotten my heart broken and stepped on. Whether I’m sitting on the silent floor of Hillman, zoned out with my headphones on, or running through South Oakland so i can make it to morning classes on time, this song gives me enough righteous anger to get sh*t done.

Bejeweled

I like this song enough to listen to it, even with that one verse from TikTok engraved in my mind. This song is just fun. It’s the perfect song to play when you are getting ready, whether you are about to go out on the town or to a lecture. This usually isn’t the kind of Taylor Swift song that I prefer, as I’m sure you can tell by this point in the list that I like songs that make me feel like the love of my life has left me. This one is just irresistible and never fails to brighten my mood.

High Infidelity

It has come to my attention that this song is an uncommon pick off the album. I’m not surprised because when I think about why I am so obsessed with this song, I can’t focus on what exactly appeals to me. I think there is something about the beat that makes me feel like the most powerful person on campus when this song blasts through my headphones as I strut down Forbes Avenue. I will continue to dance around life, causing chaos wherever I go, but that’s just how things will be, and I appreciate Taylor for realizing that.

Written by Jameson Keebler

I conceal my face with layers of makeup hoping that half a bottle of BB cream will be enough to make me as flawless as Emma Chamberlain looks on the cover of Cosmopolitan magazine. I use innumerous acne medications, aspiring to be as unblemished as the girls in the Clean and Clear commercials. I reject bags of M&Ms and fudge brownies and pepperoni pizzas thinking that my sacrifices will make me “love my body” as much as the emaciated Victoria Secret models love theirs. I routinely shave my legs and armpits and pluck my eyebrows with fear of becoming the hairy woman the media deems horrendous. I do everything yet feel like I am nothing. Nothing compared to the beautiful women pictured in magazines and television.

I didn’t always feel so self-conscious. All my life I’ve been considered a “normal” healthy kid. I didn’t know that there was anything “wrong” with my body until I was in 10th grade and a friend felt the need to make it known to me. We were laying on my bed watching a YouTube video about grilled cheese sandwiches when she said, “You’ve got stretch marks on your legs!” and proceeded to take her pointer finger and identify the four or five tiny lines that were starting to form. “Only fat people have stretch marks.” The onset of my confidence issues came soon after that.

Whereas the world saw a young teenage girl who was happy in her skin, laughed a lot, and didn’t care what anyone thought about her, I felt like I was worth nothing on the inside. The truth of the matter was I wasn’t happy in my skin; I laughed to hide my pain and cared deeply what my peers thought of my appearance. I can’t remember a moment when I’d look in the mirror and think, I look good. I’d lose it when a photo of me at a bad angle was posted, or when I was a bigger size at one store than I was somewhere else. Every day, I’d scroll through Instagram with envy, looking at the girls with perfect bodies and be so angry that I couldn’t look like that.

For far too long, I abused my body. I talked down to her, writing down every part of myself that I hated and reading it back to myself over and over. I would look at myself in the mirror for hours, poking the extra fat and pointing out the flaws. I fought with her. I created good and bad food lists for her to live by, obsessively tracking calories taken in and calories burned. I punished her, exercising for hours at a time, secretly enjoying the pain I felt. I refused to nourish her. Mealtime felt like a battle—one that I was consistently losing. I chose to hide her away because I was ashamed of her, wearing oversized sweatshirts every day and making up excuses to not go to the beach with my friends.

Coming out of this toxic mindset has not been easy. Some days I feel like I am on top of the world and other days I feel as if I had made no progress towards recovery at all. I’ve sought help online by reading inspiring stories from women who have somehow found a way beyond this thinking. “I have learned to love my body and accept it and cherish it and worship it,” they’ll write. But I haven’t gotten to that point yet, and it doesn’t seem like I will anytime soon. So, when I read about all these women coming to love their bodies, it all seems like a giant lie because how can I learn to love something I’ve hated all my life?

But maybe it is okay to accept that I am not happy with my body just yet. Maybe it’s okay to hate how I look in the mirror some days because that means that there are days that I am happy with how I look. When I catch myself comparing my body to those I see on social media, I remind myself that my body does so much for me, and I should appreciate it for all the good it brings. Loving who we are is not easy because there can be so many things to hate but focusing on the good—great friends, beautiful art, calming music, a wonderful support system—has helped me make small pushes forward.

Written by Anonymous

Growing up as a pastor’s daughter, I felt pressure coming from all directions dictating what I should wear. Dressing for church, shopping with my mother, and picking out clothes for a night out all involved complicated decisions as I tried to find an outfit that would look good, be comfortable, and not reveal too much. Or reveal just enough? I stood in front of a mirror countless times, wondering if I was dressing for myself or for others.

To work out some of these questions, I called up some friends with different religious and cultural backgrounds than mine. We had a long conversation, ate way too many sour patch kids, and learned some things about each other. Keep in mind these are our own thoughts and not a reflection of Studio 412 as a whole, and buckle in for a *spicy* conversation about religion, clothing, and the patriarchy.

A brief introduction: Our names, religions, and backgrounds.

HARSHENI: Freshman, Hindu, and one of my roommates. A public health major with a knack for discovering high lead levels in my favorite foods.

FIZZA & TASBEEH: Freshman, Muslim, New Jersey natives. Identical twins and microbiology and molecular biology majors, respectively.

LIZZIE: Freshman, Christian, political science major and narrator of this piece.

Was modesty something that you thought about growing up? Was it tied to religion in any way? Were the adults in your life impressing it on you in any way? 

LIZZIE: My mom was the enforcer of the dress code—she would check me before I went out the door every day, and sometimes she would say “Turn around! Different outfit!” There were things I could wear to school but not to church. I also went to a Christian camp where I couldn’t wear two-piece bathing suits. Which makes sense on one hand, because two-pieces aren’t very practical if you’re being flung off of the Blob. But on the other hand, there was this element of the girls needing to be modest.

TASBEEH: Were the guys expected to wear shirts?

LIZZIE: No.

FIZZA: In Islam, there’s a point where you become “wajib”, which is like a coming of age. For women, it’s 9, and for men it’s 15. That’s when you’re supposed to start wearing hijab. For us, we stopped wearing shorts. I wore short sleeves until I was twelve, which technically you’re not supposed to do, and then I switched into long sleeves, long pants. I didn’t start the scarf until this summer. It’s been a kind of leaning into modesty—never anything our parents forced on us, although they obviously had an influence. My mom wears a scarf. 

TASBEEH: Something I didn’t know until I started hijab is that not only are you not supposed to show your hair but you also shouldn’t show your neck and collarbones. That’s to protect your “aura”. Men have an aura too, which they would protect by covering their chest and their knees. I don’t know any man in my life who covers their aura, but I know lots of women who do it.

HARSHENI: As I got older, there was some pressure to be modest to “protect myself”, but my mom is pretty chill about it. But even now, I don’t wear short-shorts, and dresses and skirts I wear just above my knee. 

LIZZIE: Was that decision a religious thing?

HARSHENI: More of a cultural thing. The way my parents grew up in India had a big influence on me—my dad grew up in a village where there’s unspoken rules about modesty. But if I’m going to a temple, I’m fully covered, out of respect. Even if I was going to church or another religious place, I would cover up.

Besides religion and culture, what influences the way you dress?

FIZZA: I feel like I wouldn’t be dressing this way if I wasn’t Muslim. There’s so many other things I would rather be wearing, but I have to set a limit for myself. I used to wear a lot of v-necks, because I love my collarbones. Finding cute clothing that’s modest, especially for the summer, is so hard. That’s why I’m much more of a fall/winter girl.

TASBEEH: I used to think that I was modest enough as long as I wasn’t showing skin, but my perspective on that has changed since I started wearing the scarf. But if I try to switch too much too quickly, I start hating the way I look.

LIZZIE: I feel like in my life there’s a tension between wanting to be modest and wanting to look attractive—and with that, wondering if I’m dressing for myself or for guys.

TASBEEH: As a pastor’s daughter, did people have a higher expectation for the way you dressed?

LIZZIE: I was very lucky in that my church didn’t put that much scrutiny on me. Maybe there was a little more attention, because everyone knew who I was. 

HARSHENI: I’m realizing now I didn’t have much of a say in my wardrobe until high school...my mom often picked out my clothes for me, and I just went along with it. But I got closer to my mom during quarantine, and we had more conversations about clothes then. Now I dress in a way that’s comfortable to me, where I feel cute but comfortable in terms of modesty.

Do you think guys should think about modesty more?

TASBEEH: One hundred percent. I don’t know what side of Instagram you guys are on, but I’m on this religious, Muslim side…

FIZZA: It’s fake religious.

TASBEEH: There’s people saying “women shouldn’t wear this, this, and this, because you’ll attract men”, and it’s the wackiest stuff I swear I’ve never heard before in my life. And they don’t say anything about men. 

FIZZA: There’s an idea—I’m sure this is in the Bible as well—that people shouldn’t judge others because they themselves aren’t perfect. If a man isn’t trying to be modest, he shouldn’t be saying anything about women. 

HARSHENI: I am going to bring this back to the patriarchy. *Laughter* The way that guys can just walk around shirtless…and if you see a guy walking around in a Speedo at the pool, no one asks any questions. In most religions, modesty is pushed more on women.

FIZZA: I will say…the one place that had modesty rules for men was our Saturday school. They couldn’t wear shorts.

HARSHENI: That’s the same for temples. There’s this one temple in New Jersey where I’ve been handed a dhoti for modesty, and the last time we were there they gave one to my brother! In terms of Indian culture, I’m going to blame the British for everything.

LIZZIE: As you should.

HARSHENI: In Hindu scriptures, there’s lots of stories about equality between men and women. There’s even a god that’s half man, half woman. The British came in and ruined everything. The blouse worn under the sari only came about because of the British…the entire point of the sari is that it’s a giant piece of cloth tied in a way that can fully cover you.

How would you define modesty, and why is it important?

TASBEEH: I feel like modesty really does not have a definition. It’s what you make of it. For me, it’s important and helpful because it lets me know who’s on the same track as me in Islam. Also, you can be a bad Muslim and wear hijab. Don’t get me wrong—hijab is important. But it’s your version of your utmost modesty, and that looks different for different people.

FIZZA: Modesty can also look different based on the culture you’re living in.

HARSHENI: For me, modesty is important as a sign of respect when I’m in temple, or if I’m praying.

LIZZIE: That’s a very valid point, but something that drives me crazy is when I’m around other Christians, and they start slut-shaming women behind their backs. 

FIZZA: That is so annoying. It just pushes people away. Biggest pet peeve.

From here, the conversation meandered away from clothes and onto all sorts of other religious topics. Following our general theme of religion and the patriarchy, we discussed marriage, fasting, and periods. Although we weren’t able to wrap things up neatly, we learned a lot about each other and ourselves. 

I love conversations like this. I can’t speak for Harsheni, Tasbeeh, and Fizza, but growing in my understanding of other cultures and religions helps me grow in my own faith and respect women who come from other practices.

Written by lizzie dickerson

I always joke with my friends that I’ve never dated anyone.

 Not really, anyways. 

They then proceed to chime in to clarify that I have—which is technically true. So then why do I feel like I haven’t had that experience? 

From a fairly young age, relationships are shoved down our throats. Not even just by others in our lives, but by the media. Cinderella finds her Prince Charming and he saves her from a life of being enslaved by her evil stepmother, Aurora can only come out of her coma with true love's kiss, etc. And especially as we age, everyone in teen programming has significant others and on-screen kisses. So I feel as though it’s fair that the rose-colored glasses we wear when we freshly enter high school are valid. 

I had my first and only boyfriend when I was a freshman/sophomore in high school. He was super sweet and was one of my best friends at the time, but he liked me a lot more than I liked him. Famously, he had been asking through a friend of mine if I would say yes to going on a date. For a long time I said no since I wasn’t sure of my feelings and I knew that wasn’t fair for him. Eventually though, those rose-colored glasses were slid back on my face by those around me, saying how cute we would be together. He asked me out after the Spring Dance at his school.

To say the relationship didn’t go well would be an understatement. It’s not like we fought or anything, because that wouldn’t have physically been possible. We barely saw each other all summer. This was my fault of course, as I had a lot of stuff going on, and my pseudo-boyfriend always got pushed to the side. 

Once we got back to school, we started getting back into the swing of things, but even then the relationship moved at snail speed. After eight months of dating and many talks with friends about how the relationship just wasn’t working, I broke up with him on my sixteenth birthday. 

I know you’re wondering, how in the world did you not see it sooner? How did he stay with you that whole time? And honestly, I don’t know. I think that I just wanted to be in a relationship so bad and have that coming-of-age moment I so desperately longed for that I was willing to turn a blind eye to all of the faults. 

So where does this put me now almost four years later? Not much further. I have done a lot of reflection since then, trying to understand what went wrong. I’ve made sure to not jump into things with others too fast so I can fully comprehend my feelings before I commit. This, however, has completely stunted my dating life. 

To this day I still really struggle to navigate relationships, both romantic and platonic. I also feel that, since I haven’t had much experience I haven’t been able to figure it out. And now that I’m in college I feel like it’s too late to figure it out. But I know this isn’t true.

Feeling lonely and left behind since you have no experience to show for yourself is not necessarily a bad thing. Trust me, I had to learn the hard way. It just means that you are better at prioritizing yourself and your desires. It’s ok to have high expectations! I know I do.There is, and always has been, this idea that you have to start dating young and that the later you wait the weirder you are. But I’m here to tell you that, even though I know it doesn’t feel like it, you will get there. Everyone has a different story, otherwise what would they make movies and write songs about?

Written by Leighton Curless