Around ten o’clock on a Saturday night in early May of this year, I came home from my second flight of my 13-hour travel day; finally saying goodbye to my semester abroad. I was greeted by my parents and younger siblings at the Pittsburgh International Airport baggage claim where they hugged, kissed, and helped me grab my three overpacked suitcases—each having luggage tags from both the JFK International Airport in New York City and the Copenhagen International Airport. I was back home for the first time in four months. It was the longest I have ever been away from my hometown, let alone out of the country. I wore a very similar outfit to the one I had worn when I left, but with me, I brought home new clothes, new experiences and friendships, and dozens of postcards from each of the nine countries to which I had traveled. 

It has now been a little over four months since then. 

     I try to carry small reminders of my time studying abroad with me everyday, whether that be the clothes I bought, the postcards and pictures covering the wall in my room, or the ring my mom bought for me when she, my dad, and my younger brother visited me in Copenhagen. I’m also still connected with many of the people I met and formed relationships with while I was abroad. So, I wonder why I’m all of a sudden experiencing a very dramatic pain in my chest when I think about that four month period of my life. Why have I become so emotional and somewhat detached from my life back at school? Why is now any different from the first week after coming back home or even from last week? Why am I struggling to readjust to the life that I’ve lived for so long?

     I feel like people tend to talk more about their experiences adjusting to a new place rather than readjusting to an old one—especially when it comes to studying abroad. There was a lot of support from the study abroad program for me while I was there, but I feel as though I’ve had minimal support from the program after coming back to a place that I’ve been away from for so long. I don’t think I realized how much the transition back to my life in Pittsburgh would affect me, especially when it was time for me to come back to school.

Personally, it was easiest for me to feel distracted by my old responsibilities when I first came home—my responsibilities as a daughter, an older sibling, a friend, and a person. I also had a new job, new co-workers, a fresh room, and a different but closer relationship with my parents and siblings. Being away from home for so long made me realize how much I really care for my family. Because of this, I prioritized reconnecting with my younger brother, sister, and with my mom and dad. I wanted to come home and do all of the things I hadn’t done while I was abroad—like eating dinner with my family or hanging out with my siblings and friends everyday. Or even do the small things like driving a car again.

     Now that I’m back at school and fully in the swing of things, I can admit that I feel a little off. No amount of conversations with friends and family, self-care, or Prozac has improved the way that I feel. I haven’t been able to transition back to school the way that I thought I would. I think I’m starting to realize that my issues stem from my confusion about building a life for myself in a new place with new people and then suddenly leaving that all behind, knowing that I can never revisit those moments in those places with those people. My crisis is that I’m suffering from a major reality check. Because I’ve neglected to describe to people from home or family how fulfilling my experience in Copenhagen really was, I haven’t been able to pin-point the source of my discomfort. I’ve tried hard not to be the annoying friend who just came back from studying abroad and can’t stop comparing it to everything.

     I completely understand the stupidity of what I’m about to say, but I truly don’t think I realized how much I missed those four perfect months (minus the situationship and the contact dermatitis I developed on my eyes) until I watched Belly Conklin, from the show The Summer I Turned Pretty, move to Paris and experience a freedom from her complicated life back home. I’m not implying that my life at home is complicated, but then again, whose isn’t? I think I’m trying to say that I relate to Belly on some level. I, in a way, escaped many of my responsibilities by moving halfway across the world to Copenhagen, Denmark to study art and film, make new friends, and live on my own, like she did.

     Maybe I’m simply realizing how much I enjoy the pace that life moves in Europe—slower. I didn’t have a job, I wasn’t worried about paying rent and utilities every month, I took on a lot less responsibility in this club, and school was easy. Denmark also happens to rank among the happiest nations in the world consistently, so I guess it’s no surprise that I’d come home and feel a little out of it once I got back into my “normal” routine—in a country that doesn’t necessarily prioritize the well-being of its citizens. I need to understand that this transition might take a little longer than I thought, and that I need to be patient. 

     In no world would I ever take back my time in Europe, either. Being someone who was born in Pittsburgh, decided to go to college in Pittsburgh, and had never been out of the country, I did something incredibly brave. I had so much fun, and I learned so much while studying abroad. Perhaps this realization will encourage me to be more adventurous in my life. I’ll do more things that I’m scared to do, and maybe one day (hopefully soon), I’ll visit Copenhagen again. Maybe I’ll make a career out of traveling the world or find a place abroad to live long-term. Or maybe, I’ll realize that I don’t need to move far away and create a new life to be happy. But, I guess until I’ve fully re-adapted, I won’t know what the future holds for me, and that’s okay because it’s so cool to live in a world where I have the opportunity to do and be whatever I want, wherever I want.

Written by Maggie Knox

Edited by Alyssa Valdivia and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Maggie Knox

Mental illness. A phrase that is so charged, but surrounds our society. It’s something that becomes particularly hard to demonstrate in forms of media, as we cannot understand a person's full psyche. The way in which we view mental illness is entirely reliant on the person with said illness and their placement within society. In many forms of media, mental illness is placing the character at the forefront of the story, meant to serve as a means of entertainment. We can show praise for movies like Fight Club or Shutter Island for this, but it isn’t a true representation if it only surrounds white men.

This is where we come to a place of romanticization and fetishization. We are expected to start to ‘other’ these characters, and by displaying them as white, thin, beautiful women, it becomes more “digestible” for viewers. This, of course, begins the introduction of the sexy, crazy woman. A character we see presented in is Sam in “The Perks of Being a Wallflower”. She is battling through her own emotional demons throughout the course of the story. She has memories of her own abuse, which allows her to connect to the main character, but she is still this eccentric, beautiful character who still has feelings for the main character despite their significant age gap. The crazed version of herself is downplayed to demonstrate these elements of emotional connection. At the end of the day, she isn’t a mentally ill character, just the love interest.

We then see how these white characters are praised and sympathized with, in a way their non white counterparts are not. Amy from Gone Girl is viewed as iconic for her behavior, and she is, of course, white, crazy, and thin. And because the book-turned-movie comments on the very apparent misogyny from her husband, these more controversial topics are never aligned with the movie. It’s perceived as a man-hating movie rather than understanding the greater subject of Amy’s identity in society. I will clarify that this critique doesn’t take away from the movie itself; I am just commenting on the very apparent discrimination present in the constant media we consume. 

Another example of this is Angelina Jolie’s character Lisa in Girl, Interrupted. The movie is based on a book written about the true visit to a mental hospital by Susannah. But the movie takes many liberties when telling the story, mainly how Lisa has a much bigger role in the film. She is crazy and sexually promiscuous, juxtaposed to Susannah’s character, who is completely careless and allows those around her to be collateral. But by having her played by Angelina Jolie, it contributes to this idolization and sexualization of the character, with many people aligning with it. 

Women of color are rarely properly represented for their mental shortcomings in the media we consume. When they demonstrate elements of mental illness, it is represented as either completely “batshit” or acting as a result of their tumultuous childhood. They aren’t given the same grace of being idolized and sympathized with by viewers. One particular example is the movie “Precious”; the movie follows a black 16-year-old plus-sized girl growing up in the bad areas of Harlem. She repeatedly suffers both mental and physical abuse from her parents. The story is in all her being a survivor after being impregnated by her father, but she isn’t given the same grace as her white counterparts. She isn’t crazy in the fun and sexual way but viewed as another black character with awful parents. 

The Virgin Suicides displays a slightly different image because the movie itself comments on this fetishization. The movie is seen through these young boys' perspective who become absolutely infatuated with the sisters. They buy into this craziness, hoping they can conquer these women. Particularly, the character of Lux is this crazy sexy girl who becomes the object of desire to all these men. But still, when she kills herself at the end, it comes as a complete surprise; her mental illness wasn’t seen as something in reality but part of this “manic pixie dream girl” ideal. She is allowed to display these obvious inner problems because she herself is held to a greater standard. She isn’t scrutinized because she is given the space to act out, and complete perfection isn’t expected. 

When were not meant to romanticize the character at all, they will be changed to an “uglier woman” or a woman of color: like in the movies Misery or Ma, Both are viewed as completely insane and out of control, and this is greatly supported by their physical perceptions in society. Their looks as seen as an attribute to their inner feelings, as if their looks somehow make them less worthy in society and therefore more acceptable to be insane. 

Characters of color can only be represented in two ways. Completely “crazy” or a very “well-behaved” archetype.. For example in the show “Skins”: most of the white women are presented with some elements of mental illness, acting out but being quickly forgiven. Most notably Effy and Cassie, they represent this crazed sexualized version of “crazy” that contributes to the fetishization of the characters. While the black character Jazz, has a very “tame” life and is very rarely written into storylines. She does not have the potential to be mentally ill as she would face far greater scrutiny. 

When searching for movies with women, hundreds of results show up with white, skinny, and beautiful leads, while searching for movies with mentally ill women of color, the results are much fewer and far between. Women are so aggressively underrepresented in media and very often seen as “token” characters to move the white characters story along. women of color. 

Written by Elena Kimblerling

Edited by Cassidy Hench and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Laura Deaton

I sat in the car, driving, dazed by my racing mind. I went to stop for the light that just turned red. My focus slightly shifted to watch the car in front of me stop at the light, and then drive through it anyway despite the light still being red. I became mildly confused. “Am I missing something here?” I figured I would sit at the light anyway. My window was down and I was blasting Kacey Musgraves. I was listening to her in hopes that I could relax for just a few seconds; it was kind of working. It used to work so well. The sun was warm but not necessarily hot, even though it was starting to set. Normally, I would be too scared to leave my window down while I was playing loud music, but today I was trying not to care. I normally don’t, but recently I have been caring.

“HEY!” yelled the driver next to me. I looked over abruptly, startled. The guy in the car next to me in the turning lane had his window down. I rolled my window down, too.

“Did you see that? They just ran a red light like it was nothing!” he laughed in disbelief. I automatically did a little laugh back and said, “Yeah, I know?!” Still slightly startled, I turned back to the wheel, and the laugh turned genuine. I felt the confused grin on my face and smiled some more. When the light finally turned green, I watched the car drive away, and his window rolled back up. He seemed so enthused over the scene, to the point where he so effortlessly laughed about it with a stranger. The moment was so small, and he drove away like it happened every day. I still didn’t feel much better after that, but the interaction made me remember that the world is still spinning.

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Cira O'Connor

Every week, Tuesdays at 7:30 p.m. to be exact, I meet with my therapist. Therapy is supposed to make people feel uncomfortable: talking about feelings is something we’ve been taught to feel uncomfortable about. However, growing up in the generally emotive household that I have and being in and out of therapy since I was six, I could go on and on for hours. 

Then, this week, I was presented with a narrative that generally makes my skin crawl: tell me about your relationship with your body. Similar to the piglets' cry when the wolf threatened to blow their house down: not by the hair on my chinny chin chin. Despite my body and the idea of my body being something that runs on my head in an endless feedback loop, like a military torture method, that’s one place I don’t ever really want to go. 

But, after some thought, and the epiphany that the way I feel about my image is relatively common compared to the rest of the human population, this is how I can explain it. 

Imagine you’re looking in a vertical, floor-length mirror: one that you’d commonly find attached to the back of your bedroom door. I’m not talking about a wildly expensive Pottery Barn find; I mean a Walmart steal, one you could practically break over your knee. When you stand far away, you’ve looked the best you’ve ever felt. You’re so unbelievably lean, with a bold stature, and muscle definition you can only achieve with a pilates reformer. Then, as you inch closer and closer, it’s like some wild optical illusion has happened. You see the marks on your body from when your skin stretched during puberty, the folds of your skin, and areas you probably should moisturize more often. Essentially, you feel awful about yourself: you’re short, stout, plump even. 

Well, that’s how I feel about my self-image. The last time I knew exactly what I looked like, I was probably five, and even then, I don’t even think I knew. And because I have no idea what I look like, and I know exactly what everyone else looks like, it’s safe to assume that the closer I am to the mirror, the more accurate it gets. 

Now, take away the mirror: I’m not always looking at myself, that would be vain. Rather, I’m envisioning this made-up recollection of myself in the mirror all the time. I wince when I put on my jean shorts because my hips were a bit enlarged last time I checked, or I self-motivate to exercise because my face appeared half an inch rounder in my last up-close analysis. I no longer weigh myself because I’m so afraid that the weight on the scale will confirm that I am as ugly and rotten as I thought I looked that day. I no longer look at myself for the same exact reason.

Written by Ella Romano

Edited by Leigh Marks and Julia Brummell

Graphic by Elisabeth Kay

The flower you gave me still sits on my bedside table 

It lays in grim finality, 

grasping for your sunlight but knowing that warmth 

Is gone. 

Its once vibrant lavender hues fade with each day 

Without you.

Muted and silent like my heart, 

Leaves fall off its body in tandem with my tears.

I stare at its deflating mouth, 

Remembering its church-bell roundness 

and the sad smile I gave you when you first handed it over to me.

Shouldn’t I be giving you the flowers? I tried to joke.

Harsh pain contrasted so beautifully with its delicate petals.

Now, its soul has begun to resemble mine; 

Life draining away from its once innocent body, 

turning over in a bed of wrinkles and cracks.

We both miss your loving touch.

I wake up to its sugary smell, 

grasping for that dissolving scent of sweetness 

Somedays, I swear it smells like you. 

I gently caress its smooth skin, 

Knowing that soon it will wither away,

Dying just like you did and 

Taking the last bit of your life with it.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Laura Deaton

Graphic by Cassidy Hench

Everyone has a replacement item. At midnight on a Thursday you run out of your moisturizer. Everything is closed. But then you remember that over spring break you went to Arizona and needed to buy a travel size knock off. It works in a pinch. That’s me. Not the first choice, but someone that’s always there, always around. Someone that gets the job done when you need them. 

I’m the friend that is fun to go out with at night, but you wouldn’t hang out with them under the warm gaze of the sun. Your friendship is reserved for the bright lights of Carson Street. Monday through Thursday you’re not worried about this friend, but you know when the weekend rolls around they’ll show you a good time. A fun time. 

You’ll make plans with this friend, but when something else comes up, because it always does, you’ll cancel. You’ll make up a last minute excuse that it’s someone’s birthday or that you have an early morning and leave them forgotten. You never consider that they prioritized you. Laying at home like your childhood dog did, waiting and watching the door for you to come in through that door and make their day. A loyal friend.

When you and your long term long distance girlfriend break up, you know who to call. You know that the girl you’ve been talking to for a month, even though you shouldn’t have, has a reputation of being easy. You don’t know that she’s a hopeless romantic and that her parents are college sweethearts, a pressure always on her mind. You’ve seen her list of accolades on LinkedIn, but you haven’t seen the scars on her legs she’s acquired alongside her hard work. You know you’ll see her legs though. You’re excited, but when it happens you’ll hesitate at the sight of her upper thighs. A sight to see.

She’ll ask you to pick her up, and you will. She’ll charm you, of course, she’s dynamic and funny, and thinks you like her. You don’t know that you’re the first person she truthfully has liked in two years. You don’t know that her collegiate friends don’t recognize her when she talks about you. Because deep down they too consider her to be easy, they think she doesn’t care about other people even if they don’t admit it. You don’t know that when she talks about you to her hometown best friends they remember a softer, younger girl. A sophomore in high school with hair down to her waist who was giddy over the first boy to give her attention. They remember the aftermath where she stayed in her room all summer writing songs on her guitar. A junior in high school with short hair rekindles a flame with a girl she once knew, while it burns out before her girlfriend goes to college. They remember the aftermath when she stopped singing because every song provided a visceral reminder of Isabel. A senior in high school with blunt bangs who promised she would never fall in love and did. They remember the aftermath filled with tears, and saw her find replacements for him. They know how deeply she cared about them, and how the names of her past lovers are now taboo. But sometimes they wonder if now she stopped caring like she swore she would. She’s always been stubborn, her best and worst quality. 

After the highschool heartbreak she “became easy”, she became silly, she became outgoing. She became whoever you wanted her to be. The “you” changed on a weekly basis, and each lover gained a new nickname. You might think she came up with the nicknames so she could talk about her flings without anyone knowing. She actually came up with the names to dehumanize them and mask her hurt in humor. Oedipus, Inspector Gadget, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, Spider-Man, Banana Bread the list goes on. Your nickname will be “Amish” because you asked her about her body count with disdain as you prided yourself on your singular lover. 

When you pick her up, you’ll offer to carry her bag up the flight of stairs to her apartment. You’ll pretend to be interested in whatever she’s rambling about. She sees the best in people, it’s why she’ll be devastated when you ghost her. She thinks you do care, which is why she’ll lean over to kiss you. The kiss will read as confident. The truth is that she has stage fright, she’s never kissed someone first. Ever. You’ll pretend you don’t want anything more to happen, claiming she’s too drunk and you’re sober and that’s not you. She’ll beg. She’ll end up on her knees, and you’ll be happy, getting exactly what you came there for. She’s a giver. 

When you wake up Friday morning you’ll remember your ex girlfriend. You’ll compare the two of them. Your ex, the cute girl next door who does ballet versus the girl with tattoos and bangs. You’ll pick the girl who doesn’t want you because you always want what you can’t have. You’ll abandon the replacement. You think back to the night before and think about her confidence. She’s dynamic, she won’t be hurt. She will. She’ll cry. She’ll journal. She’ll tell all of her friends. She’ll call her Catholic mother and come clean. She’ll be on her knees again confessing her sins. Her friends will text her at happy hour apologizing for their busy week, and ask what her plans are for the weekend. She’ll grin and get ready. She’ll fluff her hair, find the perfect pair of low rise jeans, and line her brown eyes. She’ll go through the cycle of crying, giving you a nickname, and pretend to be okay. She’ll find a replacement for you.

Written by Liv Kessler

Edited by Ella Romano and Elisabeth Kay

Graphic by Nina Southern

​​I remember that summer in Brigantine, 

The water glistening in the brilliant sunlight;

rippling like time itself. One wave, two, then three 

crashing onto the shore. Minutes, hours, days

passed. I was hypnotized by that deep blue. 

I remember the sand pressing into every corner of my life

filling the jean pockets of my Levi cutoffs, 

and leaving my teen mind gritty with optimism. 

I wasn’t myself here but I was everything I wanted to be. 

I remember watching that painted sunset,

wondering how something so beautiful could be

so fleeting.

I remember the girl I was that summer:

carefree like the seagulls in the sky, 

happy like the younger kids down the street;

pleading for the days to never end.

I remember breathing in that salty air until my lungs filled its bony cage,

Knowing I’ve never smelled anything so sweet.

Written by Alyssa Valdivia

Edited by Elisabeth Kay

You’re supposed to “touch your bum” if someone envies you, and complement it with a Hail Mary… or so says my mother. My mom and her immigrant family, as religious as they are, are insanely superstitious. Since I was young, family gatherings have been accompanied by screaming children, multiple-course meals, Catholic prayers, Italian accents, and red chilli peppers: “pepper horns.” These so-called “pepper horns,” known as “cornicellos” and worn around the neck of various family members, have the sole purpose of warding off the Malocchio Curse—a Southern Italian superstition surrounding the belief that bad luck comes from envy. 

My mom’s brother (a macho Italian guy who was a former bodybuilder) built him and his Hungarian wife a lavish home in Sewickley. Once the house was fully built, furnished, and occupied, family members flooded in to praise him for his beautiful home and lifestyle. One visitor in particular—his grandmother, my great Nonna Dina—“cursed” them both with the Malocchio. While this obviously isn’t true, Uncle Chris’s claim was supported by many instances of her giving him “the look.” He claimed that during the house tour, she repeatedly exclaimed, out of jealousy: “God Bless” or “Oh! Bella casa!” While she posed these phrases as compliments, her intentions most certainly were not compliments, but rather envious remarks. Regardless of her intentions, all was well until the first night in the new home after Nonna Dina had left. In his recollection, he was woken up in the middle of the night multiple times by noises and an unsettling feeling. The next morning, his wife pointed out “claw marks” which appeared down his back, apparent that the Malocch had gotten to him. 

While stories of being cursed with Malocch vary, the cure for and prevention of it have stayed consistent. To ward off the curse, an Italian chilli pepper, an amulet called a “cornicello,” can be worn on a chain around the neck. The cornicello can be accompanied by a Catholic cross, but never hung on the same chain as it, as the two will cancel each other out. In my family, my Nonna and Nonno decided to gift all fourteen grandchildren a gold chain and cornicello from Italy. While they had originally intended to wait until everyone’s sixteenth birthday, to them, the Malocch was everywhere, and the necklaces were granted to all of us on our following birthdays. If you’re unlucky enough to become cursed, God forbid, the chain that holds the amulet will break. When this happens, there are two ways to go about curing the curse. A less effective way would be to pray to God to annihilate it—which completely contradicts religion and superstitious beliefs. The second option, more of a remedy, is only known by the oldest daughter in the family, supposedly to be taught on Christmas Eve. While I personally don’t know the remedy, from what I’ve heard, one must go the lengths of finding a rat and killing it using your left hand. 

Though I’ve had the occasional chain break—usually followed by a frantic phone call to my Nonna, begging to replace it—my experiences haven’t been as intense as some of my family members. Miraculously, aside from the time that I was told that my skin looked very clear just to wake up the next day to a chemical burn from some random facial serum that I used, I’ve managed to avoid being cursed. Still yet, the entirety of my family lives in fear of the Malocch, convinced that a stray compliment or envious glance could unleash misfortune. 

To them, putting all trust in God (as a Catholic is told to do) applies at all times except for when it comes to the Malocchio. Although I too grew up Catholic, attending Sunday school and finding myself kneeled in a pew at eleven o’clock mass, I still catch myself clutching my cornicello when given a compliment or walking through a crowd. It’s not that I think that I’m better than everyone else or that people worship the ground that I walk on and envy me; the belief of the Malocchio has been instilled in me since childhood. Even in elementary school, I can recall my mom’s response to drama with friends or peers: “They're just jealous of you, Clara.” 

With this, I’ve gathered that in a way, the pepper worn around my neck dictates my attitude towards life. When asked how I am, my response can never just be “I’m good!” but rather must be followed up by a complaint. A habit I picked up from my Nonna, when someone asks how you are, you can never seem too happy or content, as it puts you at risk of being cursed with malocchio… because obviously, someone may envy that. Letting your guard down, even the slightest slip for just a moment, can leave you vulnerable—the Malocchio is everywhere, so throw salt over your shoulder, clutch the pepper around your neck, rub olive oil on your forehead, burn your pillow, “touch your bum,” or even kill a rat with your left hand.

Written by Clara Mauro

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Julia Brummell

The term “manic pixie dream girl” was originally coined in 2007 by film Critic Nathan Rabin in his critique of Kirsten Dunst’s character Claire Colburn. He wrote that the characters were often very one-dimensional, their only place is to progress the man's story further. It also furthers this negative trope that being “not like other girls” can somehow make these women better. That in all this trope is rooted in the topics of heteronormativity and misogyny. These women are normally portrayed as having these neurodivergent traits that don’t have much pull from the focus of the story with the mediocre man going through something.

So how do we actually see the “manic pixie dream girl”. She’s presented as a character with so much depth, her mind moves a million times a minute sourcing as entertainment for the male lead. This woman doesn’t distinctly exist, she doesn’t act a certain way that purely benefits the man. Some examples of this include Ramona Flowers in Scott Pilgrim, Sam in Perks of Being a Wallflower, Penny in Almost Famous, etc. The women are depicted as these crazy interesting lovable people, for some reason completely infatuated with the male character. These coming of age stories need a sort of catalyst to create such a change in the person's life. They show them a new element of the world they've never seen before, a new thing to be infatuated with. They aren’t depicted as real people, often going through these large mental issues that don’t have any physical pull in the story rather than putting the man's life in perspective. This is displayed very clearly in Looking for Alaska through the character Alaska and the effect she has on the narrator Miles. He spends the entire novel being infatuated with her, everything she does makes him want her more, she is effortlessly cool. She deals with a lot of mental illnesses, largely fueled by her mothers death. Still, this doesn’t sway the main character, he needs her and constantly fantasizes about something deeper with her, despite having a romantic relationship with another girl who doesn’t hold any importance when compared to the beautiful, amazing Alaska. By the end of the book Miles is finally able to pursue Alaska romantically, conquering her, only for her to quickly leave and, as he finds out the next morning, crashes her car and dies. And that's it, all exploration of her character is done and she lives on through the eyes of this boy and further thinking about this perspective of what could’ve been.

In certain movies, cracks in the typical trope start to form, showing the presence of the male fantasy fading, in movies like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind through Clementine and 500 Days of Summer through Summer. In both films they are depicted as these exciting interesting girls, a person the main male character becomes absolutely infatuated with. At the end of 500 Days of Summer, the character of Summer breaks up with Tom, ending his enjoyment of the 500 days he shared with Summer. And it's almost as if it causes this facade to break, Summer isn’t this perfect depiction of what he wanted and the person he viewed to greatly impact his life.

The concept of “manic pixie dream girl” aligns directly with an objectification of women. We are supposed to fit into these distinct boxes. Even the concept of having more of an "eccentric" personality is viewed as being catered to the male gaze. This classic trope doesn’t exist in real life, only in forms of media, which we of course know is very male centered. But real women contain so much more depth; our personhood is multitudes greater than what is expected. 

Written by Elena Kimberling

Edited by Elisabeth Kay and Julia Brummell

Dear Mr. President Persecutor,

You don’t know what it’s like. 

You don't know what it's like to fill up a gas tank. You don’t know what it's like to buy a carton of eggs. You don’t know what it's like to go hiking in a national park or on a road trip across the United States. 

You don’t know what it's like to work at an elementary school. You don’t know how to teach a child how to read or count change for their piggy bank. You don’t know what it's like to protect a child, to pray that they make it back from elementary school alive. You don’t know how to explain to a child what a lockdown drill is, or worse, harbor them in the case of an active shooter. You don’t know what it's like to be the reason children have a future. 

You don’t know what it's like to work for a small business. You don’t know what it's like to own a small business. You don’t know what it's like to work for minimum wage (for more than 15 minutes). You don’t know what it's like to have multiple part-time jobs to sustain yourself. You don’t know what it's like to work for a workers’ union. You don’t know what it's like not to have healthcare benefits through your job. You don't know what it's like to be in medical debt because you didn’t want to die. You don’t know what it's like to rather die than be in debt. 

You don’t know what it's like to apply to college. You don’t know what it's like to get accepted into college and not be able to afford it. You don’t know what it's like to attend a public institution, or have parents who work for one. You don’t know what it's like for your federal aid to be denied. You don’t know what it's like to have your federal aid taken away from you. You don’t know what it's like for your internship to be defunded. You don’t know what it's like for your research to be defunded. You don’t know what it's like to have to drop out of school because you can’t afford it. 

You don’t know what it’s like to celebrate the 4th of July in the backyard of your family members’ house. You don’t know what it's like to hear the sound of firecrackers and be afraid that it's a gunshot. You don’t know what it's like to have immigrant family members who came to the U.S. with nothing but the clothes on their backs. You don’t know what it’s like to chase the American Dream. To chase a better life. You don’t know how difficult it is to go through the naturalization process. I bet you can’t even answer the questions on the test. You don’t know what it's like not to be able to afford a naturalization test. You don’t know what it's like to be forcefully separated from your family, your children, your life. 

You don’t know what it's like to train for the military. You don’t know what it's like getting up at 4 a.m. to run drills. You don’t know what it's like to fight in a war, to be deployed. You don’t know what it's like to experience war firsthand, with your own eyes. You don’t know what it's like to lose the people close to you because of war. You don’t know what it's like to be a veteran. You don’t know what it's like to be a refugee. You don’t know what it's like to watch everything you've ever known disappear from existence in a year. 

You don’t know what it's like to be a woman. You don’t know what it's like to be catcalled outside your own house. You don’t know what it's like to be followed home. You don’t know what it's like to be raped. You don’t know what it's like to pray for a pregnancy test to come back negative. You don’t know what it's like to be on birth control, and for it to fail. You don’t know what it's like to be on hold with Planned Parenthood. You don’t know what it's like to get an abortion. You don’t know what it's like to carry a child. You don’t know what it's like to give up a child for adoption, a child who is a piece of you. You don’t know what it's like to have a miscarriage. You don’t know what it's like to be convicted of murder due to a miscarriage. 

You don’t know what it's like to die of COVID-19. You don’t know what it's like to have a family member die of COVID-19. You don’t know what it's like to be unvaccinated. You don’t know what it's like to have a family member die because they were unvaccinated. You don’t know what it's like for your newborn baby to get sick because they are unvaccinated. You don’t know what it’s like not to have enough medical research to cure your illness. 

You don’t know what it's like to feel uncomfortable in your own skin. You don’t know what it's like to be someone you're not. You don’t know what it's like to be discriminated against. You don’t know what it's like to be told that you can’t love someone, that it's wrong to love someone. 

You don’t know how to peacefully protest. You don’t know how to be accepting of others. You don’t know what it's like to be scared for your future. You don’t know what it's like to be enraged by the state of your country, a country that once promised a better life for all. 

And maybe I don’t know all of these things. Maybe I am just a girl from the suburbs of Pennsylvania, but there are people who know these things. Americans know these things. And there is one thing for sure that I know and you don’t. I know empathy. 

With empathy and no respect, 

Giulia Mauro

Written by Giulia Mauro

Edited by Kaitie Sadowski and Julia Brummell