Imagine this. It's 2017 and my cousin, whose highschool years consisted of the late 2000s and early 2010s, drops off a large Victoria's Secret duffle bag full of hand-me-down clothing for me. In the present, I would consider this a gold mine. Abercrombie low rise jeans, cropped sweaters, tanks upon tanks covered with lace applique and beading, ugg boots, juicy couture and coach bags, bangle bracelets, and more. It was the epitome of the 2000s teenage girl stuffed into one duffle bag. I remember so vividly from my childhood her room having a black and white bedspread, bright teal accent pillows, and all white furniture with crystal drawer handles. She was everything I wanted to be when I grew up, and yet, when I received that duffle bag, I slightly shifted through it, picking out a top or two, maybe a pair of lowrise jeans to have as a keepsake, and then completely donated the rest to goodwill without a second thought. You can't blame me, I was a 13 year-old middle schooler whose wardrobe consisted of leggings, sweatshirts, and slip-on vans. I had absolutely no desire to wear anything in that bag that would make me stand out. 

Another instance. Just about a year later, my mom had asked me to help her go through her closet and get rid of pieces that were no longer trendy. At age 14 fashion had become my obsession, so I gladly offered to help. It started with us simply getting rid of pieces that no longer fit her, but as my so-called “expertise” on the fashion trends of the time kicked in, the closet clean out session became intense. She was in her college years in the late 90s/early 2000s, which meant she had a lot of what she called “party pants” (low rise, wide leg, bedazzled button jeans), long sleeve tops in muted tie dye colors, platform sandals, Calvin Klein dresses, and shoulder bags that were just big enough to fit a, a lipstick, a pager (what they had before phones I guess), and maybe a tampon if you were lucky. She made me a pile of clothing that I could pick through if I wanted any, and again, I vetoed nearly everything and donated it to my local goodwill. I had yet again given away precious hand-me-down items. How was I supposed to know that they would be trendy once again, my style consisted of brandy melville tops, mom jeans, and converse. I couldn’t appreciate anything she offered- to a 14 year-old, everything felt dated, and although the clothes fit me nearly perfectly (I have come to the conclusion that clothes back then just fit better) it wasn’t “in” to wear low rise jeans. It wasn’t “popular” to wear platform shoes. 

It wasn’t until I was about 16 when I discovered the world of vintage clothing. I had always admired vintage clothing and past trends of the fashion world, but it wasn’t something that I ever desired to own- I had viewed vintage clothes as mostly costume pieces. My nonna cleaned out her closet and passed down numerous leather jackets to me, and my obsession with vintage clothing and thrifting just escalated from there. The more I went thrifting, the more I realized I was buying the same pieces my cousin had passed down to me just a few years before and the same pieces I helped my mom to donate. I had become an animal on the prowl for the best fitting low rise jeans or for the perfect pink cropped sweater- both items that I could have easily found in hand-me-downs I had received just a few years before. 

At 17, I finally understood- Fashion is a cycle. Trends come and go, and everytime they are reborn they are slightly different. If I had decided to keep all of the items in that duffle bag from my cousin or all of the pieces my mom gave to me, I would have been sitting with my closet stuffed to the brim for years with clothing that I wouldn't wear until later in the future. I probably wouldn’t have thrifted my favorite pair of jeans I own or curated a collection of vintage bags or even explored the antique stores that I passed by everyday. I probably wouldn’t have felt inclined to go thrifting with my friends over and over and over again until we found exactly what we were looking for. If I had just taken all of the hand-me-downs, I wouldn’t think of the lives that my clothes had lived before me (a silly concept. . .I know). So now, everytime I get ready in the morning, I am grateful for the new life I am giving each piece of clothing I own. I am grateful for the story behind where I found each piece, who I was with, and why I wanted it in the first place. And yes, if I were able to go back in time and keep all of my hand-me-down clothes I would in an instant, but also knowing that they have a new purpose and a new person to style them, makes me excited for what else there is out there for me to find in the world of vintage fashion and clothing.

Written by Giulia Mauro

Edited by Angela Hoey and Julia Brummell

The lesson’s been learned

I’ll stop sugarcoating sandpaper 

and putting ice on burns

Sweet ruminator!

So slow to anger 

So quick to yearn 

When it comes to love

you say you’re only a half-believer, 

well I’m just a snake-charmer

and a bit of a schemer

If your head is in the crook of my neck,

but your mind’s across the moon

I’ll be wearing your T-shirt

as I’m saging my room

Catharsis is my unpolished laugh 

as I finally walk out the door

And the yawn

from all my friends 

as I play them the chord:

That you loved me fine, 

just loved yourself way more

It’s always so strange

the things I do to let go

today my hair is chocolate 

tomorrow I’ll bleach it gold

As you read what I have to say, I hope you find me to be conceited. I hope that you think I have a big ego. I hope you even hate me. 

Because the truth is, I haven’t been able to love myself since I was 15. It feels as though the past 5 years of my life were taken from me, my inner child was eaten up whole. Through abuse and complicated relationships, bad decisions and reactions, hurt feelings and damaged souls, I went through hell and back to say the least. I am not a “perfect” victim…well, I’m a survivor now. I was angry, I was bitter…I was broken. I had no sense of self, no sense of right vs wrong, because for the longest time my mind and body belonged to someone else. I was a piece of meat. Yet I made so many mistakes, so many bad mistakes that deeply hurt other people. If you know me personally, and still think I have always been the sweetest person you’ve ever met, hear me loud and clear now: I was a monster at one point in my life. My mind had shattered into a million different pieces, and I was truly a danger to myself and others. 

And for the longest time, I thought that meant that I deserved everything that happened to me. But that's not true, that will never be true. I thought it was true at one point, but no Mia. No it is not. 

So here I am now, building myself back up from rock bottom, piece by piece. So as I speak, I want you to look at me and be conflicted on how to feel. Look at me and think better of yourself. I want you to think I’m a bitch. I want you to hate me, so I can love myself anyway. 

I am Mia. 

Mia Stack. I have no middle name. 

My favorite place on this earth, 

Is in the middle of the woods at golden hour 

When I am there, 

I feel the air 

I feel the sun 

Its gold beams encasing my beauty 

It complements my golden brown hair 

And my light brown eyes, my long eyelashes falling over them 

I feel what is right 

Everything is no longer unfair 

I am what I make of myself,

I can paint myself into any collection of colors 

As beautiful and as wonderful as can be,

Into a bed of grass is where my pride smothers 

I am perfect on the outside, 

I’m conventional in the eyes of society 

But on the inside I am beautiful 

My anger and pride sitting inside of me

They smile at you evil as can be, 

Because they know they are royalty 

They know how weak you really are 

You can't take me down 

You can hear my laugh in the wind,

And the vibrance of my voice in the trees 

Im beautiful when I sing 

Small and pretty, 

Until I want to be something else 

I could scream and not be afraid 

I screamed in a fit of rage when I was 16 

My lungs boiled and burned as I let it out, 

My face streaked with tears 

I had never screamed like that before,

It scared me to finally see how much anger I had inside of me 

But now I realize that, 

Exerting a power like that is good 

It is your voice 

Scream until the windows break, 

Let it all out my Mia 

Scream and feel the flowers growing in your lungs,

You are so pretty my love

Let them destroy the patriarchy,

Destroy what wants to destroy them 

Because you will not be destroyed my sweet girl,

I won't let that happen again 

Look at you on your own two feet,

I’m smiling at you from within 

See the sun and stars look down on you,

Shining brighter for you every day 

“Look at us the way you used to Mia” 

Your heart will never be something they betray 

Look up and see that 

The world is so much bigger than you think 

You never needed that boy,

He needed you

Because look at you! 

Dancing in your room alone at night 

You feel everything he never could,

Your light shines so bright it hurts 

You get goosebumps listening to music 

You’re good with kids 

Your smile is contagious 

You’re allowed to take up so much more space than you already do 

I have freckles 

That you can only see up close 

You will only know I have freckles 

If I let you come that close 

I could hold a finger out at you 

To keep you at arms length: “NO!!” 

Or I could pull you in: “Yes my love” 

My kiss powered by strength 

I am beautiful 

I deserve a good life 

I deserve the right to love 

Of which is all around me 

As well as way up above, 

Even the sun and stars are painted with care 

Let the flowers grow in your lungs my sweet mia 

Wipe the tears off your face 

Forgive yourself my love, 

That little girl inside you 

Doesn't deserve all that pain 

You were only 15 Mia 

You were so young 

And yet here you are now 

Bigger and stronger than ever before 

Your inner child was never taken away 

I’ve been here protecting you this whole time my Mia And I will always sit inside of you 

You don’t need to protect yourself anymore, Just feel

Written by Mia Stack

Edited by Neena Tavik and Julia Brummell

I’m not religious. I’d deem myself spiritual at most– I believe in a higher power, I’d like to believe I have an angel number, I say affirmations here and there. But if I’m moseying around a crystal store and they’re offering tarot card readings when I have an extra $30 to spare, I will gladly put myself in a curtained-off room and believe whatever the cards on the table say if it resonates with me. My mom will always roll her eyes upon hearing that I’ve gotten a reading, but listen with intrigue if I decide to tell her what I took away from it.

While I was home during Christmas break, my friends and I found ourselves in the parking lot of the local crystal shop in my hometown. With a sliver of my Christmas money, I willingly paid the $30 and was excited to sit down across from a stranger who would tell me more about myself while flipping through some cards face-up on a foldable table. 

I don’t remember all of what they said to me that day, but they asked if I cry a lot, to which I nodded instantly; most of my emotions manifest themselves through tear-stained cheeks, and I have no ability to stop it. No amount of maturing or growing will lessen the number of tears I cry. My reader nodded with me and assured me of something: “tears are medicinal.”

I’ve never really been ashamed of my tears– my sister and I often joke about how I can cry to any movie, no matter the genre (Sing 2 puts me in tears every single time). I’ve always hated crying in front of people when the tears are over something more than an animated lion singing to a crowd of thousands, though. I’ve hidden in numerous bathrooms to open the floodgates that are my tear ducts and move on with my day. I’ve perfected how to make it seem as though I was simply going to the bathroom for its functional use– not to fight off an oncoming panic attack or respond to a text that made my eyes water a little too much.

But if I get caught with a stray tear on my cheek, though my cheeks might flush, I know I shouldn’t be embarrassed. It’s a sign that I’m healing from whatever caused the state of my puffy eyes, or got out whatever emotion was overwhelming my brain. I’m free of something that was fogging my every thought. Tears are medicinal– letting it all out isn’t something that makes you a baby or weaker than others, it makes you human. To cry is a gift, not an ailment. 

Written by Elisabeth Kay

Edited by Ruby Kolik and Julia Brummell

When I was in the second grade my school hosted a Right to Read Week, a competition where every student competed for who could read the most hours in a single week– I was determined to win. So, I read books for three hours every day for the entire week on my quest to win the contest. Not only did I win, but I did so by a substantial amount. The day I won, and got a giant trophy and my picture in the newspaper, I was the happiest little girl in the world. 

Reading has always been my favorite thing; it’s been my safe space, my shoulder to lean on, and my home away from home. Reading feels as necessary as breathing air, I cannot exist without it. I’ve been lucky enough to have been exposed to books my entire life, it started with the picture books my parents read to me as a kid–and me begging for them to read even more, then it was the longer books that my mom read to me as I feel asleep such as The Chronicles of Narnia, Little Women, and Anne of Green Gables. However, the books I was desperate to get my grubby little hands on were the ones that I read for myself. The Rainbow Fairy books, Geronimo Stilton Mysteries, and young reader comic books were some of my favorites. The rate at which I was reading led me to the library- again, and again, and again. Summer reading challenges became my personal Olympics, I was even on a first-name basis with many of the librarians. The library was everything I ever imagined, full of stacks of books that could take me wherever I wanted to go. 

When I moved in the fifth grade, it was the library that helped me to feel like my world hadn’t totally crumbled. My new town had an even bigger library which meant, of course, even more books. In a place where I didn’t know anyone, the new library was my very first friend. I also was lucky enough to have one of the best teachers in the world for fifth and sixth-grade English. I met one of my best friends in that class and started to feel safer and more secure in myself and my new place all because of the love and kindness she showed our whole class. In high school, and even after graduation, it would be this same teacher who helped encourage me to follow a path in English Literature. At so many turns in my life, it has been words and stories that have caught me and held me up and helped me to continue forward. 

In high school, my English teachers quickly became some of my favorites, they were some of the most influential people in my life. They encouraged me to keep writing and dreaming, and of course reading. These same teachers exposed me to so much more literature than a girl from suburban Ohio had even fully realized existed–I read my favorite Shakespeare play Julius Caesar for the first time, I fell in love with Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, and just before I made my decision to commit to Pitt I read August Wilson’s Fences. Because of my high school teachers, I came to begin to better understand what it meant to read more widely, to actively seek out better and wider representation. When I went to college there was never a huge question of what I was going to do, it was always English. In my first class of my freshman year, Representing Adolescence, we were assigned The Hunger Games. I brought my well-worn copy from fifth grade, with my childhood handwriting and my old address scrawled on the front. From the moment I read that on the syllabus, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I had made the right choice. And that’s not to say there haven’t been many bumps along the way, or times I was frustrated with my course of study, or so much confusion on what I even want to do as a job for the rest of my life. However, it is to say that I’m deeply in love with reading and I wouldn’t change it for the world. I have spent my entire life loving books and I can’t wait to spend the rest of it doing the same.

Written by Lauren Deaton

Edited by Gabriela Amorim and Elisabeth Kay

I am chronically bad at answering my phone. It’s a bit of a joke at this point, my allergy to answering text messages, but if I’m being honest, I find myself overwhelmed by it most days. I spend most of my days running around like a lunatic, with hardly any time to breathe, much less look at the growing list of notifications pinging from my phone. Right now, I probably have at least fifty messages unopened. And I’m not even counting all my other notifications: if I counted up Instagram comments and TikTok DMs, there would definitely be over a hundred little red dots blinding me every time I open my phone.   

It’s gotten to the point where texting my friends feels like another task on my never-ending to-dos, which kinda makes me want to scream. How can talking to my friends sit on a list between doing my laundry and filling out my grad school applications? 

Being a college student is an overwhelming experience. I think everyone can relate to that. We all have so much to balance, that it makes even the smallest things feel completely so much larger than they actually are. But I think it’s more than just the college experience. Sometimes, it feels like the world itself is moving far too fast. Five conversations are happening all at once, just three clicks away from each other. Last month’s trends are already waiting for me in the thrift store bins. Beloved celebrities are thrown into the trash just as quickly as they rose to fame.

And it feels like we’re expected to be going just as fast: if my schedule isn’t filled to the brim with classes and meetings and parties, running from one thing to the next, to the point where if there’s a blank few hours it feels like I’m missing something. Everything changes so fast, that it feels like my own life is blurring in front of my eyes, running away from me, trying to keep pace with everything around me.  

Two weeks ago, I woke up with the hint of the sun rising above the horizon. It was six a.m. on a Saturday morning, I had been out the night before, and my body was very unhappy that I was up as early as I was. I considered going back to bed, but instead, I grabbed a hoodie and my old sneakers, quickly ate breakfast, and stepped outside.

Earlier that week, I had felt so stressed that I forced myself to work on the quiet floor of the library, which is probably the closest thing to actual torture a yapper could do to herself. Sitting in the quiet under blinding lights, one thought kept circling in my mind: when was the last time I had actually gone outside? I had asked my friend that question when I saw her later that day and didn’t have an answer either. 

This led me to that early morning, tying my shoelaces outside Schenely Park, my phone completely off in my pocket. We spent a few hours that morning hiking through the park, and I think it was the first time in weeks I felt like I was moving at the same speed as everything around me. It sounds so stereotypical to say so, but I actually felt at peace, listening to my friend and our footsteps and the breeze against my hair and the families walking past us and the little birds in the trees. I didn’t even think about everything else I had to do until long after I stepped back into my apartment.

It felt like, just for a moment, I had managed to pause the world. 

And while that cannot be my every day, maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up late and not think about the stack of papers sitting on my desk. Maybe instead I’ll sit and lay in bed for a little longer and watch the sunlight pouring through my drapes. Maybe I’ll make myself a cup of tea and head down to the park near my apartment. Maybe I’ll sit in the grass and remember how to breathe.

And maybe, just maybe, I will open my phone back up and finally start making those red dots disappear.

Written by Emma Moran

Edited by Delaney Pipon and Elisabeth Kay

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

In love, one and one are one.

Two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one.

Love doesn't just sit there, like a stone, it has to be made, like bread; remade all the time, made new.

To love is to be known.

♡

June 20, 2022. I was a high school graduate, a few weeks into the last summer before everything changed. Before we fell in love. But I’ll get into that–first, I must set the scene.

We drove through backroads, passing farms with cows and goats and fields of Christmas trees and corn. I had been incredibly nervous. My friend, who filled me in on all of the details of the short trip as she drove, was bringing me on a lake house getaway for the week. Our host was to be a friend she made during her freshman year of college. We would be joined by her other friends, all of whom I had never met. I had no idea what to expect, and knew nothing of what was to come. So, as any girl trying her best to be confident, I expected nothing. 

When we arrived, we were greeted at the door by him. I stared (or so I was told many months after the fact) at him, taking in his expression, his smile beaming. It was a smile that reached his eyes. A true, genuine smile. He was happy to see us.

The next three days were a combination of boat trips, jet skiing, group lunches, conversations that went well into the night, and laughter. Through it all, I watched him. I saw how the presence of his friends made him glow with confidence and joy. I saw how he looked at me. How he saw me. Not in a lustful or prematurely romantic way. A simple acknowledgement– “I see you and I want to know you better.” Within no time, these people were no longer strangers. There’s so much more I could say about that trip, but what you should know is that I liked him. Maybe it was the way he smiled, or maybe it was the way we teased each other, or the way he always offered his hand to help me in and out of the boat, or how he grinned ear-to-ear when I caught my first fish–but I really, really liked this boy. I remember thinking to myself, “Even if I never see him again, knowing there are men out there like him is a comfort. Like maybe not every guy would ignore my existence or treat me like I was nothing.” I see you, I see you, I see you. 

But I did see him again. And again and again. And before I could blink, before I could register that someone I liked that much actually liked me back, we were dating. We were in love, and it was everything and more. How could it not be? It was weeks and weeks of FaceTime calls until 3 AM, good morning and goodnight texts, virtual dates (we were long distance), and counting down the days until we could see each other again. It was perfect. And then, as I always do, I thought it might be too perfect. I panicked.

After our first argument, over something so trivial and unimportant, I thought he would leave me. I remember genuinely thinking that it was over, the fairytale had ended as I always knew it would, and he would be gone within the day. But he stayed. He soothed my soul, all of my pain, worries, and doubts melting away like snowflakes. 

Things got harder, worse even, as the relationship set in and I realized it was, in fact, not perfect. We both made mistakes, and that devastated and scared me more than anything. When you have something you treasure so dearly, the thought of losing it is paralyzing. Yet, any time I was certain he would pack it up and leave without turning back, he stayed. Even when I pushed him away, when things were the messiest they had ever been and I felt so unlovable and tired, he was there. I was there too, through it all. 

It’s now October 2024: two years since he asked me to be his girlfriend. Looking back on all I’ve been through, what we’ve been through, I think I know what love is. Love is hard. Love is a lot of hard work. It is humbling, it brings out our deepest fears and our worst flaws and exposes them to the one person who you want to hide them from. Love is terrifying, it’s doubtful, and a struggle at times. Love is getting to know another person the way you know yourself–more so, even. 

Love is like art–not always beautiful, but enduringly real, raw, authentic, true, and genuine. Genuine, like the smile on his face when we met. Like the way he saw through me, straight into my soul that was staring right back at him. 

Written by Emma Mutis

Edited by Karlynn Riccitelli and Julia Brummell

The term “pick me girl” originated on Twitter in 2016,  became more widespread through the use of the media, and is now a phrase easily identifiable in conversations. Dictionary.com defines the term as a woman who obsessively desires male approval and validation, often at the expense of other women. Usually, this is done in a way that separates themselves from the female gender and disassociates them from anything seen as typically feminine. Essentially, these women themselves are “anti-feminist”, acting in a way that benefits the male agenda. While I do believe these women exist, trying to conform to patriarchal ideologies, the terminology of a “pick me girl” has reached shocking levels. In this day in age, classifying another woman by this term can be seen as an insult. Consequently, we put ourselves up, describing ourselves as far from the title of a “pick me girl”.

Typically, women are classified by the stereotypes created for us. The prejudice against women can be summarized into two main categories, maternal or hypersexual. Women are expected to fit into these two categories of being either sexually pleasing to a man or waiting on them hand and foot. Along with these stereotypes also come the things that we see as typically feminine, like enjoying things that prove us as soft and delicate i.e. enjoying beautifying ourselves or liking the color pink. These things put us into the category of “classic women.” The problem lies in the fact that we constantly try to separate ourselves from specific stereotypes, to prove we can be more than what society expects of us. Othering ourselves can sometimes feel like the only way to prove that we have worth beyond our gender. In many cases, this comes from the need to prove to men that we stand apart from the rest and our value is higher. We’re special. Mind you, in this case, I am only referring to the heteronormative perspective of this phenomenon. Though this may seem trivial, it's the human condition to want to be wanted and valued. Due to the patriarchal society we are a part of, women are conditioned to believe that men are inherently better than us. That it's necessary to prove ourselves, a standard of which men are never held to the same level of. So by this need to other ourselves, certain interests and such can often be held to different standards of what makes someone a “pick-me girl” (it's also important to note the terminology of girl, a phenomenon which mainly affects teenage girls still understanding their identity). 

It’s important to understand how we perceive the “pick me girl” to be, usually a girl who very loudly unidentifies herself with typical female attributes. She wears baggy clothes, is interested in “boyish” things such as video games or sports, has mainly male friends, and most importantly is not offended by unfeminist statements repeated around them. She is perceived as being “one of the boys” but has a secret vendetta of dating these men first, proving to them that she is the better choice as she is inherently above other women. Then like a cycle, she comes to realize that despite her hard work to differentiate herself, she is still seen as a woman and not valued how she wants to be. No matter how hard we try, women will never be granted the same respect given to men. 

At this point, the “pick me girl” has become an over-dramatized characterization, used as a means to make fun of women without being viewed as anti-feminist. It repeats the cycle of women putting down other women to prove that they are superior. "Pick-me girls" clearly distinguish themselves from other women by making fun of those who may do outlandish things to seek male attention, all while doing the exact same thing but in a different way.

 There is a reason that a “pick-me boy” doesn’t exist, it’s because men aren’t prosecuted for the things they choose to have an interest in. Except when these interests are associated with femininity, which is then viewed negatively as it emasculates the personality of said man. Essentially, femininity is repeatedly slandered. And of course the defining factor is that straight men are never held to the ethical standards women are held to, this standard of being special. 

Written by Elena Kimberling

Edited by Charlotte Ilik & Julia Brummell

As a senior in college, it’s been fun to reminisce with my roommates about our four years here, discussing things from becoming friends, to living with each other, to all the monumental moments that have shaped our group. A main point of discussion has been our “group bits.” 

These bits and phrases have defined the way we speak and see each other. When we explain them to others, the majority of the time we are told that we are fun and unique and that they wish they had a similar group dynamic. 

These bits range from my prediction dreams, where my dreams (most of the time) come true, to one of us turning every moment into a slam poetry event, to raising a baby gnome named Gnorbie together. The biggest bit that came out of these moments was LINT. 

LINT is a five-day event, or tragedy depending on who you ask, on the third Monday of March. We give up a bad habit or do a challenge, and if you lose you do a punishment. This all began freshman year in Tower B, where most college memories are made. It was inspired by the Catholic season of Lent, but for a shorter time, hence why the challenges are more extreme. We thought it would be something silly; we clearly did not see it going as far as it has.

The first year was simple: I gave up gossiping (the worst five days of my life), someone gave up social media, others video games, and one of us gave up online shopping. The second year we added the punishment element. One of us gave up talking about Taylor Swift, I had to change my terminology (slay, bestie, etc), one had to clean their room every day, and someone else had to have a healthy sleep schedule. The punishments that year ranged from going to the gym for a week to getting your ears pierced. 

As the years progressed, things got harder. Last year, I gave up social media (if you know me, you know this was a brutal battle I almost lost), one friend gave up snacking, and one of them had to cook all their meals. Last year was the first time a punishment was actually executed and, unfortunately, our chef friend failed. Their punishment was to keep track of the NFL ‘24-‘25 Season, and so far they are on top of it. 

This year will be our last time doing LINT, and we’re saving the best ones for last. Every single person involved is dreading it, as am I. However, it’s very bittersweet. LINT is one of the moments that brought us together, so having it all end kind of sucks. I’m excited to explain all this when I reminisce on my college life and share stories with my future family. LINT may be five days of hell, but it certainly has created a lifetime of memories. 

Written by Isabella Gattamorta

Edited by Emma Mutis and Elisabeth Kay

What is “cool” to you? What do you see in a person and immediately think, “Wow, I want to be their friend”? I argue that the concept of “cool” is nominal; though we see it everywhere–from the “Cool Girl” monologue in David Fincher’s Gone Girl (2014) to the influencers of TikTok telling us, flat out, which shoes are “cool girl,” which books make you a “thought daughter,” which movies make you “esoteric.” Abusive nomenclature is thrown around, most criminally and least tangibly on social media. Words once confined to academia are commonplace on all platforms, making a performance of pseudo-intellectualism among young women who feel pressure and influence to match this expectation of “cool.” As the definition changes,  to be “cool” now is to be a mixture of smart and stylish–a nice, chic sense of dress paired with an appropriate popular culture. You are scoffed at for not knowing Fiona Apple, the Smiths, or Lana del Rey, laughed at if you don’t read Dostoevsky or Kafka or Camus, abhorred if you have never seen a Sofia Coppola film. Current internet culture omits that everything about you depends on how you appear, rather than who you actually are. If you can adequately show off things that you only seem to like, then you’ve won! Therefore, intellectualism and style become a mere commodity—an adornment of your personality rather than an actual facet of it. 

However, women are placed at the firm center of this concept. So much of female personality is quantified by how we look, rather than what we like. Appearance for women has always been everything, even before the internet existed. The patriarchy has pushed this idea for centuries, and women have unfortunately fallen into its trap. Do we like what we like quietly, or do we publicly convey the things that we like only to a degree of acceptance? Who cares if you have not read all of Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment if you can dress well and flaunt the novel like an accessory? Women are the primary victims of this newer “esoteric” phenomenon. Now, if you wear leggings, Uggs, don a slick back, and listen to Taylor Swift, you could face the threat of being called “basic.” Men, however, are essentially free from this struggle; they can express themselves with almost complete freedom without any pushback. Since they are the patriarchy, they are automatically accepted under it. There are, of course, exceptions to this, but men face less pushback on their aesthetic presentations than women do, at least on social media.  All forms of media tell us that men want “weird girls,” a gross imitation of Ramona Flowers to fulfill their manic pixie dream girl fantasy. They want well-read, self-proclaimed “esoteric” women until they actually get one. You cannot fall too far on one side either; neither too basic nor too cool. Men are threatened by your being too much of one thing. If they begin to see your personality as a threat, they will throw you aside for the benefit of their own self-actualization. 

It seems as if what you say you like is far more important than what you actually do. The pressure of having “good taste” is more important than ever, a pressure felt by many women in physical and online spaces. To be “cool” is a measure, sometimes, of being wanted. I ruminate on this idea with conversations that I have had with people in my life, including my best friend. We are both interesting, well-read, reasonably stylish women, yet we both speak about how we constantly feel the internal pressure to “be cooler,” or to conform our tastes so that we appear more interesting to the average eye. We both agree that it’s an exhausting ordeal, and both try to exorcize ourselves from these notions.

I did not fully flesh out this idea until recently, when in one of my classes we read a piece by Pierre Bourdieu titled “A Social Critique of the Judgement of Taste.” In this writing, coming from his larger work Distinction, Bourdieu touches on the ideas of cultural and educational capital, as well as the existence of what he calls “legitimate taste.” He stipulates that those with the most “educational capital” are usually privy to distinguish what this “legitimate taste” is. Much like on social media now, the most educated, or the most objectively cool or “well-read” people, determine what is legitimate taste to the masses. Though Bourdieu’s descriptions of this err more on the side of critiquing capital in relation to production and consumer culture, his musings still ring true. The only difference now is that this “educational” or “cultural” capital comes from those who are viewed as conventionally attractive or traditionally “aesthetically pleasing” to the eye. Modern people obviously still care about capitalism and consumer culture, but less so than they care to admit, at least online. They take their advice on taste from the good-looking, well-dressed people they see on the internet. This further proves my point that it matters less now about your actual wealth of knowledge, but more so your general appearance and social status. 

Likewise, social media has and always will exacerbate this problem. On watching one of my (admittedly) favorite movies of all time, The Social Network (2010), Jesse Eisenberg, posing as budding Mark Zuckerberg who is in the infancy of discovering what would become Facebook, laments to a freezing Eduardo Saverin (Andrew Garfield) that Facebook will be cool because “people want to see what their friends are doing, who they hang out with, and that they are getting laid.” A crude statement, sure, but this eventually becomes the driving force of what creates Facebook. Even at the very inception of our modern version of social media, this idea of inherent performance was present. These very ideas laid the foundations for this performance-based posting, i.e. posing with The Communist Manifesto because it will win you brownie points. 

That is not to say that I and many people I know are a victim of this. A lot of my tastes are not as honest as they could be. Sure, I really like bands like The Smiths, movies like The Godfather, 2001: A Space Odyssey, and writers like Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë. However, I also am impartial to “nerdy” things like Lord of the Rings and Harry Potter. I can enjoy objectively stupid movies like Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, or read the YA books of Cassandra Clare or Rick Riordan. I can watch what people consider a “basic” show like Love is Blind without inherent shame and enjoy all of these things because they are a facet of me, not a facet of a premeditated design. We as media consumers toe a strange line between allowing women to be themselves, and being someone who tells them what they should be. Individuality is entirely at stake when we feel forced into this box of inherent performance. Women have never been able to like what they like fully and unashamedly. Everything we do as women is fiercely evaluated through an external gaze: through the patriarchal criticism of men or the pressured performance of social media. It is impossible to break free from this evaluation. Specifically, as young women, it is especially difficult to make this distinction between our actual selves and what we want others to perceive us as. 

I don’t think there is a concrete answer to this, much less do I think that there will ever actually be one. As long as social media is a major presence in our lives, this query will unfortunately continue to exist. I do not mean to present this as a hate piece on social media or TikTok. In many ways, these types of platforms can inspire and even bolster creativity and individuality. However, as women especially, I think that we must be increasingly aware of the negative effects it has not only on our self-esteem but our sense of self in general. 

I think that all humanity has every reason to express themselves freely without shame. The feminine personality is so commonly demeaned, rebuked, and forced into a binary that is constrictive and suffocating. Separating ourselves from this watchful eye and living freely, free of performance, is how we nurture our souls. Many people say that “to be a woman is to perform,” and our current social strata perpetuates this idea. In a number of ways, I feel myself so deeply intertwined with this awareness of self and of others that I have forgotten what I actually enjoy. Thus, I try to reintroduce myself to what I know, for a fact, I once loved. I encourage every young woman to return to your metaphorical “roots,” and regain the sense of self that you may have lost. The truth is, life is about re-remembering yourself. You change and morph into new versions of yourself so often that it is impossible to always and completely know who you are. Do not let social media force you into some version of what it thinks a woman should be or what a “cool woman” is; the coolest you can be is your true, genuine self. Be honest with who you are and people will admire you for it. 

Written by Gianna Longo

Edited by Bella Emmanouilides and Julia Brummell