Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Discerning Reality From Fantasy: Reconsidering Our Reliance on Technology

"Please, I don't want to do it," the android mumbled, synthetic tears forming in the corner of his eyes. Martha frowned. Was he…how did he do that? How could he imitate him so well? "No, that's not fair!" Martha shouted, watching the android plead for its life. Martha felt the tears slide down her cheeks, and shook her head as she took a step back. This android was not Ash; Ash was gone and he would never come back. "No!" Martha screamed.

This scene, from the Black Mirror episode "Be Right Back," illustrates a world in which people grieve through the comfort of androids who resemble the ones they lost. Although intended to help, the technological advancement ultimately does more harm than good, an example which parallels the worrisome repercussions—where technology has blurred the line between reality and artificiality—of advancements society experiences today.

The evolution of technology is often dramatized to suit the Hollywood standard in sci-fi movies or documentaries, but those depictions are not far from reality. The world now revolves around advancements in technology and social media. Two short stories by Alexander Weinstein, "Openness" and "Children of the New World", as well as Black Mirror, an anthology series focused on the dangers of technology that is produced by Netflix, imply, rightly, that technology and social media perpetuate a lack of human interaction, and blur the distinction between what is real and artificial.

Both "Openness" and "Children of the New World" depict a world where human interaction and communication are lacking. In "Openness" the reader follows the life of Andy, a discontented young man who shares only the superficial parts of himself to a world in which "layers" are used to communicate with others. The "layers" make up for human interaction by allowing people to telepathically share their memories. Andy explains how the "layers" are a new form of communication, saying, "[i]t was tiring to labor through the sentences needed to explain how you ran into a friend–much easier to share the memory, the friend's name and photo appearing organically" (185). This new advancement is so effective that people forget what it is like to talk normally with each other. When Andy meets Katie, a spirited teacher for senior citizens, she invites him to her lake house in Maine, and mentions that their "layers" will not work there. During this vacation, Andy has a difficult time trying to convey his thoughts and feelings. He struggles with something that used to once be customary.

"Sorry," I said. "I'm trying to. It's just that without the ding it's hard to know when you're sending…I mean saying something…" I stopped talking, hating the clunkiness of words, and took a deep breath. "I guess I'm just rusty" (190). Andy has become so dependent on the "layers" that verbally interacting with Katie is a significant adjustment.

This same idea is examined in an episode of in Black Mirror entitled "The Entire History of You." Similar to Weinstein's "Openness," the characters in this episode struggle with human interaction and communication. Instead of "layers," a technological implant called "grains" records events as they happen, and can be replayed at any given moment, comparable to that of a surveillance camera. Liam and Ffion, the two characters in "The Entire History of You" are very similar to Andy and Katie. Although the "grains" do not take away human interaction, both of the devices pose as barriers to authenticity in the story. Liam discovers that Ffion has been cheating on him after noticing deleted memories in her "grain," much like Andy discovers that Katie's version of him is of a different man through their "layers." Ultimately, both relationships are destroyed due to these new advancements. The technological world they live in led to a lack of communication, and both characters subsequently lost trust within their partners.

That technology can blur the distinction between what is real and artificial becomes increasingly apparent in Weinstein's short story, "Children of the New World." The narrator and his wife Mary cannot have children due to old age. However, in the New World, they are given the chance to create the family they have always wanted, with a virtual reality platform called the "New World." Experiences such as pregnancy and normal human actions are imitated to create an enhanced reality. Through this technology, the couple is able to have children and relish a connection that they could not have previously. "We were free to experience a physical connection that we'd always longed for in the real world but had never been able to achieve" (84) "…Our lives were illuminated in a way we'd thought impossible in the physical world. Online, with our new family, we had found joy" (86).

Although this physical connection is felt, it is artificial. The narrator states that this connection was more of an "electric hum," creating an imitation of human intimacy. Nonetheless, the line between reality and artificiality becomes shaky as the couple finds joy in a world of imitation. This line further blurs as the couple is forced to delete their children after a virus has infected them. When the supervisor explains a solution to this virus, the narrator argues with him:

"I'm afraid all of your family is corrupted", the supervisor told me. "You'll end up bringing the virus with you. It's an easy process to reboot. Simply hold down the power button on your console for twenty seconds and—" "These are my children!" I yelled.

"If it's any consolation, they won't feel a thing; they're just data" (91).

This scene presents a sharp contrast between someone who is enmeshed in the virtual world, and someone who is not. The narrator has grown so attached to his children that he sees them as real people rather than data, unlike the supervisor. He first recalls the little moments they shared, and is subsequently bombarded by memories of them after deletion.

"Sometimes, when evening comes and the light hits our home in a way that reminds us of that other life, we'll talk about them. What their faces looked like, the feeling of their weight in our arms, the way our youngest would crawl onto my back…They weren't real, we say, looking for confirmation. Right? Right. Then we get up, start dinner, and move on with our childless lives (83).

The narrator and his wife struggle with the feelings that their children left behind were real, even though the children themselves were always virtual. This struggle continues when they try to recover from their experience in the New World through a support group. The narrator explains that the people in this group will never understand what he and his wife have been through unless they have experienced it for themselves.

"…they never had kids on the other side. They comfort us for a while, a couple weeks, a month; they send sympathy cards and flowers, but in the end they all offer the same advice: It's time to move on. They were were just programs. You can create new children. And we nod grimly, knowing full well we'll never return (95).

This contrast further emphasizes the difference between those that know what is real and false. Here, virtual reality created a chain of events that left the couple heartbroken and damaged. To the couple, their children were viewed as human beings while to others, the story is dismissed as an unfortunate event. The narrator and his wife were deluded by the promises of the New World and left with deep feelings about virtual beings. "We were lonely. We were needful. We wanted to feel pleasure again, to be caressed and loved. Our longings were those of humans, not monsters" (95). After leaving the New World, human warmth and touch become foreign to the narrator and his wife. Virtual reality became a substitute for human interaction, a concept that is slowly evolving in today's world; with the development of VR headsets, people are using this technology for a number of resources such as entertainment, education and career opportunities. While these advancements may create a more efficient society, the positions that belonged to humans are gradually being replaced by machines, indicating the world's increasing dependence on technology.

Both of Weinstein's stories imply that technology has the potential to replace human interaction, which can be dangerous, as artificiality can attract people into an unrealistic world filled with false riches and dreams. With only a virtual world to rely on, humans can become lonelier and hollow as a result of them chasing after a life that is not real.

Martha, from the Black Mirror episode "Be Right Back," parallels the characters in "Children of the New World," as all similarly grapple with reality. Martha is in the same position as the narrator and Mary, as she uses technology to cope with the loss of her boyfriend, Ash. The synthetic version of Ash is used for physical comfort much like how the virtual children in "Children of the New World" provide comfort for the narrator and his wife. Although Martha understands that the synthetic version of Ash will never be the man that she fell in love with, still keeps him in her attic. The narrator and Mary continue to navigate in a world without their children but still keep the memory of them alive.

Ultimately, the Weinstein stories and Black Mirror episodes imply that technology in the future will perpetuate a lack of human interaction, blurring the distinction between what is real and artificial. "Openness" and "The Entire History of You" illustrate a world where people are dependent on an object to communicate. This leads to compromised relationships, as our lives revolve around objects and interfaces. "Children of the New World" and "Be Right Back" warn that technology and reality can merge together to create a fleeting sense of comfort that only results in a hollow feeling. Unfortunately, the ideas in the source material are uncomfortably close to reality. Today's society is caught up in the world of technology; children depend on tablets for entertainment and learning, and many of us would rather stay on our devices than speak to each other, transfixed by the bubble of social media. Essentially, technology should be carefully monitored to avoid creating the horrifying dystopia that is often depicted in popular culture.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Lessons From My Cousin Joe: Strength, Love, and The Importance of Family

The air was stiff and frigid. My father and I studied the road, looking for my uncle's car around the curb. We had arrived much earlier than my uncle, aunt, and cousins at a Christmas tree farm in Northern Washington State, my aunt's favorite one. We were there visiting on a somber occasion—my cousin Joe had recently been diagnosed with stage IV esophageal cancer, a sickness that wasn't curable. It could be treated to prolong the amount of time he had left, but only 2.8 percent of those diagnosed survive beyond five years. Unfortunately, my cousin was not going to be one of those people. The experience Joe was having showed me what family really is and why it truly matters. Joe showed me to never take for granted certain values like resilience, loyalty, love, and the ability to be positive when against the very worst odds.

As a kid, I always remembered Joe as a tall, thickly-bearded man with a slight beer belly, and as a generally large guy. But when I saw him for the first time since his diagnosis, he weighed at least 30 pounds less than I did. My mother told me that I should expect this change, but nothing could prepare me for what he was going through. He had bags under his eyes, and his skin was pale. His bones protruded due to the weight he had lost. He fought hard that day, and every day, to enjoy time with his family. He had willpower stronger than any sickness or diagnoses, and stronger than any symptom or side effect—I know that seeing this will always be one of the most inspiring acts of determination I will witness in my life.

Finally, after a half-hour, my uncle's white Ford Escape appeared around a bend in the road. I stepped back onto a patch of grass that was covered with a thin layer of snow to allow them to pull into the farm. They parked, got out of the car and the search began. My family has always taken Christmas trees seriously. There was never a specific kind we liked the most, but it usually came down to which tree had the strongest and most pleasant aroma. As I looked around, I was surprised by the quality and price of the trees. They appeared  much more beautiful than the trees I was used to, the ones set on a wooden rack on the streets of Manhattan. It was as if the atmosphere of the city swallowed the trees' smell, or at least overpowered it with the competing smells of gasoline and garbage. I watched my family as they searched. There was an unspoken awareness among us that this was going to be Joe's last Christmas. Joe seemed less interested in finding a tree than in enjoying everyone's company and trying to keep the symptoms of his illness to a minimum. He was bundled up that day in his bright blue jacket, blue jeans, mittens, and one of his classic baseball hats.

My uncle and aunt, Joe's parents, debated which tree was the best. My uncle had his eyes set on a wide Douglas fir with a significant patch in the middle that did not have any needles. It was beautiful nonetheless. My aunt preferred a Fraser fir that stood quite tall. I signed off on both trees as they each had a powerful natural smell. I then went to look for Joe, who had walked away from the group with his girlfriend Christina, to get his opinion on the two trees. That is when I saw him inside of his car, with his big grey mittens on, his hands pressed against the heater. It was easy to tell that he was struggling. The cold was too much for him, and his symptoms were getting the best of him. I saw how hard he was working to try and enjoy his time with us; family was one of the most important things in his life and he valued being together. It upset me when I thought about the distance between us. I'd never previously considered the impact this distance has had on me. My aunt, uncle, and cousins live in the Pacific Northwest while my parents, brother, and I all live on the other side of the country, in New York. If we lived closer to one another, we could gather more than just once a year.

***

We chose a tall, beautiful, pine tree with a pointy top, so that the star would be secure. When we got home that night we played Ariana Grande's Christmas album, along with Frank Sinatra's and Michael Buble's. We ate good food, homemade pizza which was my uncle's specialty. He taught me how to throw the dough up into the air and how to catch it, and reminded me to put olive oil on the dough before applying the tomato sauce. I have held onto this knowledge since. My brother, father, and I toasted with my uncle's favorite bourbon while on the other side of the kitchen counter the rest of my family played charades. We joined the charades game and played a few other classic family games—activities that, at that moment, seemed as though we were the only family to know about them. That was how sacred this moment was, a moment that felt still, as if the night would never end. I remember feeling content, an emotion that was often out of reach within my daily life in New York. But the biggest gift was seeing Joe laughing and smiling, surrounded by the people that loved him most.

***

Joe kept a blog so that he could update his friends and family about what was happening in his life. One post read, "I hope that I've done enough in my short time on this earth to have made a little mark and that whenever the time comes I can say that I lived a good and full life and I didn't waste what a gift it was." While he didn't say this to me face-to-face, it was as if he did. Life, I realized, is an incredible gift. Often people like to focus their lives on the standards we have to follow, like going to school, getting a job, and building an identity in the world. It is easy to lose sight of how special it is to merely be alive. Joe helped me realize that if you take a step back from all those things, being here on this earth is a gift in itself, one that begs to be taken advantage of.

***

Joe had a love for the outdoors—hiking, backpacking, and camping were some of his favorite things to do. He was raised that way, growing up in the Pacific Northwest, and having a father who loved hiking and camping. My uncle took Joe on his first hike in his pack when he was six years old, to a high lake above Lake Wenatchee in the Cascade mountains. He climbed the same trail with a portion of Joe's ashes— my uncle's final hike with his son. His two brothers, Andy and Mike, accompanied him. My uncle said at Joe's memorial service, later, "So Joe did get back there and is there forever now, with spectacular views of the green valleys and Mount Rainier." Many people came to honor Joe at his memorial service in Bellingham, Washington—loving family, loyal friends, and his incredible partner of ten years and caretaker for a year and a half, Christina. The rest were people who were inspired and touched by Joe's incredible vigor and bravery, and his ability to keep an open and positive mindset throughout his illness and decline.

For the rest of my life, I will try to administer values to my life that Joe possessed—values he had before his illness, and that deepened while he was ill—like feeling more content within myself, and realizing the blessing that life is, even while having to do the various tedious chores in my life. I remember Joe always taking care of me when I was a toddler, at my other aunt and uncle's beach house along the Oregon coast. My family would often have reunions there. The Pacific ocean was frigid all year, and I'd plunge in only to run back out, but it served as a beautiful backdrop. I have memories of these times but they are hard to recall, memories that had been diluted over time, turned to foggy images in my mind. But my mom showed me photos of Joe and I after he passed away. One was of me, no older than 3 or 4, climbing a small sand dune on the beach with my big cousin Joe's hand on my back holding me up. I always think of that photo now, and think of the way my family tried their best to hold him up, and how much he valued that.

Joe will forever live on in my family, inspiring us through the resilience we witnessed, and the words he wrote. His passion for just living never dwindled. Shortly after 2018 began he wrote, "I'm planning on cramming as much into my 2018 as I possibly can. New experiences, new travel, and I just want to learn as much new stuff as I possibly can. I want to be a sponge for new knowledge. I want to cook better. I'm learning how to make stuff out of clay. I want to spend as much time as I can with friends and family as long as I am feeling good. I want to snuggle with my dog as much as I possibly can. I don't want to dwell on negativity and be as present as possible. I hope that however crazy this world can seem everybody realizes how lucky we are to be alive and with each other."

Dedicated to Joseph Jacobson McClenahan, 1986-2018. You can read more of Joe's blog here.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

Change

The first day of high school was only the beginning of the terrible days that followed. During my time at Benjamin N. Cardozo High School in Bayside, Queens, I felt lost and anxious all the time. It felt as if all my fears were slowly drowning me like quicksand. I quickly grew depressed, stressed, and scared; it's not that the schoolwork was difficult, I made it difficult. The teachers were intimidating, and lacked sympathy and care for the students. With all the security guards standing at every corner of the hallway, it felt like a prison. There were fights in school almost everyday, and the security guards usually stood and watched, or pretended not to see. I soon started skipping classes because of my anxiety—I genuinely did not want to go into a room where I would be ridiculed for not being able to do something well.

Sometimes, I'd tear up while sitting in the back of my dad's car on the way to school, and on the way back home. The confusion of not being able to identify what my problem was scared me to death, and kept me from enjoying anything at all. The fear haunted me inside and out, and grew as I continued to keep that feeling of overwhelming doubt away from anyone, including my family. Everyone thought I was one of the smartest and most successful students and that hurt me even more, because I knew it wasn't true. I rarely spoke, so everyone assumed that I knew what I was doing. I always felt glared at however, by my teachers who truly knew how successful I was. I might have seemed like I knew what I was doing, but that was only because I was too scared to, and my failing grades did not help.

One afternoon during my second year in that school, around November and in English class, my teacher began the class discussion by saying, "I'm going to pick on someone who never raises their hand." Those words made me shiver. The next moment, she called on me. It was an opinion-based question about current events, "What do you think you can do to make this situation better?" There was no right or wrong, but that's what scared me the most. I didn't know what was right and what was wrong, and I was scared of saying something stupid. I trembled, but managed to squeeze out an answer. I tried really hard not to start crying. I had distracted myself from my anxiety by digging my nails into my skin.

***

In that same English class a few weeks later, when I was called on again for not raising my hand, I spoke with a little more confidence. That was only because I was having a good day, and I was feeling okay about my answer. However, that only lasted for a second, as the girl seated in front of me immediately exclaimed, "She can speak?!" I felt my heart pound so fast I thought it was going to rip apart. That comment was unnecessary and disrespectful, and I felt hurt. Everyone laughed, the teacher ignored it, and I felt like I didn't deserve to have a good day at all because it always crumbles in front of my eyes. It was merely a joke to everyone, but I felt like the joke. I wanted to run away, but I didn't have the courage, so I just let out a small, "Ha-ha". When I got home, I threw my bag onto my bed, stuffed my face into my pillow, and cried.

The next week, I was walking down the hallway to deliver the attendance folder to the office for my algebra teacher. The classroom was on the third floor, and the office was on the first, so it was a long walk. As I started downstairs, I saw three students sitting in the stairwell, most certainly skipping classes. Teachers didn't check the stairs, so the staircases, which were separated from the halls by heavy doors, were perfect hiding spots. I pretended not to see them and continued down, when they approached me. "Hey," one said. I didn't answer right away, because I didn't want to get in trouble and I always ignored unnecessary communication. They quickly surrounded me—I was cornered. They walked closer to me and I could feel my heart pound faster with each step they took. "Hi…" I said, very quietly.

"What's your name?"

"…Midori."

My eyes were pinned to the floor, and I couldn't bring myself to look at their faces. "Are you Asian? Where are you from?" one girl asked.

Oh no, I thought. Should I tell them that I'm Japanese? I was very reluctant to, because I've had very bad experiences with the way people treated me the moment they heard my nationality. "I'm Japanese." A pause, then a gasp followed.

"You're Japanese?! That's so cool!" another guy exclaimed, clearly excited.

There it is, I sighed in my mind.

"Can you speak Japanese?" another guy asked. I grew very uncomfortable and excused myself, pushing through the group and out the door. The last thing I heard from them was one of the guys asking how to cuss in Japanese. I took the other staircase on my way back to algebra.

***

A few months later at around 7:30 AM, I arrived at school. I knew my school was overcrowded, but there was something abnormal—students were standing in two long lines in front of the entrance. Peeking through the crowd, I saw six security guards at the doors. I got in line behind a girl to get inside the building, unaware of what was happening. Overhearing conversations around me, I found out that someone had threatened to bomb the school over Snapchat, and the school had placed metal detectors in the entrance. It was my turn, and I removed my bag for the security to check. We already had I.D. card lock entrances in the front lobby and the cafeteria, but I suppose it wasn't enough. By the time I left the building that day, at around 3:00 PM, the metal detectors were gone. The next day, I heard that the student who sent the threat got expelled.

***

One night, I finally broke down, and my body started to shut itself off. I lost consciousness for about five minutes at 2:00 am, all by myself, scared. I was scared of telling someone about what I was going through, scared of being a burden to my family—scared of living my life scared. I didn't feel my head hit the floor, but apparently my father heard a thump. That was the first day of "not going to school" month, which irrevocably changed my experience with this school, for better or for worse. I stayed home, lying in bed, for about a month, trying to recover from the trauma and the anxiety. I went to cardiologists, and had my brain activity tested. If I got up, I would lose consciousness immediately. It felt like I was poisoned by the experience of high school. It haunted me and still does today. The suicidal thoughts, the times I cried just after getting home from school—these moments haunted me.

I eventually went back.

By then, my grades were so low that I was bound to end up in summer classes. I sat in the gym on a sunny day of June, away from the other kids that somehow found joy in playing sports. Even though the class itself was much smaller than the normal gym class, it made me tremble in anxiety just as much. As I watched the students play together, I thought of how they must all be there for a reason, and whatever it may be, the idea of so many students struggling to pass a class made me sympathize with them. The class was more difficult than the regular gym class, probably because of the amount of students there. Normally, the gym class would be separated into males and females by a huge wall going down the middle of the gymnasium. Each class was huge, since there were probably three classes squeezed into one, so the teachers didn't watch us. In the summer class, though, it was a mix, and we were all forced to play something together, usually kickball. The artificial grass stuck to my shoes like leeches, and I got hit in the head with a ball one too many times.

***

Two years ago, in November of 2016, my family moved to Valhalla. I transferred to a new high school, a healthier one mostly because the school was smaller. All of the teachers were super kind, and felt like adults. I received grades of 60s in my old high school, but upon transferring to a new environment, I began to receive 80s, 90s, even 100s. My brain did not change, my anxiety was still very much there, but I felt good. I felt like I belonged there, and confirmed that my grades reflected not only my scores, but the teachers' ability to teach as well. The new school, the move, the new city, really did save my life. School can be a difficult place, and the problem isn't always you. A change in environment can make a critical difference, and help so much more than one might think—although a change in circumstances and surroundings can be quite scary, sometimes it is necessary for change within to follow.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

The Age of Corruption

I had a childhood just like every other sob story people write about: my father was abusive, my parents divorced, and my mom was too busy to pay attention to me. I have to give credit where it's due, however, because I've since learned through years of snooping that my father threw my mom, my sister, and I out because he found out she was trying to leave him. With only the clothes on our backs and the rest shoved in trash bags, my mom scooped us both up and moved us into a nice, little town house when I was four. My memories of that house consisted of being downstairs in the living room, either sitting on my mother's red, suede couch or on the chicken wire carpet floor, watching a copious amount of television. Although I haven't lived there in 6 years, I can remember the uncomfortable fabric vividly, the source of many rug-burn scars on my back. I watched anything marketed to kids: Nickelodeon, Noggin, Disney, Disney Jr., PBS Kids, Cartoon Network, Fox Kids. If it could make me laugh, I watched it. I later learned, however, that laughter couldn't solve everything.

Even though it kept me company, my friendship with the television stunted my social growth, and perpetuated the social anxiety and awkwardness that follows me to this day. I learned to use black humor and controversy to tell people the truth of my life—my crumbling relationship with my father, my struggles with making friends in my neighborhood and school, and being bullied were all the ingredients for depression, which I still grapple with today. To my knowledge, none of the shows I used to watch contained jokes about drinking, sex, suicide, and other similarly wholesome topics, but having my older sister around exposed me to the wonders of MTV and VH1. I watched Jersey Shore and Tru Life through the slit of her bedroom door, or, on the unexpected occasion when we weren't at each other's throats and could spend time together. These shows gave me a taste of what I thought adulthood was, and I teased these topics into casual conversation. When I didn't know how to communicate my feelings, I lashed out the only way I knew how—well, other than threatening my life. I tried to shock the people around me, hoping that they'd reach out a hand to help me. But the kids around me didn't get my jokes, and my teachers reprimanded me for being inappropriate. When someone did understand, I became addicted to the laughter, even though my jokes were a cry for help—self-deprecating jokes about my weight, intelligence, and personality were just the beginning; I believed my bullies, my suicide jokes became attempts, and sarcasm was a way to diss whoever I deemed deserving. The humor I possessed at way too young of an age was rooted in the trauma I experienced—but it was severely underdeveloped.

That is, until one summer, when I grew bored with Fosters Home and Ed, Edd, and Eddy, and I found myself lazily pressing the clicker looking for something new. A man with a round and wrinkled face and thick-rimmed, bulky eyeglasses deceived me into thinking he was friendly, but when he opened his mouth, a loud, abrasive voice compelled me to turn the volume down, even though I was home alone. I swooned, and began frantically searching for this man's name in the TV Guide: Danny DeVito. He dropped his monster condom for his magnum dong. This was the first Always Sunny in Philadelphia episode I've ever seen, and the beginning of the real age of corruption.

***

Comedy Central, FXX, Adult Swim, ABC, MTV, VH1—they consumed my every hour, especially during my transition from my old chicken-wire carpet to a new, dull one in our new house.  I cursed my mother for making me move right before middle school, as I thought I was finally making friends who I could connect with. I turned to every comedian I could find, the more controversial the better. I researched the jokes I didn't understand until they were funny. I watched Stewart and Colbert every night because they made the news interesting. South Park taught me satire, and how to think critically of society. My love for learning soon surpassed my addiction to laughter, and I became interested in researching and watching everything, not wanting a single joke, reference, or allusion to go over my head. I started to catch innuendos and subliminal messages in cartoons. To some, I was the one who told them about the time Rocko from Rocko's Modern Life played a phone sex operator in one episode. I idealized the instability of Charlie from Always Sunny, and emulated his sporadic behavior. Whenever I did stupid, impulsive things, I'd scream "Wild card, bitches!" Despite my idiotic tendency to try and be my favorite characters from TV, I took a rather intelligent approach to my consumption of media, analyzing every book, TV show, and movie under a mental microscope to make sure that I wouldn't be caught up in pop culture. To be one of those people comedians made fun of was one of my biggest fears. (Of course, this led me to being one of those girls who thought they were special because they watched Daria instead of The Jersey Shore, an archetype that I now try to thoroughly avoid.) Still, watching as much television as I did taught me that comedy can be just as complex and sophisticated as any other art form. From "Who's on First?" to the early days of Rage Quit comics, I found it all to be on par with the minds of Virgil and Sophocles.

Around this time, I was warming up to the teachers in my new school district. They paid closer attention to me than my previous teachers, and praised me for my matter-of-fact demeanor. Although I never did their homework, I was one of the only kids who showed interest in their lessons and I was able to hold my own in conversations outside of class (usually while I was serving detention with them). It's funny how easily a joke I told in my younger years could be modified to be intelligent instead of dirty or morbid. I cannot tell you how many South Park jokes I turned into witty critics my teachers were amused by. I remember turning to the episode "It's a Jersey Thing" as reference to why New Jersey was the worst state, something my fourth-grade teacher, a New Jersey native, did not appreciate. My knowledge of current events and pop culture seemed to grant me respect, but there was still a hurting, immature child underneath my façade, using comedy to cope with life—I had just found ways for them to listen to me. However, when the façade broke and I begged for help, they avoided eye contact. All of it built up to multiple breakdowns until one last referral my eighth grade year had me screaming in the principal's office that I didn't want to live anymore. On the way to the hospital, the EMT sparked a conversation with me. After explaining what happened, my history, and my truth, all they could muster as a response was a very meek, "You're very mature for your age."

Underneath, it felt as though the adults in my life put me on a pedestal, not because of my maturity, but because of the ridiculous juxtaposition of a funny little black girl with opinions and jokes on politics and society—but the truth was, the only reason why I knew as much as I did was because of the hardships I experienced. That doesn't make people laugh. I concluded that when society fails others, it makes people feel shameful about their comfortable lives, so they turn a blind eye. No one ever thinks to look at those who seem fine, like those who make others laugh. I wonder if that's how Robin Williams felt before he took his life—it's what I thought of before I tried to take mine, a couple of months before he succeeded.

***

Nevertheless, my understanding of adults started to evolve from the narrow scope of what I saw on television. My truth no longer seemed as dramatic as it felt during my youth. No longer did I need people's attention to thrive, because I learned healthier ways to cope on my own. TV and I remain great friends, but I have made healthier friendships with actual human people. I broke up with solitude. I used to think I was the only kid in the world going through what I was going through, but I found more peers who felt as I did, all with entirely different backgrounds and cultures, many with lives worse than mine, but all with the same dissatisfaction of those who ignored their pain during their youth in favor of being able to fit in or be a wallflower. Suddenly, the other weirdos and I formed our own collective and I became a lot less worried about what the other kids would say. I was able to be myself, crude humor and all, with people to laugh with.

Often, we internalize the belief that we should keep our hurtful truths in the shadows. But in learning how to embrace our truths instead, we confront our past in healthy ways, and become genuinely, not cynically, able to laugh. Humor teaches us to appreciate the bad times, because they make the good times so much better. Ignoring the truth creates an internal struggle, but embracing it teaches us to love ourselves for who we truly are. I still struggle to differentiate self-deprecating humor from being able to make fun of myself, but now, many people love me enough to not let me put myself down. I feel truly happy when I'm laughing with them.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

In Search of Identity

The summer of 2016 is one I would love to forget and never will. As an aspiring dancer, I had recently recovered from a series of injuries to my feet and knees, and I was attending the summer intensive at the School of Pennsylvania Ballet. In addition to my excitement about the program, I was also rooming with one of my best friends. She was a brownstone-dwelling New Yorker, and a bit of a preoccupied socialite—but, she had always been a deeply caring friend, a great listener, and there for me when I needed her after a difficult class or a stressful rehearsal. As soon as we arrived at the program, she started making a friend group for us: two other girls and two guys, all very connected in the dance world. We got close fast, watching Pitch Perfect in our rooms together after class and exploring all the cute brunch spots Philly had to offer; Green Eggs Cafe, The Dandelion, and my favorite for its omelettes and stuffed French toast, Sabrina's Cafe.

There was no single incident that changed things, but rather, a series of subtle shifts. I was placed in a lower level, and my friends started planning post-class activities without me, as we ended class at different times and had breaks in different places. It was natural, I told myself, I can't expect them to not talk about things just because I'm not there. But it hurt all the same when I was constantly the only one out of the loop and with no say in "our" plans. When we were together, they would discuss their classes and other students in their level. Again, it was natural, but I felt left out, especially by my best friend, who I had expected to at least try to include me. Her socialite tendencies were coming out, and now it seemed I wasn't cool enough to be worth her time. They joked around and teased each other, playfully fought to sit next to each other. I told myself I was either imagining it or was just paranoid about being liked, but no one ever wanted to sit next to me, it seemed. I tried everything I could to fit in; I modeled my outfits after theirs, started watching their favorite TV shows in order to follow their conversations, listened to all their favorite music, and frequently referenced inside jokes. It didn't help.

On our one beach day of the summer, all five of them disappeared for over an hour, leaving me alone on the sand at the New Jersey shore, watching the bags and empty French fry bowls and turning red from equal parts heat, embarrassment, and anger. I had no idea where they were, and when they might be back. They hadn't asked me to come, or even asked me to watch the sandy towels. They were just gone. By the time I was about to become a puddle of sweat, they returned—no apologies, no explanations, nothing. I had to ask to find out they had gone for a walk to take dance pictures further down the beach. Had they ever thought to see if I wanted to come? Had they even noticed I wasn't there? Surely this couldn't be natural. By the end of the summer, I felt inadequate, invisible, and betrayed. I was overwhelmed with self-doubt and was trying so hard to fit in that I didn't know what I wanted or needed for myself anymore.

As a lifelong congregant in the church of books, I took refuge in the stacks at The Strand bookstore after returning home to New York City. Avoiding the soupy hot basement level, I climbed the stairs to the second floor. It was there, in a dead-end row of dusty shelves that I discovered the novel An Abundance of Katherines by John Green. I picked it up because I had read and enjoyed several of his other books, including Looking for Alaska and The Fault in Our Stars. While I knew nothing about this book in particular, it seemed reasonable to assume I might enjoy it as well. I was more right than I knew. From the moment I started reading, crammed in a corner of the row and surrounded by busy book-buyers, I couldn't put it down. What I found in this book was a description of the confusion, pain, and loss I was feeling, with a clarity I couldn't yet articulate myself.

***

The main character in Green's novel, Colin, is a socially awkward teenage prodigy who has just graduated from high school, worried that whatever genius he had as a child is disappearing. After his nineteenth girlfriend named Katherine breaks up with him, he goes on a road trip with his best friend, which begins as way to move on from his breakup as well as a search for a stroke of brilliance—"a Eureka moment," as he calls it.

While I was far from being a prodigy, I related to Colin's worries about losing his talent, and with it, his sense of self. At the ripe old age of seventeen, I felt helplessly past my prime, and feared that I would never be good enough to continue dancing and develop a career as a performer. These feelings ultimately led me to take a break from dancing after the summer ended, as I had lost my self-confidence and motivation, and my body still ached from injury; I found myself adrift without the life raft of my identity as a dancer. The intensely emotional process of making that decision during an intensive dance program made it even harder to cope with unsupportive and uncaring friendships at the same time. Dance had been a part of my life and a part of my identity for as long as I could remember. It was how I spent my days, how I met all my friends, and how I had envisioned my future. Without it, I didn't know who I was, which was scary, yet also exciting, as it opened my eyes to a whole heap of new possibilities and time to pursue other interests which, in turn, expanded my view of myself.

Near the end of the book, Lindsey Lee Wells, an aspiring paramedic and Colin's eventual long-term girlfriend, refers to her own social habits of becoming the person she is expected to be, rather than the person she truly is, and the resulting self-erasure: "The thing about chameleoning your way through life is that it gets to where nothing is real."  While Colin tends to be true to himself, as awkward as that self often is, he also experiences this kind of self-erasure, due to his limiting expectations of himself to be only one thing: a genius. Here, at the book's emotional climax, the characters open up and share their innermost thoughts and reflections—things they've never shared with anyone else.

"Chameleoning" refers to changing ourselves to suit the expectations or desires of others. I had spent the entire summer, and if I'm honest, my entire life, trying to fit into whatever group happened to be around me. This can be subtle, like casually agreeing with a friend's statement without really thinking about it, just to be polite or uncontroversial, or more obvious, like my tendency to stop wearing dresses because my friends didn't, and to otherwise take on the fashion habits of those closest to me. On the surface, this isn't such a terrible thing, but finding myself suddenly alone on shifting ground, I realized that I didn't even know how many of my beliefs and habits were really mine, and how many were hand-me-downs from others. Lindsey's reflects, "Because you're only thinking they-might-not-like-me-they-might-not-like-me, and guess what? When you act like that, no one likes you." This summarized what went through my head on a daily basis all summer. Her second sentence answered my unspoken question. It might not seem like much, but these two sentences completely upended my approach to my friendships.

In the two years since Philly, I've spent a lot of time on my own, learning for myself what makes me happy. I like cooking, watching The Office and Friends, and working out at the gym. My style, in terms of fashion, is a combination of classic, European, and athletic. In college, I'm consciously making sure that I stay true to myself, and don't get sucked into my old patterns of mirroring others–of reacting rather than initiating. I have to be me. That's all I can control. And if someone doesn't like me as my honest self, then that is not a person I need in my life.

By the time I read Green's book, I knew that my summer friends were not the people I wanted to spend my time with. It took time to heal. It's still something I'm working on, but as I become more confident, I find myself able to ask "What am I looking for in a friend? What kind of person do I want to be around?"

Again, Lindsey helps me answer those questions, "That's who you really like. The people you can think out loud in front of." Now, with my college friends, I have never felt the need to be anyone I am not. With them, I feel relaxed, I feel happy, I feel like me, in a natural way I thought I might never find with a group of friends. The people you can trust, who care about you and your ideas, and who don't make you worry that what you're saying sounds stupid accept you for you—no "chameleoning" necessary.

Green's characters, more eloquent than I could possibly have written or even thought at that time, helped me clarify my own feelings about my identity as a dancer—I realized how much I loved and wanted dance to be a part of my life. I now approach it with the consciousness of how much it matters to me. His characters also showed me the definition of true friendship. I was able to come to terms with my losses, and understand that, ultimately, I was not alone. Both Colin and I had damaging experiences, his break-up and my own "break-up" with friends and, for a time, dance. Reading An Abundance of Katherines was an important step for me in healing and moving on from that experience, as I was able to learn alongside Colin and Lindsey how to stop thinking they-might-not-like-me-they-might-not-like-me, and instead to trust myself and my instincts, to seek out the "people you can think out loud in front of" in my life, and to build a path forward that excites and inspires me—a path that feels authentic to me, no chameleons in sight.

Credit: Emma Baynes '20

The Cost of #Efficiency

It was March 24, 2018, the day of the March for Our Lives in downtown Los Angeles. It was my first ever protest rally, so my excitement was at an all-time high. I put on my camo pants for combat against injustice, my Black Panther shirt for empowerment, and my shades for a mask, and my mother drove me downtown. I was entering a new world, one where I joined millions in standing up. Ever since I saw the students from Parkland stand up and demand gun control laws, I was determined to support them. So, with my poster in hand, I yelled, "No more fear! Gun control NOW!" Millions of people, yelling alongside me, took to the street, allowing this seemingly universal demand to bind us together, emboldening us to stand against resistance.

Later, on Instagram, I posted pictures with the hashtag, #Marchforourlives. I was proud to not only use the hashtag, but also to fight in real time for a cause I believed in. I could have easily found a picture or article online and shared it with the same hashtag, but I knew that kind of action was no action at all. In fact, relying on the hashtag alone would be completely ineffective. In an article for WIRED magazine entitled "Me Too and the Problem with Viral Outrage," Jessi Hempel writes that the hashtag, "…despite the best intentions of so many participating—is everything that's wrong with social media." The hashtag is ultimately imperfect and flawed as a political tactic, as it satisfies the wish to identify with a particular movement, without demanding the user take any further action.

Hempel writes, "Outrage is central to the design of most social media platforms—for very good reason. It's an emotion that inspires sharing, which causes all of us to spend more time engaged with the platform." Many people have their reasons for browsing a hashtag. The open access journal Firstmonday.org ran a survey to see why people read tweets with particular hashtags, and also why they publish tweets with them. According to the results, 73% of subjects who created the tweets wanted to show support, 70% wanted to share experiences, and 57% wanted to share information with others. As for the people who read them, the dominant percentage (64%) wanted to understand the issue better. Wanting to understand social issues is, well, understandable. However, the real question becomes, what happens after readers know more about a particular problem? Do they choose to remain angry and allow themselves to indulge in these social grievances, or do they pick up a poster and join a rally?

The reason Black Lives Matter became a movement is not just due to the hashtag, but the formative driving reasons behind it. The shootings of Philando Castile in 2016 and Tamir Rice in 2012, as well as the acquittal of the officers responsible, angered people to form and join protests (such as in Baton Rouge back in August 2016, after the shooting death of Alton Sterling, or a year before that in Baltimore, after police killed a black man named Freddie Gray). The movement influenced millions to demand police accountability, and to participate in a conversation about institutional racism and harmful profiling. Niraj Chokshi of The New York Times describes the #BlackLivesMatter hashtag, "The label appears to have lasting power, simmering like a low-grade fever on social media and roaring to life with every police killing of a black citizen and every racial protest that makes the news, informing the long-running national debate." But regardless of the hashtag's constant resurgence, the long-running tragedy of unarmed men being murdered remains unresolved, and ultimately reiterates to affected communities that their struggle against prejudicial actions is far from over. To see families that have lost their loved ones to violence, then to see powerful sheriff's, judges, and politicians who are fully aware, yet have no regard to resolve these issues, is egregious. Therefore, through this anger, many have been inspired to exercise their right and encourage others to do so, via social media hashtags—but the situation, fundamentally, does not change.

#Metoo gained traction after many women accused powerful celebrities, politicians, and businessmen of sexual harassment or assault. The most powerful part about this movement is the women who speak out about their personal experiences to advance these issues. Evident in the accusations and arrest of Harvey Weinstein, the women who stood up and revealed his actions inspired other sexual assault victims to speak out as well. In the words of the hashtag's founder, Tarana Burke, "We are doing it from a framework that's central to survivors, and to make sure the most that marginalized among survivors have access to resources that will help them cross the human journey." The movement is driven from a growing conversation, and with this comes a surrounding sense of security, and eventually, healing from past traumas. These women sharing their experiences has created a cycle of empowerment and comfort, as well as a lack of fear to oppose those that wronged them.

Considering social media has played such a vital part in political movements of late, tweets and Facebook posts should be captioned with announcements for rallies and town halls, or should indicate nonprofits that can take donations. These are effective strategies in pushing for solutions. Most people are followers and would rather someone else take a risky step forward and they, in response, tweet support. Real action must be taken to make a change. In 2015, millions stood by these hashtags: #Blacklivesmatter, #PrayforParis, #Lovewins, and #Refugeeswelcome. Derrick Feldmann of Philanthropy Magazine argues that advocacy groups and nonprofits must help persuade the people into action, invoking them to become their own leaders. A successful example of this push is in the #748million movement, a 2015 campaign that took place not long before World Water Day, and that recognized the 748 million people without clean water through every social media channel. Though the campaign only lasted a day, it was effective because of the leadership behind it. Feldmann noted that the nonprofit group, Charity: Water, "encouraged its participants to be the heroes: to spark conversations about water scarcity, share a video about the issue, join an "InstaMeet," donate to the cause, and speak up for the millions of people without access to clean water." Actions such as these motivate people to speak up about critical issues, and use newly acquired knowledge to find ways to make a change.

The hashtag's major advantage in effectively creating powerful movements is the awareness it generates. Awareness is the first step to starting a movement; however, the next step is finding action, and sidestepping the "Bystander Effect." In 1964, a woman named Kitty Genovese was murdered outside of her home in Queens. The murderer ambushed her and proceeded to stab her. Because she cried out for help, over thirty people looked out of their windows—but none of them called the police, or went out to intervene. This painful example echoes within our approach to social media today. It is easy to want to help fight a social issue, but following a crowd is no different from not moving at all.   

The #Metoo movement gained over a million tweets in 2017, and awareness is now worldwide. Now, leaders such as Alyssa Milano, who popularized #Metoo, must motivate social media users offline. What makes people comfortable is being outraged about something, but Hempel suggests that eventually, "…we become numb to tragedies because we're unable to process the emotions they engender at the speed with which they arise." The more we simply follow along with the outrage of an atrocity, we further edge away from the desire to stop it, or the knowledge of how. Leaders of movements on social media must convey that being a bystander will not change anything—action is what matters.

The March for Our Lives made me understand the importance of taking steps against an injustice, and though the hashtag can be one of them, it is really not a major step. It has its benefits, but of course, as with any trend of social media, it has its cons. The hashtag achieves the awareness needed to start a movement, however, that is all. To emphasize the movement's importance, there must be action involved, otherwise it is meaningless. It is not the hashtag is not that defines a movement, ultimately, but the people who step up and choose to be involved.