"Body Positivity" Sucks.

Fat is not a bad word.

by Josephine Johnson

Like most in my generation, I was exposed to the internet at an early age. Growing up a bigger girl, I was desperate to find anything-- some solution to my body or the way I was feeling. 

I was put on every diet imaginable since I was seven years old. Every day I exercised as part of my daily chores, even if it made me sick. I saw a dietician weekly and kept a food journal, counting calories and I was rewarded for missing a meal. 

Then, I eventually discovered the body positivity movement, which should have been great, right?

I can’t tell you the exact moment I discovered the movement, there wasn’t a magical moment when I saw one fat woman posing for a selfie. It was gradual. Occasionally I would see a post normalizing stretch marks- which was insane to me, I thought only I had those! Or the infamous Tumblr post of the statue of the goddess Aphrodite, glorifying a “normal” body. 

I was ecstatic to see it as a tween. My only experience with fat people had been my thin mom telling me she “feels bad for them.” She would never insult them outright for being overweight but unfortunately, her own body acceptance issues cloud her vision. She never meant harm, everyone has their own issues to work through. So seeing fat teens and young adults just like me was life-changing.

The term “body positivity,” wasn’t widely used until the 2010s, but the movement has been active since the mid-1900s, according to BBC. It popped off on social media and hasn’t died down ever since. 

To this day, I find it difficult to talk about body positivity. Growing up I always kept it to myself, I suppose because I still desperately wanted to be the ideal body type and wasn’t ready to give up on all of it. Everyone grows up with “bad words” in their household. For me and my siblings, we were never allowed to even say the word “fat.”

So seeing more people like me celebrating the bodies they were born in was great. A little secret I kept in my back pocket to boost my confidence. 

But then I started to see the cracks in this movement.

* * *

Celebrities like pop-star Lizzo are proud representatives of the movement. Lizzo, for example, posts often on Instagram and TikTok videos of her enjoying delicious food. These videos obviously result in a lot of hate comments and internet “doctors” explaining her own body to her. But the majority of comments are people with bodies like her, thanking her for challenging “fatphobic” ideas. Fatphobia is best explained as a preconceived negative judgment of fat people. It’s often used to describe statements with anti-fat sentiments.

While I love what Lizzo does and I love that it is helpful for many people, she is a perfect example of fat people having to go above and beyond to be appreciated. She posts on her social media many workout videos as well as her healthy vegan recipes. That’s awesome, I know, everyone wishes that their body could be treated that well. But there is a subtler, more toxic message there: Since Lizzo works out and eats vegan, it’s okay that she’s fat. So what, it’s only okay to be fat when you’ve done everything in your power to lose that weight? That’s not the energy I’m comfortable with.

As I saw the flaws in Body Positivity, I thought more carefully about where I stood. Don’t get me wrong, everyone should be kind to their bodies, but we shouldn’t be forced to pretend to love our bodies, especially when they cause more trouble than they’re worth. The typical body positivity movement for fat girls revolves around how fat can actually be healthy, which is apparently a crazy concept. 

While this is true, it can be harmful to continue to push the idea that your body can only be appreciated if you can prove that you’re above and beyond. That hasn’t been my experience. 

I can never be physically above and beyond. I am chronically ill, and although I try to refrain from calling myself disabled, it can be disabling. I cannot run or jump without making myself sick or putting myself at risk of passing out. The hour a day I had previously spent exercising turned into hours of having to rest after an MRI or a doctor’s appointment.

I’ve never been able to lose weight healthily. I’ve been on every diet I could think of from the age of 8. The times I was most praised for how I looked were when I was at my sickest. I was even told I looked healthier when I was skinnier, despite the fact that I was nowhere near healthy. 

As a fat woman, trying to reclaim the word “fat,” I carry the pressure of representing every overweight person you’ve ever interacted with. Examples being, “Well my friend Hannah(fake name for obvious reasons) is fat but she works out and diets so it’s fine,” or “My aunt is fat and she’s unhealthy because she sits on the couch every day.” If my lifestyle is the ultimate factor in deciding if my weight is okay, then what would people say about me?  “She doesn’t work out, that’s why she’s fat, it’s unhealthy.” 

And then there are the comments I see on posts about how amazing women were for baring their average bodies to the world. That rubs me the wrong way. Not that I was ever posting photos of myself, but I’m just a person. I’m not “so brave” for posting a selfie on the internet. When I’m not feeling pretty I don’t want to have a stranger tell me I’m not fat, as if I can’t be fat and pretty at the same time. 

* * *

The body positivity movement is not inherently bad; some women still find refuge in this. But it doesn’t resonate with me anymore. There are others who, like me, have searched for another ideological home though. I thought I found it in Fat Acceptance. Fat Acceptance has more of a focus on accepting our bodies the way that they are. While more fitting to me, it is still too similar. It tells me that my body is just what it is. But to be honest, I sometimes feel very negatively about my body. My body causes me constant pain and the way that it looks has negatively affected my self-image since childhood. That could be something to accept too, but I’m not there yet.

I suppose the reason that these movements have never worked for me is that they put too much focus on the individuals. The problem is that whether I buy into the movement or not, fat women are still seen as lesser than society. We’re never the first choice. I shouldn’t have to use my body as a vehicle for positivity or acceptance or any other movement the internet invents. It’s not my fault I was born in this body. I shouldn’t have to clarify my illness to everyone I meet just to prove my worth as a human being. 

I don’t owe anyone any excuses for how they perceive my body. I’m not the problem here. It’s the stigma around fat people that needs to change.

I’ve become okay not fitting into any particular movement. 

I recognize that they started with the best intentions, but I can’t ignore the damage they do and the way they force individual women to take responsibility for the flawed thinking of others. 

My best friend, the Mothman

How did an eight-foot-tall terrifying moth-human hybrid become so precious to me?

by Josephine Johnson

Point Pleasant West Virginia, with a population of 4,350 as of the 2010 census, has been home to the legend of the Mothman since 1966. The little town has embraced the legend as a large part of their identity.

The creature, dubbed “Mothman,” was first seen by two couples driving through the McClintic Wildlife Management Area in the year 1966. They reported to have seen the creature perched on an old building, and then recall driving away in fear as the creature flew after their car. Once nearing civilization, Mothman backed off. They went back to confirm what they had seen and reported it to police. 

The McClintic Wildlife Management Area is also called the “TNT Area,” and is a common destination for those trying to catch a glimpse of the cryptid as well as those with an interest in history. The TNT Area is named because of the abandoned storage shelter that was used to store explosives in World War 2. 

The Mothman is described as being 6 to 8 feet tall with terrifying red eyes, a gray or brown body and with a wingspan of around 10 feet. A statue of the creature was erected in 2003 by artist Bob Roach. 

The origin of the Mothman is unknown. Some believe he came to be from a curse after the murder of Native American Chief Cornstalk, in that same area very long ago. Others believe he’s an alien, a radioactive bird mutation or just your run-of-the-mill cryptid spawned in the forest. 

The area that Mothman is seen in is also believed to be under a blood curse from the Native Americans that lived there before. Therefore, some believe that Mothman is either enacting the curse of Chief Cornstalk or if he is the curse himself.

However, the native history is not commonly discussed on most internet cryptozoology communities. 

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There’s a famous story about the Mothman. The creature was spotted on and around the infamous silver bridge many times before it collapsed in Dec. 1967, tragically killing over 40 people. The bridge’s collapse was due to a small defect and poor maintenance. The weight of cars on the bridge during holiday rush hour traffic was too much for the old bridge to handle. Sightings of the Mothman declined greatly after the event.

The local legend was that the Mothman made the bridge fall. And yet, others don’t believe the Mothman is evil. Some Mothman fans insist he’s an omen-- warning Point Pleasant residents about future disasters. Residents of Point Pleasant reportedly do not like the notion that the Mothman was trying to warn them about the bridge disaster. 

In such a small, close-knit community, it seems possible that the Mothman is a scapegoat. With such a small population residents mostly likely know their officials by name-- maybe seeing them at church on the weekends. Perhaps it’s easier to blame a foreign creature for poorly designed architecture than it would be to blame your friends and neighbors. Perhaps the Mothman was created as an explanation Point Pleasant residents so desperately needed and turning him into a warning would rob them of that.

 “It’s no one’s fault-- it’s that darn Mothman again,” is a lot easier than “It’s the architects’ fault!” or “Those cars shouldn’t have been stopped on the bridge in the first place!”

My long-term obsession with Mothman began in my freshman year of high school. My friend told me about the legend through a joke on social media and I very quickly became invested. We had movie nights watching classics like ‘The Mothman Prophecies’ and laughing about how funny the creature looked. We chose to believe in the Mothman. 

From then on, the legend has always been a part of my life. It’s a funny joke, but also oddly comforting. Seeing an article about the Mothman is, in a weird way, like seeing a message from an old friend.

For most holidays my friend’s gifts to me and mine to them consisted of Mothman t-shirts and stickers. Most notably a t-shirt that reads “Mothman is real and he’s my boyfriend.” I’m not sure who is creating these, but I’m glad they must be enjoying the legend.

Deep down, we knew the Mothman couldn’t be real, but we needed to have the fun that belief brings. Believing in the supernatural is inherently enjoyable, much like children’s belief in the tooth fairy. 

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One in 4 residents of Point Pleasant live below the poverty line, according to the 2010 census. Small towns are economically vulnerable in current years because of an increase in globalized economy. Point Pleasant relies on tourism revenue to keep themselves afloat.

The little town made $58 million in tourism-related revenue according to the West Virginia Division of Tourism in 2013. West Virginia state government saw a total of $4.27 billion spent directly by tourists in 2010. 

Mothmania brings tourists from all over the world. Even over the pandemic, when the annual Mothman Festival was not taking place, travelers came and left an offering of many cans of beans at the foot of the Mothman statue. This trend spread over the app TikTok. It got to the point when officials had to ask that Mothman enthusiasts donate the beans to food shelters instead.

The annual Mothman festival in September brings in thousands of tourists, keeping the little town alive. The festival began in 2002 and has only not been taking place in person in 2020 and 2021 due to COVID-19 concerns. It is scheduled to continue in 2022, much to the excitement of Mothman enthusiasts. 

An average of 10,000 to 12,000 people come from all over to see the festival. Which is over double the town’s population! Most hotels are over 30 minutes away, unlike in a bigger city where there are airbnbs on every block. That distance must be nothing compared to how far Mothman enthusiasts have traveled. 

Local businesses offer Mothman merchandise and themed food. Restaurants in the area offer specialties such as a Mothman pizza, Mothman cookies and even chocolate Mothman droppings. 

The official Mothman museum is even in the process of creating a Mothman 1966 themed escape room. Merchandise can even be purchased through the internet, shipping all over the world.

With the rise of social media among younger generations in the last decade, Mothman has become an ongoing joke. Out of nowhere, teens are posting about their love for the creature, that he is even an ally to the LGBTQ community. Cryptids have always been an interest among people society deems “weird.” Perhaps he acts as a source of comfort, for teens who don’t fit in, he doesn’t fit in either-- he’s not even human!

Even though the legend of this creature has, in the past, always been associated with tragedy, the Mothman has brought so much good to the community. Whether through tourism, serving as a scapegoat or even bringing happiness through becoming an inside joke and a local celebrity,  the Mothman serves Point Pleasant well.

Cryptozoology has changed over the years, as have the people so interested in it. 

Whether or not the residents of Point Pleasant believe in the Mothman does not seem to matter. Some can tell stories of their sightings or recall what their neighbor said 30 years ago. Others just put on a show, maybe for the money or maybe just for the fun of it.

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Despite not truthfully believing in the legend, I will always be drawn to these virtually harmless paranormal creatures. It could be a fear of the unknown, a longing for something more or sheer boredom. The seemingly paranormal will always be there to fill that void. It’s just human nature to be interested in what we may never understand. We never grow out of our childlike curiosity. Maybe I get bored of my average day-to-day life. I think I’m always looking for something more. Humans being drawn to the paranormal is a tale as old as time. We will always be wanting more, whether that is aliens, ghosts or giant 8-foot-tall moth-like creatures.

I reached out to this same friend, Lynn Cothran, a former UMW student and believer in the Mothman, to better understand their belief. 

I suppose they’re a lot like me. Ever since Lynn picked up a book on cryptozoology as a child the interest has never faded. We’re both just always looking for something new, something strange. 

“Mothman has become a defining factor of Point Pleasant, an otherwise unremarkable small town, and transformed it for the better,” they said. 

Don't Hold Britney's Conservatorship Against Her

Can a pop star really, truly be a role model?

By: Gabby Carrion

Everyone knows the song “Toxic” by Britney Spears. It’s catchy, sexy, and so different than anything that was released by the music industry at the time. Britney has been seen as a sex symbol since her first single came out, but when Toxic came out, it just amplified her even more. 

To me, she was almost like a role model. Everything that I wanted to be in life, or look like, Britney was it. Britney was perfect in every way, she could do anything she wanted and be anything. When she performed at the VMA’s with the big snake in lingerie, my parents would switch the channel until she was done. 

My parents aren’t very strict with my sister and I, but they wanted to shield me from the provocative world for a little while. I was still their little girl in their eyes. When my parents finally would let me watch the Disney channel they would switch the channel when the main characters would kiss. I knew what was going on but they still would switch the channel for a good minute just in case. 

When we would be in the car we would listen to 94.7, clean pop music but my friends were all listening to HOT99.5. So one day I asked my father to put on 99.5 and it was fine for a while, but once a bad word was said or even an innuendo about sex was said, it was back to 94.7.

Britney was my escape from reality, I would perform music videos in my room trying to be like her and dancing like she does. When I was younger I wanted to be a singer. Britney, Taylor Swift, Selena Gomez were all my inspirations for this goal. I would try to memorize their videos and sing to the best of my ability in my bedroom.

It was kind of like being the infamous Katy Perry. The reason she is so outrageous with her clothes when she performs is that she was raised in a Catholic household. She was never able to dress how she wanted or even eat froot loops. Her becoming famous and wearing a whipped cream bra was her “teenage rebellion.” 

But unlike her, I had my rebellion behind my bedroom doors with no one to see me. 

This dream of mine was short-lived once I realized how rare it is to get a record deal and my shyness came into play, but their drive and passion are what led me to pursue it in the first place. 

Then this past year Britney’s conservatorship came to light. If you don’t know, a conservatorship is when a parent/guardian decides that their child is not able to be in control of their own life and takes over financials, decisions, and social media. Britney’s father decided that she was not able to control her own life, and since then she has been under a conservatorship. 

Everyone on her TikTok and Instagram was commenting “FREE BRITNEY!” And this past month she was free from her father. One of her attorneys is now in charge of her but this is only temporary and hopefully, she will officially be free in November.

When all of this was coming to light I was honestly shocked. I was a fan of Britney but I never kept up with news articles about her or anything like that. Like the rest of us, I knew about her mental breakdown and shaving her head but a conservatorship never crossed my mind. 

After reading a couple of articles and looking up what a conservatorship was, I became a Britney stan once again. I listened to her music in the car, walking to class, at the gym, it was like being a teenager again. Screaming lyrics to Toxic, Circus, and Slave down Route 1. She was once again a music icon and my favorite artist. 

But once I sat down and took it all in, I started feeling guilty. For all these years she has been a role model for me, an amazing singer, a sex symbol, and rebellion against my parents. But what if it was all a lie? 

Britney has been in her conservatorship for many years now. She was never really in control of her decisions. The music she was making: was it because she wanted to, or did her father take away all the songs she wanted to put out? Her clothes: did she want to wear lingerie on stage, or was it just a publicity stunt by her father? Was she even proud of anything that she did? 

The media can be the best thing or the worst. It can bring long-lost relatives together, find kidney donors, and bring two people together who become best friends. But it also has an evil side. Maybe I just wasn’t paying attention or just wasn’t a big enough fan but I never knew about Britney’s conservatorship. Something that changed her entire life. How can something so important be unknown to many?

My whole life was a lie. She was never a role model because she couldn’t be who she wanted to be. Is that a role model? And if she isn’t a role model then who is?

She walks up to her picketed fence house in the suburbs. Just coming home from dropping the kids off at school. Walking into her house she makes a cup of coffee and sits on the porch throwing the ball with her dog. 

This is the life of the average stay-at-home mother. Someone who has control of their own life and can do what they please. 

This is a role model. 

My mother, aunt, best friend, sister, are all role models. They do whatever they want and are normally proud of whatever they do. 

My aunt came to the United States when she was nine years old. Her family was poor and lived in a one-bedroom apartment. Considering it was her parents, and three other siblings, the living situation was a little cramped. But she worked hard, became a nurse, and is now the owner of a hair salon in Northern Virginia. 

She is a girl boss and is always there when I need to talk with her about anything and everything. She is my role model. I aspire to have her confidence and drive to do anything she puts her mind to.

Britney can be a role model for many girls out there. Her perseverance and never giving up until she got out of her conservatorship is a strength. She got through the rough patch in her life and is now on a better path to finding out who she is. 

I wonder what she will be like once this whole thing is over. Will she be the normal stay-at-home mom with her kids and dog, or will she release more music? No matter what she does we will all be behind her supporting her in every way we can. 

INFJs, everywhere.

I’ve always said my friends and I are variations of the exact same person. After taking the Myers-Briggs, I found out just how true that really is.

by Jess Kirby

INFJ. Introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging. After 64 questions, that’s what the test told me.

As I read the results, I was shocked—almost creeped out—but I couldn’t stop reading. Like many others that have taken the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test, I was infatuated with the idea of learning more about myself.

Sometimes called “the advocate” or “the idealist” because of their focus on the future and drive to improve the world, INFJs are “walking, talking, contradictions. They’re easy-going perfectionists. Both logical and emotional, creative and analytical.” I felt like that one description summed up my entire personality.

Apparently I was late to the game taking the test, as almost everyone I spoke to already knew their personality type. And I was surprised to find that many were the same type as me, despite the fact that we make up only about 1.5 percent of the population.

As an introvert, I have about six friends that I consider close—another signal that I’m an INFJ. To find that three of them are INFJs was shocking to me. Suddenly, it seemed my world was filled with them.

The more people around me that shared their results, the more I started wondering: Am I only compatible with people who are exactly like me?

* * *

“I can never tell if I want people to love me or fear me,” I said to Anne.

“That’s part of being an INFJ,” she said.

“Oh my God… not you, too?!” I asked her in amazement.

 She nodded and smiled.

I wasn’t trying to be Machiavellian by saying this. In true INFJ fashion, I’m a pretty quiet person, which is tough when I need to make my voice heard about something. I lead the editorial staff of our student newspaper, and I’d been frustrated about people not taking me seriously, so I was considering being ever so slightly harsh. Not exactly fear-inducing, but I didn’t have to explain this to Anne—she automatically understood.

INFJ is one of the 16 personality types developed by Isabel Myers, her mother Katharine Cook Briggs and the research of psychologist C. G. Jung, according to the Myers & Briggs Foundation. The test they developed, known as the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator, shows where a person falls on these four spectrums: introverted/extroverted, intuiting/sensing, thinking/feeling and perceiving/judging. As an INFJ, I’m introverted, intuiting, feeling and judging.

Anne’s dad made her take the Myers-Briggs test almost every year growing up, so she’s well-acquainted with her results. As she spoke, I heard my experiences and my thoughts through hers. Even though we’d only hung out a couple times outside of class and the newspaper, she felt like a years-long friend.

 Because Anne is a resident assistant and I lead an editorial staff, people are constantly coming to us with questions or problems. If we’re asked for help with something, we almost always say yes, even if helping them isn’t part of our job or we have too much on our plate already. One of the INFJ’s biggest desires is to make meaningful connections with other people, so we often prioritize other people’s needs over our own in order to make them happy, even though we know this isn’t good for us.

The same applies for romantic relationships. Since INFJs put a lot of effort into making their partner happy, they’re best matched with people who will reciprocate that effort, according to Online Personality Types. INFJs put a great deal of thought into their relationships and want to spend lots of time with their partners. Basically, INFJs can be super clingy. Types who don’t care for romance are not good for INFJs, and INFJs often struggle to find someone compatible.

This has all been true in my experiences. I come off a little strong for some people, and I’ve definitely been taken advantage of in the past. Although I don’t know the personality types of my exes, I’ve been happiest with people who put in the effort to make me feel loved in return.

A 2011 article from the Journal of Personality found that when college-age introverts spend time together, they don’t have to adapt their personalities to each other’s; instead, they reinforce similar personality traits. When introverts spend time with extroverts, they each have to adapt, which doesn’t always happen evenly. This has been my experience as well, so I tend to stick to introverted friends and partners.

 INFJs are supposedly well-matched for each other, which makes sense to me. The best person for a clingy, introverted, romantic overthinker is probably someone who can return that love back to them.

* * *

Many have criticized the accuracy of the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator. One article from Vox was especially critical, saying that the test is “completely meaningless” and citing a psychologist who said “There’s just no evidence behind it.” The article also said that the binary personality categories were not derived from experiments or data. Jung himself even wrote, “There’s no such thing as a pure extravert or introvert.”

After reading this, I kind of felt like a self-absorbed, gullible idiot. It’s so easy to fall down the rabbit hole of a test that explains who you are and tries to make sense of it. However, I still felt like the INFJ personality fit me so well; it made so many of my experiences and feelings make sense. I still wanted to reflect, learn something and make the most of it, even if the test is bogus.

In high school, I felt like I never knew the words to the songs my friends sang in the car, never got their Vine references and never seemed to know what to say. I always felt like a fraud, like I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place. I’ve always felt a little out of step with everyone else. And though I feel this less now that I’m in college, I think that’s why I was drawn to the Myers-Briggs—I wanted an explanation.

It wasn’t until I got to college that I found my place—the newspaper. Our former editor-in-chief once told me that you can’t go into journalism without thinking the world can change for the better. That idealistic mindset, common among INFJs, is also common among my friends and fellow editors at the newspaper.

All of the people on our editorial staff are kind and thoughtful, and I never get tired of “doing the news” with them. But my best friends on the staff are introverted overthinkers who will go out of their way to make sure you know you’re appreciated, just like an INFJ would. They’ll stay with me at layout until 2 a.m. talking about Greta Van Fleet or “Twilight” or our siblings. They accept me for who I am and always kindly explain whatever TikTok reference went over my head.

So, yes. At the end of the day, I prefer to stick to people like me. With them, I don’t feel so out of place.

Monica Deserved Better.

I was feeling a certain sort of way when I found out the character I related to the most on Friends wasn’t one of the most liked characters in TV culture.

By Anne Smith                 

The dread of quarantine allowed many of us the time to sit down to finally watch something we were proud to avoid for the majority of our lives. In my case, that was the show Friends.

Before I knew it, I was feeling guilty for watching the show, for a whole day straight. After a marathon of eating snacks, several commercials, and several plots melting into a stream of entertainment, somehow, I managed to watch seasons 1 through 3.

Eventually, I started to notice some patterns. There are unrealistic expectations for living in New York City during your 20s, obviously. Joey was consistently eating and chasing after girls. Phoebe was the funny, laid-back one, Rachel was (and is still) the “it” girl. But what got to me the most was how unfair the show was to Monica Gellar. I started to sense they created her as an unappealing character, personality-wise.

And even though I realized this, I didn’t find myself idolizing Rachel Green or Phoebe Buffay, but truly relating to the underdog, Monica. Come to find out, this was an unpopular opinion, as I found hundreds of shrines made online in honor of Rachel, giving ode to her “perfect” style and personality. If Monica was unlikeable, then I wondered what that said about me.

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In the episode, “The One Where Underdog Gets Away” the premise is it’s Monica's first Thanksgiving dinner for the gang when they all get locked out of the apartment after watching a runaway dog balloon from the Thanksgiving parade, and it all goes horribly wrong from there. It was season one, and right off the bat, Monica’s misfortune was played up for laughs. The twist to this episode was that while they couldn’t get back into the apartment, the oven and stove tops were still on, burning the food she worked all day to prepare, including several forms of potatoes side dishes everyone guilted her into making.

She was the butt of the joke as her meal was going down the drain. Sure, the rest of the gang didn’t get their dinner, but it’s mostly her loss. Rachel displaces the blame, Phoebe makes light of the situation, and the boys mourned the loss of the meal that was prepared for them. During the episode my sympathy set in, because if I was Monica, I would be really sore that happened too.

Each character had their persona, as any good tv show is set up to do. Monica is panicking over something while Rachel is occupied with maintaining her extravagant lifestyle on her own and Phoebe is throwing out quirky one-liners for audience laughs. But I don’t think the writers ever anticipated that the show would make some characters more sought-after than others.  

That episode anchored Monica’s role in the group. It was the first-ever Thanksgiving meal she ever made. She was dying to please everyone, succumbing to the desire of each person to make mashed potatoes their way. She was the friend who was also the mom. I guess any good show has to have one, right? This role she played was used to heighten scenes throughout the show, creating the dynamics Friends, was famous for.

It hits home when I see a character like her whose traits are mistaken as the justification for their constant misfortune. The more I watched the more confusion I felt about how they were going to continually play this character in a comical light without being degrading. Monica became associated with this critical standpoint as a repercussion of having characteristics that aired on the side of unbelievably uptight or motherly. Thus it was made to be her contribution to the show’s essence. Even with an improbable show such as Friends, I started to worry if there was a building prejudice against women, including myself, who related or acted like her.

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Arguably the only benefit of becoming a couch potato, succumbing to the endless hours of episode after episode was it couldn’t shake the expectation now that Monica Geller would always take that role. In my defense, I wanted to watch conclusively to witness for things to change, to get better for her. It was like I couldn’t feel resolved until I saw that happen, partly getting validation for myself as well.

Being the mother figure to the group, in my mind, was different from being the class clown because that person usually chooses to take on that role, finding validation from laughter at their intended expense. For Monica, I didn’t feel like it was a choice due to the more negligent characters around her. I empathized with her because as someone who rarely feels in control of anything, I often feel like I have to step in because I have a feeling no one else will.

I admire Monica. There are ample things to like her for, she is able to cook, has an almost burning desire to keep things perfectly clean, and tends to be the character to ask the hard and caring questions to keep the others in check. And yet, she is written in an undesirable – always wanting things to be a little too perfect way. The problem is she’s stepping in for others around her who are usually underdoing their part. Can’t we all relate to that in one way or another? At least I know I can.

 There is a determination to her. This determination is displayed less in an inspirational form that is to aspire to, but rather in a bundle of neurotic behavior. Monica’s character could be described as uptight, obsessive-compulsive, motherly, and hyper. The peculiar extremes she displays throughout the show is off-putting to watch at times. It’s a misrepresentation on many fronts, for people with OCD, or women who tend to be opinionated and motherly. Even the gang mentions this, but Monica merely calls it, “cute obsessive things”, saying she sees it as an addition to her quirky personality.

       -

Another level to Monica’s many misfortunes is one that any person with a sibling can relate to. Her brother Ross, a favorite character of the show, is showcased as incapable of wrongdoing by their mother. Even her parents make her the butt of the jokes for any episode they are in. In the episode, “The One in Massapequa”, Ross and Monica’s parents are having their 35th wedding anniversary party, she attempts to write an endearing and moving toast. Long story short, her speech turns out to be a dud, but Ross utters a short statement on the fly and there wasn’t a single dry eye in the house. It’s clearly a pattern she’s set up for from the beginning of her life. But in many ways, she’s the most capable of all of them. I reiterate again, how she is written is not fair. She’s typecast as neurotic, even though she has plenty of positive traits.

Eventually, they will pair Monica with Chandler Bing, another beloved character of the friend group. His witty and sarcastic jokes in awkward situations is a nice pairing with Monica’s tendency to be stern. Yet way before that point in the show, Monica faces a dilemma where she had to choose if she wanted to marry the love of her life and lose the chance to have children since he didn’t want to have any more, or walk away from possibly the “perfect” man for her.

It was very unlike the “will they or won’t they” plot with Rachel and Ross, an over-play dynamic dug up in each season to satisfy the audience. The several meltdowns and crises she experienced through the process of her making the decision were hard to watch. They couldn’t be stretched out over several seasons, like Rachel’s problems were, because they took away from the suspense of the situation. From the beginning of the show to the very end, it was filled with failure, misfortunes, and humiliation for Monica. Monica is portrayed as the type of woman that is obsessed with planning the perfect wedding even before meeting the right person.

While these characteristics individually aren’t a negative thing, putting them all together into one character is overwhelming. And if you related to any part of her, watching situation after situation in the show reinforces the idea that someone like her could not be the “it” girl is hard. After spending that summer watching the show, I discovered that I am a Monica Geller, in a world of Rachel Green wannabes, and I learned a new perspective on the unequal depiction. Yes, Friends is a good, easy TV show, but Monica Geller deserves better.

Not Everything is Black and White

What the sitcoms of yesterday and today teach us about humanity.

By: Shawn Fleetwood

Laura Petrie:
[after kissing Rob] Darling, are you all right?

Rob Petrie:
Yeah, I'm just fine. Why do you ask?

Laura:
Well, I know it sounds kind of silly, but, uh... your lips were very cold.

Rob:
[after nervously feeling his own lips] My lips are regular lip temperature. It may be your lips are running a fever.

The witty banter that encompasses The Dick Van Dyke Show is legendary to many. For well over fifty years, the classic black and white sitcom has kept audiences laughing and entertained decades after its prime. But The Dick Van Dyke Show is hardly the only old-timey sitcom to transcend the test of time and remain a comedic masterpiece years later.

Upon searching for the top 100 sitcoms of all time, I came across a Rolling Stone article that surveyed the greatest comedic programs to grace our television screens. While historic and notable sitcoms like Cheers and Seinfeld were ranked high on the list (as expected), I began to notice that many of the highest-ranking sitcoms on the list were made before colored television was even a known concept.

Black and white programs such as I Love Lucy and The Andy Griffith Show found themselves in Rolling Stone’s top 15, at 2nd and 14th place, respectively. Despite their age and old-timey aesthetic, these classic sitcoms are still keeping people entertained well over half a century after their original release.

I decided to conduct a little experiment to better understand why these sitcoms still remain incredibly popular after all these years. For one whole week, I would give up The Office and Parks and Rec in exchange for five seasons worth of The Dick Van Dyke Show.

Unlike many sitcoms and television series today, chronological order is meaningless on a show like Van Dyke, so randomly picking and choosing episodes across five seasons seemed like my best bet. The first episode I stumbled upon was titled “The Curious Thing About Women,” wherein Rob Petrie (Dick Van Dyke) gives wife Laura (Mary Tyler Moore) a hard time for reading his mail before he does.

As I sat watching the episode, something that became apparent very early on was how natural the comedy flowed. Whereas some of the shows on television today have jokes that feel forced and humorless, the writing for The Dick Van Dyke Show was genuinely funny. While the inappropriate and often crude moments of The Office’s Michael Scott holding an impromptu “diversity day” will certainly make you cackle, the light-hearted hilarity of Rob and Laura Petrie takes you back to a simpler era of comedy that remains lost on much of the world today. While much of the comedy we see today touches on crass and sometimes intentionally offensive content, the programming of the Van Dyke era offers viewers a show that can be enjoyed by the whole family.

But as I continued on my Van Dyke binge, the funniness (if that’s not a word, it is now) and quick-witted humor of the show slowly began to touch on a facet of my life that has always been a sort of home-base for simplicity and purity: the more I watched the antics of Rob and Laura Petrie, the more I realized how much the show reminded me of my grandparents.

Watching Rob gleefully kid Laura over her irresistible desire to read his mail quickly conjured up an image of my grandfather teasing my grandmother over her obsession with Facebook. As grandpa puts it, grandma likes to “know what’s going on down at the beauty parlor.” Moreover, the episode where Rob hurts himself skiing despite Laura’s warnings and his continuous attempts to hide his injuries from her to avoid the “I told you so” from his wife was a dead ringer for grandpa (sorry Pa, but when Ma’s right, she’s right).

Not simply was the character dynamic and teasing nature of Rob and Laura’s marriage very similar to how my grandparents joke around with one another, but watching the show gave me the same sort of “feel” of being at their house. Whenever I’m visiting my grandparents, a sensation of calmness washes over me as if all of my troubles just vanished at the doorstep to the house. As I take off my shoes and settle into the recliner next to grandpa’s, everything in the world feels simple, with the chaotic nature of my academic, intern, and work life gone in an instant.

Coming towards the end of my week-long experiment, I decided to call up my grandparents and ask them why they thought old television programs that were popular in their youth (once television became a thing anyways) remain so well-liked today. During our conversation, my grandmother told me that for her, rewatching old sitcoms like I Love Lucy takes her back in time to when she was just a little girl in Nebraska.

“My brother and I would sit on the living room floor, with our parents sitting on the couch behind us,” she said. “Television was a treat back then. It wasn’t something that was universally owned by a lot of people. So, for me, whenever I see a show like Lucy on TV, I’m taken back to those days of just being an innocent kid without a care in the world.”

But as I began to think over our conversation afterwards, I realized that life during that time wasn’t as happy-go-lucky as television made it out to be. Throughout the 1960s, the United States was experiencing some pretty historic changes and events in society, such as the Civil Rights Movement and the nationwide debate over America’s involvement in the Vietnam War. And who could forget the ever-pervasive threat of nuclear war with the Soviet Union?

Flash forward and we find today’s generation dealing our own issues, such as the COVID-19 pandemic. But while each generation had own respective struggles, they shared a distinctive similarity: they both employed the sitcoms of their time as a form of escapism.  

I came to realize that in some ways, sitcoms paint a rosy picture of the times we live in. Whatever the issues of the day may be, sitcoms take us into a world where we’re allowed to “tap out” for 30 minutes and just enjoy the absurdity of humanity. Whether it’s the comedic bickering of Rob and Laura Petrie displayed on a black and white television, or the offensive humor of Michael Scott watched on an iPad, sitcoms provide us with an avenue to evade the problems we don’t really want to deal with.

Just as my grandmother would flip on Lucy during her youth as a way to decompress, so too do I often find myself watching The Office or King of Queens to take my mind off of the stresses in my life and the daily chaos of our modern world. And much like my grandmother, I don’t doubt that decades from now, I’ll find myself reminiscing about those first times watching my favorite sitcoms and laughing along without a care in the world.

A Vegan and a Hunter Walk into a Bar

By Erin Matuczinski

I was at the biggest Bass Pro Shop in the world. It was also one of the biggest pyramids in the world. It was not a correlation that I, or many other people, would have expected. The first time I walked under the “Welcome to Paradise” entrance sign, I had no idea what to expect. Truth be told, I thought the whole place was a joke until my aunt pulled me into the parking lot and told me to get out of the car.

The Bass Pro Pyramid, also known as the “Memphis Pyramid” or simply “The Pyramid” to Tennessee natives, seems like every southern hick’s wet dream. It brings the outdoors indoors with a massive fish-stocked swamp, fallen-over logs, plants and cypress trees that stand over 100 feet tall. Live ducks nestle on their waterside cove while alligators splash in their center stage tanks. It feels like a family camping trip, only on steroids.

My innate love for wildlife came alive getting to see so many animals in their not-so-natural habitat. Some fish were so large and prehistoric looking that I could have been convinced that they were the same species from millions of years ago. It took all my self-control not to reach out and pet the ducks taking a midday nap on the shore. I peered into the alligator tank from a safe distance, a little rationally nervous that the glass would suddenly give way.

 I felt giddy running over the footbridges and exploring the endless gems of the first floor; climbing on display ATVs, lounging in the luxury-level recliners, and crushing a vegan “Impossible” burger in the grill that has an ocean-themed bowling alley next to the bar. I swooned at the smell of fresh brewed coffee and warm roasted peanuts spilling from the “General Store” shack in the novelties section. Every turn of my head introduced me to something new.

It wasn’t until at least two hours into my adventure that I realized that there was an entire second floor I was yet to explore. I was initially drawn in by the flashing lights and blaring sounds of various arcade games, even though I had no spare quarters to play them (I had already spent them all on the aim and shoot games downstairs). But I eventually stumbled upon the retail section that Bass Pro is known for: every piece of hunting gear known to mankind.

I shouldn’t have found interest in it. I’m a vegan, and I’m not a hunter. But no matter what, each piece of gear I saw made me curious about the next.

The Bass Pro Pyramid was originally just supposed to be a buffer during my trip to Memphis. It was an easy pitstop between the Memphis airport and my final destination in Atoka. For many others it is a quick trip to the country when they don’t desire it enough to actually go there. The Bass Pro Pyramid is wedged on a small piece of land between the Mississippi River and downtown Memphis. It sticks out like a sore thumb, visible to anyone cruising on the highways that flow in and out of the city. It’s an unlikely attraction  in a place known for its historical significance and such a strong nightlife scene on Beale Street, perhaps the reason why so many tourists are unaware of its existence in the first place.

If I had any knowledge of the Pyramid being a Bass Pro Shop before my arrival, I do not think I would have had high expectations anyway. I had been dragged to their typical retail stores sporadically in past years, but never found much interest in anything except the fish in the tanks. I was always taken along by my dad, who has been a deer hunter for as long as I can remember.

 We have never gotten along about this; I remember that starting at a young age I was very open to him about my dislike for his killing of animals. My parents learned very quickly not to force me (or my sister) to eat the deer meat that he had brought home; we put up quite the fight. I do believe that I would have still become a vegan animal-lover regardless of what my parents fed me, but they definitely pushed me to pursue the lifestyle much earlier in my life.

All of these memories began to spiral in my head during my visit to the Bass Pro Pyramid. The complexity of its game related products made me oddly feel like a kid in a candy store. Despite a small practice bow and arrow that I only used to shoot targets about a decade ago, I’ve had absolutely no knowledge of weaponry, attire, accessories, or any other hunting necessities. So by seeing all of it in one place, I felt that I could never get bored looking at it all; it would take me longer than a full day to read all the labels on the merchandise explaining their purposes, or to watch the informational videos about boats that use radar to detect fish (those particularly sparked my interest)!

It felt wrong to be enjoying myself in a place that so sharply contradicted my lifelong views. I wasn’t used to being in a place where hunting was just a regular part of life and seemed like so much fun? I knew it was not some personality-altering moment, I was absolutely not going to suddenly become a hunter after this visit. But I could not shake my curiosity for this world I had never stepped foot into before. I suddenly saw the appeal of my father’s sport for the first time ever.

Since I grew up in a densely populated Virginian suburbia, I did not have an upbringing like either of my parents. Except for the occasional family trips, I rarely experienced the environment and activities of rural Pennsylvania. The concept of hunting, whether it be for food, sport, or achievement, was never a culture I was immersed in. So my sudden, unexpected interest in the field left me wondering what kind of person I would have been if I grew up in the country instead. Would my weekend still consist of surfing the web and playing video games, or would it be setting up a tree stand before the peak of dawn? Would I have turned up my nose at my family’s hunting practices, or would I have happily joined them?

The taxidermized deer heads above the shop’s massive fireplace reminded me of the one my dad brought home from his deer camp. He would go to deer camp or bear camp almost every year with the other male members of my extended family and close guy friends. Even though the trip was centered around the ability to hunt in the Pennsylvanian landscape, it was more so just a long weekend of silly antics and bonding. Once I got old enough to realize this, that’s when I started to feel a little left out.

My male cousins, who are around the same age as me, were always extended an invite, even if they weren’t old enough to participate in the hunting themselves. Of course I didn’t want to buy a hunting license and follow the men out into the woods with a shotgun, but I have never been one to pass up on quality family time with those who live so far away from me. And that’s exactly what it felt like.

I may have been too hard on my father for his hobby in hunting. Just because he moved away to city suburbia to raise a family did not mean he had to give up the activity he grew up taking part in. My parents accepted my hard-set wishes not to consume their deer meat he harvested with his own two hands, and later in life they accepted me turning away from meat altogether. I had to realize that even though there was nothing I could say or do for my dad to change his ways, and it wasn’t right for me to even try in the first place. I may not have a place in the annual hunting trips, but I can tag along with him to Bass Pro Shops and appreciate his interests just like he’s done for me and mine all throughout my childhood.

He has his life and I have mine; I won’t ask him the intricacies of his hunting habits, and he won’t make me eat the results.

Reflection by way of Rejection

By Erin Matuczinski

When I first heard of Rejection Therapy I thought it was just a silly internet trend. Come to find out, it is an entire self-help challenge popularized by author Jia Jiang to desensitize yourself to being rejected by strangers and embarrassed in public. I laughed at the videos that came up on my feed of people dancing on the sidewalk, then I thought about how much I would hate to ever have to do that. 

For weeks I continued to think about the videos I saw with people asking strangers outrageous questions or doing awful dance routines on a busy sidewalk. Of course, the entire premise of the exercise is to be told no, however, many of those people actually found themselves being unexpectedly told yes. A waitress happily let a man take one of the restaurant’s signature glasses home, just because he asked so nicely.

I began to realize that such a challenge could be quite beneficial to me. The direct exposure to my own fears would be more productive than shying away from them like I always do. Maybe Rejection Therapy would help me become the outgoing person I always wanted to be.

I decided to challenge myself to Rejection Therapy. Some tasks I would take from Jiang’s own experience and some from my own thoughts. With a running list in my notes app, I knew it was now or never. 

* * *

“No, you can’t do that.” 

Those are my least favorite words to hear. 

Not because I am some fearless extrovert always looking for my next adventure, but because I am the exact opposite. 

Growing up with a social anxiety disorder has meant that for most of my life I have been genuinely terrified of strangers. What I was going to try was a shock to the system.

I purposefully chose my first exercise to be one that wouldn’t be able to let myself chicken out on. Taking inspiration from Jiang himself, I arrived at a local fire station to ask them if I could slide down their fire pole. It took me both a drive-by scouting and an almost-surrendering trip back to the car after getting out the first time until I finally pushed the big grey doorbell at the front of the station. No one answered immediately. I stood there hoping they never would. 

When a gentleman opened the door concerningly and asked what I needed help with, I immediately spat out that my question was going to be an odd one.

“Do you guys happen to have a fire pole, like, in the movies and stuff?” 

He laughed. “Unfortunately we don't. Only a creepy elevator.” 

I could have just left then and called it a success, but with my adrenaline already pumping, I thought I might as well keep going. 

“Oh. Well, could I go look at the trucks then?” 

He looked at his partner and shrugged. “Sure, why not?” 

Then I was standing in the garage between two massive firetrucks. I had a weak conversation with the gentleman, sputtering about how my best friend is an EMT and I couldn’t keep my curiosity about the job contained. I don’t know why I felt the need to explain myself, especially because that wasn’t the reason at all. Regardless, I thanked the man for his generosity and climbed back into the car, laughing about how freakishly easy it was to do something so out of the ordinary. 

My second exercise was not one that I was excited about in any way. In the eight minute drive from my apartment to the police station I had let out four ear-piercing screams to try and expel my rushing nerves. It helped, but not by much.

I scurried into the building after parking and waited anxiously by the reception window. I ignored the “ring for assistance” bell, being too afraid to pull someone from their important work for my silly charade. After about five minutes of silence, another lady in the lobby told me I needed to ring the bell. It felt like pulling the pin of a grenade. 

“Can I help you?” 

“Hi, um, I was wondering if someone could, like...pretend to arrest me? I’m in this prank war with my sister and-”

“No. I don’t think anyone is going to do that,” the receptionist said coldly. I thanked her anyway. 

I walked to my car feeling oddly depleted. I knew this was what the result would be, why was I so disappointed about it? Rejection left me feeling embarrassed and anxious, but the fact that I mustered the confidence to ask to be arrested gave me a twinge of hope. 

On the third day I had taken an old, basic painting of a tree to a local art museum and asked the man working there if I could hang up my piece. The look he gave me before he responded told me exactly what he was thinking. 

“She believes that belongs in here? Is she crazy?”

Thankfully, this was my intention. (And thankfully, he didn’t say it straight to my face.) But what surprised me more was when his astonished expression turned to a sweet smile as he began to explain the workings of the gallery to me. Although he made it clear that it was a very rigorous process to get only the most fantastic pieces accepted, he handed me two applications, a membership form, a newsletter, and well wishes to return. 

This time, I was quite positively moved by my rejection. I was intrigued by the way a complete stranger had put so much kindness and effort into a request that was quite visibly a waste of his time. My hope for myself grew. 

For my final attempt, I made my way to a powersports dealership full of motorcycles, jet skis, and ATV’s. I wandered nervously before biting the bullet and walking up to an associate’s desk.

“Is there anything here I can test drive?” 

He laughed. Technically the answer was yes, but they had no demo models at the moment. He told me to come back in November when they would arrive. 

I decided once again to keep it going, since I wasn’t truly rejected yet. “Do I have to have a motorcycle license for that?” 

I thought his sad smile and unfortunate confirmation would be the end of it, but instead he shot into an explanation of the places I could quickly get my license and discounts to go along with them. The personalized email I later received from him made the entire Rejection Therapy experience all worth it. 

“We need more female riders like you!” 

* * *

After just four days of venturing wildly out of my comfort zone, I realized that there was never any reason for me to be afraid of simply going up to a stranger and asking them questions. My constant anxiety-ridden assumptions about others proved to be worthless.  Two strangers saw my complete lack of skill not as a moment to judge, but one to encourage me to keep moving forward. 

My life of being a rule follower has simply boiled down to avoiding confrontation. Even in moments where I’ve felt that something needs to be changed, too often I have kept my mouth shut in fear of embarrassment. Rejection Therapy has taught me that life doesn’t always need a script, but more importantly, I can be the one to write it when it does.

The Facade of Friday Night Lights

I went to a high school football game as a college student--and it wasn’t the same.

By Shawn Fleetwood

“Aaaaaaaaand Indians manage to hold the Hawks to 4th down. Making the tackle for Stafford football is number 55, Ian Smith!” 

As the blue and gold crowd around me cheers with enthusiasm at the announcer’s latest loudspeaker update, I sit there in a daze. Four years ago, I would’ve found myself down in the student section alongside my classmates, joining in on all the fun and cheering on my school. Flash forward to the present, and I seemingly couldn’t care less. 

Who is Ian Smith? And what happened to the Josh Fisher’s and Landon Woodson’s of my high school years? The people that were once the celebrity of my youth have suddenly been replaced by complete unknowns. The blue and gold helmets look the same, but the faces underneath are of total strangers.

High school football has long remained a favorite pastime among American high school students. I mean, who could forget the infinite number of TV shows and movies centered around the game? Titles such as Friday Nights Lights, Remember the Titans, and The Blind Side have become generational phenomena. States like Texas, which USA Today dubbed “the high school football capital of the world,” have taken the game to the extreme and have made it a part of their lifestyle.

Unlike in Texas, where the game is ingrained into the very existence of some communities, high school football in Virginia is fairly different. In the good ole’ commonwealth, there is no “coming together” of the local community. Outside of family, students attending their respective schools seem to be the only ones who actually give a damn about who wins Friday’s game. 

For those Virginia students that do show up every Friday night, however, these games are everything. For four years, the smearing of paint across their cheeks and memorization of ritualized chants have become a fabric of who they are. Any stranger to the game would almost think that these kids have joined a cult. 

But what happens when those four years are up and students are forced to go their separate ways?

* * *

I decided to answer for myself by returning to my roots at Stafford High School and seeing what it’d be like to be part of the ‘Tribe’ again.

Waiting my turn in the ticket line, I reach into my wallet and pull out the six dollars needed to get in. I vividly remember how I had it made senior year when I was an assistant athletic trainer. Simply say the magic words “I’m in sports med with Ms. Cortese” and you were guaranteed free entry into any sporting event you could possibly dream of. The thought of using the phrase to save me a couple of bucks crosses my mind, but I decide against it.

Making the exchange with the lady at the window, I slip the ticket in my back pocket and head along the curved path towards the stadium. Blue figures flash in my peripheral. I turn to see the Stafford players running drills in the endzone, warming up for the night ahead with the stadium lights reflecting off their helmets. Attempting to see the faces inside,  I realize that I recognize none of them. 

Upon  reaching the bleachers, my hand grazes the cool, metallic stair handle as I ascend to the top. I situate myself on an empty row, waiting patiently for my friends to arrive. Looking across the stadium, I see a sea of blue and gold as family members quickly filter in to watch the night’s affairs. Years ago, I would’ve already heard my name shouted out by the parents of my friends. Now I just sit in silence, taking in the scenery of the strangers all around me.

Back then, we were more than a student section: we were a large, dysfunctional family that savored the thrill of the moment and experiencing something we saw as worthwhile. Nothing could keep us away from standing in those bleachers every Friday night. At least, that’s what it felt like anyways.

In many ways, the whole phenomenon was reflective of the hierarchy of what we regularly experience in high school. The classmates you see cheering in the student section every Friday night are oftentimes the same ones that get invited to all the cool parties, nominated for prom court, and have their own “class group chat.” Those that fit the stereotypical “nerd” or “geek” personas were noticeably absent.

But at the end of the day, nobody questions it. Everyone knows where they stand and seems to be perfectly fine with how things are. It’s almost as if it’s natural instinct for most high schoolers to simply adapt to this kind of existing social structure and embrace that the role that is seemingly chosen for them.

My friends Brendan and Leona soon arrive, snapping me out of my thoughts. After exchanging the usual pleasantries, our conversation shifts to multiple, miscellaneous topics, ranging from how they’re settling into their new home in Richmond, to our thoughts on the latest Marvel movie. Glancing at the scoreboard, I notice that the game’s already halfway through the 2nd quarter, with Brooke Point leading 22-0. “Whoah, when did that happen?” I ask. “I have absolutely no idea,” replies Brendan. We all laugh and continue on with our conversation, barely noticing as Brooke Point scores two more touchdowns to make it 36-0 at halftime.

As the horn buzzes to signal halftime, the blowout score prompts Leona to bring up our senior year when Stafford football went to the state semi-finals. We all begin to reminisce, smiling as we detail the student section antics of our youth that included storming the field on homecoming night and hiding clearly intoxicated friends from school staff patrolling the stadium.

“And now we pay a mortgage and work 40 hours a week,” says Leona. “My god how life changes.”

* * *

Four years later, those same thrills have vanished. Gone are the carefree Friday evenings where school rules were meant to be broken and life could be lived on the edge. Gone are the classmates I used to cheer alongside but haven’t seen since graduation. And gone are the players whose jersey numbers now belong to someone else.

Only now looking back do I realize that the cultural phenomenon of high school football is merely a facade. It isn’t so much the love of the game that we relish, but rather the people that we surround ourselves with in those formative years and the experience of being a part of something bigger than ourselves.

No longer could we count on the communal aspect of high school football to hold us together. Those four years may provide us with a jock or nerd identity to call our own, but the reality of the world after graduation forces us all to figure out who we really are. As we step out of that bubble, we’re not only given the opportunity to shape our own character, but also to find out what role we’re supposed to play in the larger scheme of life.

* * *

As the last seconds on the clock tick to zero, I notice the student section as it begins to disassemble and its members head for the exits. If I was one of them, I’d probably be on my way to the local McDonald’s or Cookout to continue the “post-game ritual” of stuffing yourself with some of the unhealthiest food imaginable. 

But I remember that I’m not one of them. Not anymore. Those short, four seasons of high school football are memories that I’ll always cherish, but never relive. My time as a member of the “Tribe” has passed and the priorities in my life are so unbelievably different from what they were back then. 

Walking towards the exit, I leave behind the memory of my own version of Friday Night Lights. High schoolers should enjoy theirs too, for once the stadium lights go out, there’s no way of ever turning them back on.

Assessing 2007's Most Iconic Photo... Fourteen Years Later

An image of Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Britney Spears was a polarizing force of pop culture, but how has over a decade of time changed the way we view this photo and the women who are in it?

By Matthew Simmons

I remember being back in middle school rummaging through the candy at the grocery store, which was found next to the local newspaper and an array of popular magazines. That’s when I saw it - an image of three women who I would soon come to recognize as young Lindsay Lohan, Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. This was the first time I’d seen these young starlets outside of their top hits radio and seeing them in movies like my all-time favorite, The Parent Trap. At the time I believed it to be a simple photo of the three women having a good night, however, I knew that there was something off.

At the time, I could tell what I was sensing. Each sitting shoulder to shoulder in the front of a black car, the three seemingly friends were photographed with big smiles after a night spent at the Beverly Hills Hotel, which had been a popular spot amongst celebrities at the time. Upon first glance, I was confused as to why an old photo from 2006 was plastered across the cover eight years later in 2014 when I caught a glimpse of it. 

I didn’t think about that photo much since that day, but for some reason it was hard to forget it. It was not until I encountered the photo a second time while online some years down the line, that I decided to look it up to see what was going on. Soon I realized how wrong I had been about the assumptions I had made about the image. There was not a single search result that did not feature the words ‘train wreck,’ ‘infamous’ or ‘awkward.’ What I did not know at the time is that Hilton and Lohan were not friends, and it seemed like everyone knew this except for me. In fact, Hilton has stated that being in the car together was an awkward experience considering the two were on rocky terms. In fact, the paparazzi had been asking Hilton about accusations that had been made by her on and off again friend Lohan, when out of nowhere she appeared and hopped into the car with Hilton and Spears. 

This brought up an interesting question that I sought out to answer. If they were not friends at the time and were currently in the middle of a public feud, why would Lohan take it upon herself to get into the car? Years later, as the three women’s images are being made over, and we’re seeing the ways they were exploited by the media industry and the public, I’m still asking that question.

I grew up in a time when the “Disney child gone wild” narrative had attempted to attach itself to any and every young adult in the industry. This was done through the work of publishers who made money off of the downfall of children who were transitioning into adulthood. It was my exposure to the media of my time and how they treated those I looked up to that allowed me to better understand how all of this really worked. It was continuous exploitation of young individuals who did not have the emotional maturity to deal with what was being thrown their way.  

With time and the rise of social media, laws have been put in place to reduce the storm of paparazzi and tabloid coverage. Alongside this, celebrities like Lohan, Spears, and Hilton have begun to reclaim the narratives that had been ripped away from them years prior and been held hostage since. Both Spears and Hilton have released documentaries that focus on the misinterpretation of who they really are. Spears used this opportunity to speak up about her conservatorship and hoped to show people that her true passions lie within her music and looking after her children, while Hilton aimed to eradicate her image of being a clueless socialite who can’t be successful without the help of her parents' inheritance.

 Lohan sought out a different route, appearing on talk shows, speaking little about her past and more about her goal of returning to acting, taking on serious roles. She has stuck to her word and will be appearing in a Christmas movie as the lead role being released on Netflix in December of this year.

What’s become clear is that the media has a lot more control over celebrity stories than we think. For years these women have been painted as being crazy and off the deep end, however, they were never crazy and still aren’t to this day. Maybe they were upset, afraid and at times angry, but isn’t that to be expected of someone who experienced what each of them has in their short lives?  Even as they’re telling their own stories, they’re still being used. Even the fight to break free from an oppressive conservatorship has become an instant money pool for media companies to pull from.  

Through watching this process, I now view celebrities from a different lens. A lens that is not only produced by the media but one of my own, built with compassion and an understanding that I, alongside everyone else, will never fully know what’s going on. With that being said, presumptuous stories and misconstrued images will always be shinier than the true story. This is the culture we have built surrounding celebrity culture, and although opinions regarding the topic have begun to change, there is still a lot to be done to reach full transparency, if that is even possible. 

In the meantime, I’ve been able to understand better what happened that day. From the account of Paris, it seems that she was just looking to continue her night of partying, and although uncomfortable at the time, Hilton decided not to kick her out and embarrass her in front of dozens of paparazzi. The night came to an end when the three headed back to Hilton’s where she and Spears fell asleep and Lohan left.  

From this, I instantly understood why the young actor’s entrance into the vehicle wasn’t met with disapproval from her two counterparts. They weren’t friends, but they were there for each other in spite of their differences. 

Each of them has experienced the same rare and intense reality of being at the height of their career during a time when there were little to no laws surrounding what paparazzi can and can’t do in order to get the image of a lifetime. This exact experience, possible without them realizing it, bonded them in a way that goes deeper than a temporary beef. It was Hilton’s own understanding of the brutality of publications at the time that allowed her to put things aside in order to protect Lohan from ending up on all the front pages after being ditched by two of America’s most famous young women.  

Though somewhat delighted by the fact that my original observation proved to be right, that there was something off about the photo, mostly I’m angry. That a photograph of three women who were in a way protecting each other had been twisted into something completely different - and we all believed it.

Opioids, Ski Lifts and Pizza: The Mirage of Nostalgia

This town cleverly disguises itself as a refuge for city dwellers and a place to enjoy the hospitality a rural town has to offer. Spoiler alert: it’s not.

By Abby Slaughter

Davis, West Virginia is a small town located 70 miles south of Morgantown, the only large small town in West Virginia that anyone has ever heard of. I always arrive moderately carsick each time I turn onto the bridge over the Blackwater River into the “town”—of approximately 631 people. Even if I was blindfolded, I would still know that familiar freefall feeling in the pit of my stomach, so specific that it could only be the town bridge’s downward slope into the Shop-n-Save.

Just north of the whopping four restaurants on Main Street is the Alpine Lodge and Sawmill Restaurant that has somehow survived after too many fires to count. The lack of cell service in that place only seems to affect visitors. Despite the familiar sights, the local economy has slowly been changing and on the decline since I was little, which wasn’t obvious to me in the slightest until February of 2016, when my life and the lives of my brother and father were put in jeopardy.

I was one of the ski lifts at Timberline Resort the moment it collapsed, as the sheaves—the small wheels through which the main cable holding passengers is pushed through—burned and failed, causing the support beam to collapse, like a capital “T” losing its top arm. People were hurled out of their seats from 30 feet up in the air, landing on their necks and snow gear on the ground below. It was a miracle no one died.

The reason for this accident was unclear to me, but after the former ownership was charged with several federal drug charges and tax evasion in 2019, I realized that one of my favorite places wasn’t as perfect as I imagined, but was in fact kind of a disaster. The owner was not only preying on innocent people in the area by illegally prescribing opioids to local citizens and perpetuating the opioid epidemic that has ravaged so many other small towns in the country, but a mechanism he was in charge of nearly killed me, my brother and my father. 

* * *

Looking back, I can the dysfunction in Davis was always there.

The financial struggles that people in this town face became visible to me way back in elementary school. My family and I would frequent Sirianni’s Café, a cramped pizza restaurant down at the end of the Main Street drag just before the final turn that heads out of town. Its rickety, painted wooden door carved to resemble pizza-holding angel babies among lush greenery never failed to slam a bit too hard on the way in.

It was always loud and crowded, with the smell of pizza crust and old wooden chairs filling the space. We seemed to always be seated at the same table by a poster of Glen Plake, the famous skier whose mohawk climbs over a foot off of the top of his head, on the back wall, frozen in time in his descent down a steep mountain peak. I don’t even remember if the food was good, but there were always the fun pizza-themed kids’ toys crammed onto a shelf by the bathroom in case the food ever let me down or I got bored waiting for our pizza to be ready.

Despite this somewhat mundane excursion that seemed to turn out the same way every time—with a lot of leftovers and pizza grease ending up on the car seat—I vividly remember eating pizza there one day and seeing a heavily pregnant waitress waiting a table. I must have been 9 or 10 years old, but I began to think about what her life must be like. This small town didn’t and still doesn’t have many places to work, and even though she was struggling to walk around the restaurant, I realized that she may have no choice but to work in order to survive. It was perhaps the first time that I noticed that this place that I considered a refuge from normal life was a place where people struggled to get by, but it didn’t fully rid me of the myth of Davis.

Those who live there lead extremely simple lives, knowing thy neighbor and thy neighbor’s extended family. To me, coming from a larger town, it was a way to escape the hustle and bustle. The quiet seemed to trick me into thinking that this place was a tourist’s oasis that made people forget about all their problems, when really, you only need to people-watch for a little while to realize that this place has deeply-rooted problems that the people of this town have to face: poverty, drug addiction and very few jobs.

The average second home purchaser will see that although the outskirts of Davis have the mountain views and the fresh air, it may be difficult to come by a good investment in a second home—most prospective real estate developments in the valley are vacant and desolate. I’ve heard my dad mutter “How is that place still open?” about a business almost every time we went downtown. I always laughed and chimed in about how this store and that restaurant will be closed before we came back the following year, but many of them survived. Davis is really resilient.

It’s clear that structural problems at the ski resort caused this accident, and those structural problems were likely caused by the owner’s negligence and immoral and illegal use of resort funds.

The owner took advantage of people in Davis who likely did not have an education and faced poverty, and he not only destroyed lives by harboring addiction, but he also was responsible for the injury of many people.

My family and I got lucky; we weren’t launched into the air like the other riders came down to the speed in which the motor pushed us up the mountain and the rate at which the sheaves away. We also got to leave; we had the luxury of coming and going when we pleased, but those who lived in Davis never even got the chance.

_

Tourism makes up a large part of Davis’ economy, and skiing is the major draw.  However, revenue from visiting skiers and snowboarders came to a halt in February of 2016. After the accident, the resort shut down for a period of time and only just recently opened under new management.

I haven’t been back skiing since. I miss being able to glide down mountains and silently sail through a slick dusting of snow, but I can’t bring myself to put back on my snow boots. However, there may come a time where strapping into skis again is not even a possibility in Davis.

The county went years without tourism from this resort. Though it’s open now, it may be too late for Davis. The town’s population has been slowly declining over the past decade, which has not helped the local economy, The two dilapidated mini golf courses just south of Davis are not going to sustain the same tourism revenue—not by a long shot. Also, the antique store “Your Grandpa’s Attic” on Main Street is now permanently closed, although, come to think of it, I’ve never actually seen anyone in there. Also, Golf Express, a golf cart dealer, is temporarily closed as well.

I don’t want the town to disappear; it was a place I always looked forward to going to when I was young. Davis and the Canaan Valley area were a part of my life for 16 years. We had a townhouse we called Unit 67 that we would visit for a couple days every summer and winter for many years of my life. The breathtaking views of the mountains out of my parents’ bedroom window, the homey smell of Unit 67 that bombarded my senses when I swung open the off-brown front door, the pitter patter of my dog Manny’s footsteps across the kitchen tiles—it’s a place that is embedded in my senses, refusing to let me forget it.

Although I love Davis very much, I’m not sure the idea I had of it in my head ever really existed. Part of me wants to preserve those memories that I have, leaving me with something in my life that has not at all changed—neither the town nor the memories I have of it. However, change is inevitable, and I think I’m coming to terms with my perception of Davis changing.

I don’t know if I’ll ever go back. I want it to stay exactly the way I remember, like a photograph: unchanged.

My Baby Brother Doesn’t Need Me Anymore

I was in charge of my high school aged brother for a week and I realized he is more independent then I thought

By Emily Warren

I'm sitting in my animation class, unable to concentrate because I'm anxious about whether or not they've eaten enough. Since 9 a.m. this morning, I haven't returned to my apartment.

So I sent a text message to my brother. “Hey, did you eat your lunch yet?”

He responds with a simple "yes”. That three-letter word puts me at ease immediately. 

This week, I was responsible for watching my 14-year-old brother, Max, while my parents were on vacation in Hawaii. My mother had desperately wanted someone to look after him while they were gone because he had just fractured his foot. But there was a catch: we’d have to stay in my apartment. 

I had agreed with hesitancy when my mom asked. My apartment is small, and on top of that, I have classes and swim practice every day, in addition to a job. But a part of me found myself saying, "Yeah, I can handle this. It's the very least I can do for my mother. How difficult could 5 days of being a mom be?”.

***

When my mother dropped him off, I became nervous as I watched him hobble up the stairs in pain, accompanied by Gus, our family dog. I began to panic as my mother began to describe her lengthy list of responsibilities that I was expected to follow while caring for him and the dog.

I quickly recognized how unprepared I was. I wanted to convince myself otherwise but I struggled to find a positive. How was I going to get through the week looking after two other beings without even having time for myself? I continually thought about the list from my mom. Throughout the week, I was constantly obsessed with my brother and dog, despite my best efforts to concentrate on myself and my own responsibilities. 

Max had recently started high school and one thing my mom promptly told me was that he needed to be doing his school work since he was missing school while staying with me. I nagged at him almost every night about him being responsible about his homework. It was exhausting. 

Turns out, he never had much work to actually do. For whatever reason, I had this expectation in my head that he should be spending so much time on his schoolwork when, in reality, he had completed the majority of it before I even returned to my place every night. I again, was getting worked up for nothing. 

Another complication: I rarely had time to stop by the apartment to see that the dog had gone out to do his business because I was often rushing from class, job, and practice. I was concerned that my brother wouldn't be able to get down the long flight of steps to let the dog out due to his fractured foot. He was in a boot.

The first night he was here, I returned home and asked if the dog had been let out yet. He assured me that he'd been taken care of several times throughout the day. I asked how he accomplished this task. “I scooted down the stairs on my bottom and then hopped back up with one foot up,” he said, like it was nothing. 

Of course he did. I'm not sure why I never considered that strategy before. He wasn't supposed to put any weight on his foot, therefore he had to get creative with how he got down the stairs. I thought to myself, “He is pretty smart.”

Another responsibility I was concerned about was taking adequate care of his foot, as he would undergo surgery as soon as my parents returned back from their vacation. I was supposed to double-check that he was elevating, icing, and taping his toes together. My mother told me before she left that if I didn't make sure he completed these things, his break could turn into something far worse.

Naturally, I was concerned under this kind of pressure from my mom and the situation. Every morning before I left for my daily responsibilities,  I double-checked that he always had ibuprofen, that the ice trays were filled, that he had his wedge out for elevation, and that his tape was still in place. One morning, I was late for class and realized halfway through class that I had forgotten to give him ibuprofen or tape his foot. I was concerned and worried that he wasn't in too much pain.

I again texted him to make sure that he was alright. He responded, “I am fine. Stop worrying.”

***

That's when I understood that it’s not my job to be a mother to my 14-year-old brother. When we were growing up, I was always caring for and worried about my three younger siblings. My parents were always so overburdened with work and other obligations that I sometimes had to step in and make sure everyone was always doing okay. Now I had to take a step back and understand that I no longer needed to be worrying about them because we are all developing as different independent people and are no longer as dependent on one another as we once had been.

As I came to this realization, I realized that my role as a sister was also shifting. I no longer lived at home with my other siblings, so the position that I had been used to for years was no longer relevant. As the oldest sibling growing up at home, I was always caring for and worried about my three younger siblings. My parents were always so overburdened with work and other obligations that I sometimes had to step in and make sure everyone was always doing ok. Now I had to take a step back and understand that I no longer needed to be worrying about them because we are all developing as different independent people and are no longer as dependent on one another as we once had been.

I was causing myself unnecessary stress all week by worrying about things that didn't need to be worried about. I've realized that I do this far too frequently in many areas of my life and I needed to learn how to take a step back and concentrate on the things that really needed to be stressed about. 

No touchy!

by: Victoria R. Percherke

The challenge was accepted…I didn’t touch my face for a week.

Mirrors are a challenge for me. 

Touching my face feels like a return to my most basic human instinct. Touch is the first sense to develop in the mother’s womb. When babies are born, touch lets them feel nurtured, to feel that space between them and others. We touch because we’re healthy, because we’re alive. Our faces are the softest parts of our bodies. When we touch them, we’re reborn.

I touch my face all the time. When I listen during a lecture, I often rest my head on my left hand. The same hand in which I used to open the door. The same hand I used to get the things out of my book bag. And the same hand I touched the desk with before sitting down. My hand touched a lot of things before touching my face. I can’t even imagine the germs I just transferred to the surface of my skin without even realizing it. What feels so good, it turns out, isn’t really so good.

I personally have another challenge to contend with. Mirrors are a challenge for me. My focus is the flaws on my skin. I have this urge to lean over and scan for blackheads and the upcomings of possible pimples. Although -- I don’t have much of an acne problem, I’m the biggest critic of how clear my face will appear to others. It’s a deeper insecurity I didn’t think much about until I started noticing scars appear on my face from the picking.  

There are a multitude of reasons to touch my face as well as not to. Because I do it all the time, I tried to spend a week avoiding this habit. What I learned went far beneath my skin’s surface.

Day 1: Questions spiraled through my mind

I decided to go an entire week without touching my face with the exception of cleansing in the mornings and before bed. To help with not looking into a mirror, I added a night light to my bathroom so that I could go in and out without the temptation to look up.

As I awoke at my usual time of 7 a.m., I walked over to my bathroom. And, as my hand touched the light switch, it came right off as I remembered that I was not to turn that light on which encouraged my face picking.

I felt confident enough about my experiment. But then I had a crazy thought: What if I was not looking in the mirror was I missing a giant pimple on my forehead for all to see? But, I had to learn how to swallow my anxiety hard, and not give into my real fear: “You aren’t pretty enough.”

Day 2: I let anxiety take over.

After day one, I gave in. After I had gone to my workout, my classes, and my job, I went straight to the bathroom mirror as soon as I entered my apartment. I ignored having the light off, and I felt as if I went on a frenzy for my face. 

And, boy, did I feel terrible after I had finished destroying the blackhead on my nose along with the spots that I had picked at. My face was red, and there were spots that were irritated and bloody. 

I was so upset afterward, and stared into the mirror for a while to evaluate what I had done. I cried small tears, and then went about my day struggling to fight the urge to keep my hands down every time I went to the bathroom, or felt the need to rest my head on my hand while I worked at my desk. 

Day 3: Challenge accepted.

Today felt like the day I truly started this challenge. I had my fix yesterday, and was still feeling terrible about it. I felt like some sort of alcoholic returning to the bar. I was seeing the marks that my nails had dug into from the day before.

I also felt the worst about my self-esteem, but I figured that I might as well embrace my super red face for the day. So, that meant no makeup, no touching, and extreme hand washing for the times I accidentally did touch my face.

I kept reassuring myself with positive affirmations and kept my hands glued to my side. I knew I was capable of finishing what I had started. I just needed to tell myself to keep going rather than let my worries take over my confidence. 

Although, it was hard to keep up with my experiment since I had to consistently put on and take off my mask. With that also comes readjusting a mask to the face. This action made it very tempting to just forget this experiment and touch my face like crazy again. 

On another note, having a mask on made it easier in other ways because I didn’t have to worry about my peers seeing the redness on my face after I had picked my face previously from this experiment.

Day 4: Fighting science.

According to the University of Maryland Medical System, on average, humans touch their face 23 times per hour without realizing it. 

This day felt a whole lot easier mostly because I became more interested in how many times I naturally drew my hands up. In some ways, I was laughing because I was literally fighting the science to touch. 

I counted, and within an hour, my hands naturally grew towards my face 17 times. Whether that be because I was losing focus within the class I was attending, stressed, or convinced myself that I had an itch. It’s like my hands were levitating, and my mind simply had to say, “not today.” I found this to be a comical thing, and even laughed to myself in the middle of classes or conversations with friends. 

There is a certain comfort that comes from touching your face. How soft it feels and how it brings emotion without ever being taught that it does. It was so strange to miss feeling my face on a daily basis. 

Day 5: Skincare is fun?

I wanted to engage into this challenge more by spending some of my own money within this process -- I invested in skin care!

My Amazon packages finally came in consisting of all of my new skin care items. I chose to go with Cereve because it is dermatologist approved, and my dad loves this company. I trust my dad because our family has a history of skin cancer, so I tend to rely on what my dad’s dermatologist recommends for him.

From Cereve, I ordered a cleanser, a moisturizer, and acne scarring serum. Along with a self-cleaning battery-operated brush. I usually clean my face in the shower, but I wanted to take this face cleansing to a whole new level that I haven’t before. I’ve seen plenty of skin care routines, but I wanted to create my own one in which I felt most comfortable. I was going to get into the habit of deep cleaning my face on the regular, which meant mornings and evening times. 

I started off by getting my face wet with cold water. According to health resources, cold water tightens those pores from getting more bacteria in. After wetting my face, I pumped out some cleanser directly onto my face, and used my brush to get every surface on my face, from my chin to my forehead. After wiping off the excess, I used a clean cold washcloth to clear it all up. Then I applied the serum which helps acne scarring. Then after letting my face dry for a bit, I added moisturizer. 

After this process, I even put on a moisturizer cloth face mask that I had bought from Trader Joes earlier in the week. It felt nice to just go through a routine in taking care of your face. 

It made me appreciate myself so much more than I ever had. -- and I am not sure why I discovered this through a skin care routine. You can’t say you don’t know why. You have to delve into it. This is, like, fun. And all the sensory stuff feels good. And it’s way better than the picking, yeah? I think the main benefit of grooming like this has more to do with feeling good than helping your skin.

Day 6: Keeping the areas around me clean.

Finally, I got into the habit of not touching my face!

While I am getting in the habit of not touching my face, I started to realize how dirty the things that I had to touch on a daily basis. For example, my computer keyboard, the toothpaste in which drips on my chin while I brush, my desk which has all of my notes on, and even the sheets I sleep in! These items are always covered in their own germs, and how often do I actually wipe them down, clean them, or prevent them from happening? Not very often. 

So, today I primarily focused on keeping my “everyday touched items” clean and sanitized. Such as my computer, my desk, and my sheets as well. According to the Sleep Foundation, you are supposed to clean your sheets once a week -- Oopsie! 

Day 7: Feeling satisfied.

While this journey has been all of the emotions of frustrating, annoying, and fun, I am extremely grateful for this self experiment. I didn’t know that I would only learn so much about my lingering thoughts in my head, but the things around me affect my skin as well. 

What I discovered through this time without looking at the facts is that we will truly never be satisfied with what we look like everyday. But I decided that I would pay more attention to how I felt. I felt better when I spent a couple minutes in the morning and evening washing my face and caring for it with my new cleanser and lotion.

This experiment cost me some time to reflect and to take time to really evaluate what I was doing throughout my day. Chances are not only does physically picking your face hurt, but it could be your toothpaste or your sheets that you haven’t washed in a month or two that's really hurting your skin. Crazy right?

Post-not-touching-face Experiment

What I discovered through this time without looking at the facts is that we will truly never be satisfied with what we look like everyday. It’s more of a choosing-attitude than an issue. 

I encourage you to find your own skin care routine, and join me on the journey of choosing self-love and patience through the therapy of loving your face, rather than hurting it. 

My Bad Blood with T. Swift

How I Learned to Embrace Taylor Swift’s Music for a Week

By Jean Mondoro

The first time I heard Taylor Swift’s Blank Space, I shifted uncomfortably in my seat.  “You look like my next mistake; Love’s a game, wanna play?”  It just didn’t sit right with me.  It was a message that seemed to glamorize a relationship without any genuine love for the other person.  She sang, “Baby, I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream.”  I heard, “I won’t treat you right, but I look good.”

When sharing my opinion with others, I’m told that she plays on the reputation the media has put on her of being a “wild child”.  I can appreciate that she’s exaggerating for effect.  However, I figured that she gained the reputation through some truth, and that was enough reason for me not to listen to her music.  While the melody is catchy (I still can’t get it out of my head), the lyrics are terrible.  Mostly, I don’t see this woman, belittling what men look for in love (“Boys only want love if it’s torture”), as a positive role model.  I’m also of the firm belief that some of the worst messages in songs have the most addictive beats.

Recently, though, I came to the realization that perhaps I haven’t given Taylor Swift a fair chance because of this less-than-intriguing first impression.  I took a step back and asked myself: Why do I dislike her so much?  Is it just the song?  Could I find something to appreciate in her music if I got off my soapbox?  Because I wanted to find out what I was missing, I decided I had to give her another chance.

I downloaded a “This Is Taylor Swift” playlist on Spotify and started to truly listen.

The first song that came on was Willow.  As I listened, I found myself wanting to dislike it and looking for fault with it.  And so, the inner battle began.  It was so engrained in my mind that I did not like Taylor Swift’s music that I had to fight the inclination to dislike her songs.  But as Willow went on, I admitted that it wasn’t too bad.  It’s a sad song of an unhealthy relationship of the past, and I thought the musical and lyrical aspects flowed well, like the tree in the song.  It still wasn’t my favorite musical style, but I was surprised that the lyrics of this song struck me the most.  I reflected on how accurately her words describe a controlling partner when she sang, “Life was a willow and it bent right to your wind.”

Next up on the playlist was Champagne Problems.  This was an interesting one about a relationship that everyone expected to end in marriage but never reached engagement.  It wasn’t inherently bad in any way, but I just didn’t get it.  “Because I dropped your hand while dancing, left you out there standing crestfallen on the landing…”  I understand these lines as well as the other passages which describe the breakup and that “no one’s celebrating”.  But at the end of each stanza she sings, “Champagne problems”, and I don’t know how to interpret that.  Is she referring to him turning to alcohol after the breakup?  Is it a haunting glance towards what could have been (drinking champagne at their wedding)?  Or am I overthinking it?  Perhaps something to appreciate is how Swift can send a message complex enough that not all her listeners “get it” on the first try.

The two songs which followed were ones which I had heard before.  Shake It Off rubbed me the same way as Blank Space.  It strikes me as very classic Swift, and I couldn’t find anything that I liked about this song.  When she sings about not letting the negativity bother her, it sounds to me like she doesn’t care enough about what’s happening around her.  It makes me think that she doesn’t take life seriously.  Wildest Dreams is one that I can appreciate more.  I enjoy the way the melody flows and matches the wishful lyrics about a girl with a strong desire to be remembered by the man who walked away.  I found that I didn’t mind listening to it, as the longing to be missed is something that most of us have experienced, and so it was more easily relatable.

The listening became more tedious as I began to wonder if Swift would ever talk about anything besides these bad relationships.  Gold Rush, Look What You Made Me Do, Mad Woman…does she ever move past this negativity?  The media has certainly hyped-up Taylor Swift as this “wild child, bad girl”, an image that I believe she does dramatize in her music.  On the other hand, though, I still disagree on a deeper level with the messages being shared in these songs.  And while there’s more to a song than just the lyrics, it’s awfully hard to appreciate an entire song when such a major part of the story is something with which I disagree.

I was slightly discouraged.  When I began this journey, I truly did want to find something that I liked and respected in her work.  I knew I had my own stubborn opinion, but I also knew that I was biased and sincerely desired to come to a point of appreciation for things that aren’t my first choice.  At this point in my listening experience, I was beginning to wonder if it was worthwhile.  I had almost given up on it altogether when another song came on, and I was stunned by my response.

Evermore began to come through the speakers, hauntingly beautiful.  When it had ended, I voluntarily listened to it again.  The words are slightly heart wrenching, but the melody is a gentle reminder that there is hope.  It proved to me that she could write and sing in a gentler, more uplifting way.  Evermore sang of pain but also hope, and it is softer and more approachable than all the other songs I listened to.

In the gentle innocence of the song, I was reminded of my own personal upbringing in the Catholic faith.  My parents have taught me to recognize virtue from my earliest days, and song lyrics are no exception.  Most of Swift’s messages are not singing about virtuous love.  They contradict the moral compass by which I strive to live as a Catholic woman.  Listening to the piano fade away, concluding the song, I saw myself separated from Swift’s music by a wall of virtue.  Could my intense dislike for Taylor Swift be rooted in the virtues which have been established deep inside me since childhood?

I can’t seem to look past the vivid image Swift paints of a love without virtue, which so bluntly opposes my personal morals.  Perhaps this part of me hinders my ability to appreciate Swift’s music in its fullness.  And yet Evermore showed me that some of her songs do not possess the same direct resistance to those strong rooted virtues, and those are the ones with which I can connect.

Am I a Swiftie?  No.  Do I still have a strong dislike of Blank Space?  Yes. Do I have as little respect for Taylor Swift’s music as I did before challenging myself to find something to appreciate in her songs?  Not at all.  Believe it or not, I added Evermore to my playlist.

Team Edward or Team Jacob? I'm Team Bella

by Jess Kirby

Ever since I was 12, I wanted to be Bella. Then, people started comparing Edward to domestic abusers.

My well-used copy of Twilight that I simply had to bring with me to college.

My name is Jess Kirby, and I am a feminist. At the same time, I am in love with Edward Cullen.

As a 20-year-old female at a very liberal university, I’ve studied feminist theory and dating violence. I’ve heard horror stories about guys tracking their girlfriends and never letting them out of their sight. I’ve also experienced a toxic relationship or two.

As our country’s awareness of unhealthy relationships has seemingly grown in recent years, there has been a lot of criticism about the relationship between “Twilight” main characters Bella Swan and Edward Cullen. Throughout the series, Edward sneaks in Bella’s room at night to watch her sleep, secretly follows her on outings with her friends and stares at her from afar.

But none of that matters to me. This is the story of how I came to love “Twilight” anyway.

I caught a glimpse of the first movie when I was 12 years old, mindlessly flipping through the TV channels after school one day. From the moment I saw Edward and Bella lying in the meadow, with grass tinted blue by the iconic filter featured in the movie, I was intrigued. I sat there in awe, my eyes raw from blinking so infrequently.

What first hooked me on the series wasn’t Edward’s golden eyes or charming voice, it was Bella herself. I saw her long brown hair and dark eyes and immediately thought she was beautiful. But it wasn’t just her appearance, either. As I watched the movies and eventually read the books, I related to Bella in a way that I hadn’t related to anyone else, fictional or real.

She understood my awkwardness when meeting new people, my ineptitude in gym class and my longing to be myself no matter what others thought. She allowed me to be more accepting of the things I didn’t like about myself and brought out the qualities I did like.

I dyed my blonde hair brown and grew it out, hoping to bear a passing resemblance to her. I wore my sisters’ old, early 2000s American Eagle clothes, mimicking her outfits from the movies. I started saying Bella’s random lines like “I’m really the more suffer in silence type” and “Ice doesn’t help the uncoordinated.” I wanted to be Bella.

One day when I was in middle school, my friend, who I thought loved the “Twilight” series as unconditionally and irrevocably as I did, sent me a meme making fun of the first movie. I don’t even remember the context, only that it made me feel furious and betrayed. How could she insult one of my favorite things in the whole world? My friend was able to both like “Twilight” and make fun of it. I wasn’t ready for that.

As time went on, I realized that most people didn’t share my adoration. I became self-conscious about my favorite series and buried it within myself where no one could see. I couldn’t stand to hear people criticize it, or more specifically, Bella. That was, until I was in college years later and I was eventually able to see the “Twilight.”

My roommate Lauryn and I, both initially hesitant to talk about our unironic love for “Twilight” for fear of judgment, bonded over Stephenie Meyer’s masterpiece. We both loved it. We talked about the books and movies together and hosted “Twilight” movie marathons.

But as we sat up late one evening, we discussed the unhealthy aspects of Edward and Bella’s relationship. For instance, when Edward leaves Bella in one of the sequels, “New Moon,” he destroys all evidence of himself and moves his entire family away. Bella enters a depressive episode and begins to think she’s crazy because there’s not a single trace of him left behind. She has reoccurring nightmares of the dark forest Edward left her in, and she isolates herself from everyone around her.

It wasn’t until I talked to Lauryn that I realized Bella was exhibiting symptoms of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. But then, I didn’t know how to feel. I started feeling shaken up inside myself. I’d grown up reading a story where the male love interest stalks and frequently invades the privacy of his female lover, and she praises him for it. Then he leaves, and it destroys her. What other harmful lessons had I internalized from “Twilight” over the years?

I wasn’t sure what to do about my love for Twilight once I saw the truth, though. I still ignored criticisms about “Twilight.” Now that I saw the problems, I pushed against the idea that I had to hate it. I still continued to avoid talking about it with most people. But then, during the Covid-19 pandemic, “Twilight” reemerged as the series people love to hate on. Following Stephenie Meyer’s release of “Midnight Sun,” the original “Twilight” story  but instead written from Edward’s perspective, all of the movies became available on Netflix.

Once I read “Midnight Sun,” I went right back to being that giddy 12-year-old. I got to meet Bella through Edward’s eyes and fall in love with the series all over again. In the meantime, videos about it blew up on TikTok and other social media sites, most of them making fun of the saga. But something different happened this time. Instead of getting defensive, I was able to laugh at most of the “Twilight” memes and videos while still appreciating the saga.  

I also realized that certain lines from the movies, many of which aren’t even in the books, are ridiculous. In one scene of the first movie, Edward says to Bella, “You better hold on tight, spider monkey.” Who would write something like that into a script? Even I cringe now, but it’s just one of the quirks in the series that I’ve come to adore. Once I gained the ability to laugh at my favorite series, my love for it grew even more. I was able to appreciate the silly aspects of it and have a more objective view.

When thinking about all the criticism “Twilight” has faced for its glorification of an unhealthy relationship, I realized just how reactionary that mindset is. Many believe that children should not experience the series when they’re younger, or even in high school, because they don’t want it to be a bad influence on them. However, those people don’t give their kids and teenagers enough credit. Even though 12-year-old me thought Edward and Bella’s relationship was a captivating, dangerous, endearing love story, I still recognized it as fiction.

If a man were to watch me sleep and follow me everywhere in real life, I would have enough common sense to recognize that as a threat, not a romance. If every romance or book we read was perfectly polite and safe, we would be bored out of our minds. And fiction gives us a way to enjoy secretive darker impulses without giving into them in real life. That’s why it’s called a fantasy.

Growing up obsessed with “Twilight” and Bella Swan shaped me as a person and continues to do so. I still reread the series, dig out the Bella outfits I used to wear in middle school, dye my hair darker in the fall and dress like her for Halloween. I admire her selflessness and unwavering genuineness, and I continue trying to be more like her in those ways.

Recently, I hosted another movie marathon with Lauryn and our friends. Our living room was full of people with various opinions about “Twilight;” some had never seen the series, others hated it and many of us were not afraid to proclaim that we loved it.

We had many laughs that night, as I quoted scenes word-for-word and sang along to the soundtrack. We even made a group chat, sent each other “Twilight” memes and made plans to watch the rest of the movies together. Throughout the evening, we shared many of our controversial opinions.

“Bella has more sexual tension with Carlisle in this scene than she does with Edward in the entire series,” my friend Josie explained.

“Get out,” I said, only half joking, pointing to the door. I guess I’m still protective of my favorite fictional couple.

I Go Blind 15 Times A Day

By Abby Slaughter

I’ve got this weird thing. When I get scared, I can’t see, and nobody can tell me why.

I started to sweat as Alexis was watching the stove top, waiting for her to tell me when to move the shallots around in the pan again. I had no idea how crispy they needed to be, so I just stood there, waiting for her to tell me what to do next. It was already two hours past my usual dinner time, and not only was I starving, but I didn’t want to show in any way that I didn’t have much cooking experience, if any.

“Abby, pay attention!” she yelled. I froze, and I suddenly couldn’t see a thing.

The splattering of the grease from the shallots was burning my right arm.

“Dude, you made me go blind!” I shouted.

“Well, if you just listened to me, that wouldn’t have happened!” she yelled back at me.

What happened to me in that moment requires a bit of explanation. Several times a day, I experience temporary blindness. From what I have come to understand, it is an intense reaction to unexpected sounds. Whether a dirty pan clatters in the sink, a bird squawks loudly in the distance or a pipe creaks in the wall, I get scared and lose my vision for a brief period of time—I call it an intense startle reflex.

And there I was that day, in my friend’s childhood home in the middle of a pandemic for the sole purpose of getting out of the apartment for the first time in two months, cooking a meal for my three college roommates, going blind again. Though I laughed it off, as I usually do, I’ve always been curious to learn why this happens. It’s weird to think that what’s become so commonplace for me is so bizarre to others. Unfortunately, I’ve just never had the time to dig. So I finally did.

* * *

Maybe they know more

It began as a game of phone tag with receptionists at audiology offices and an Internet quest that left me with even more questions than before. I poked around using the term “startle reflex”, and all I got was a bunch of information about babies, and I am way past diapers. The startle reflex is a defense mechanism in children; when young children get scared, they tense up and blink their eyes, as they are more hyperaware to sound at a young age. I came to a disappointing realization… I know so little about my reaction that I have even been calling it by the wrong name!

Next, my research pointed me towards PTSD, since loud noises can often trigger those who suffer from it. Then, I had a thought: what about other mental illnesses? Could there be a link? I have generalized anxiety disorder, which causes me to have intrusive thoughts, worry and be in a more alert and anxious state throughout the day. I wondered if there may be a connection between my reaction to sound and the heightened state I exist in. I’ve often thought that moving through life with anxiety is a bit like walking through a haunted maze on Halloween--even when you know a jump scare is coming, you don’t get any less frightened by someone jumping towards you from the darkness.

But as I continued with my researched, my idea about generalized anxiety disorder being connected to my startle reflex was neither affirmed nor disputed by any information. Some studies I found showed a correlation between the two and others finding none whatsoever. In other words, I didn’t come away with any more answers—what I’m experiencing could just be because of anxiety or it could be something entirely different.

Finally, one of the doctors returned my phone call. She was Dr. Kimberly Ringie, an audiologist with the Audiology and Hearing Aid Center of Gainesville, Virginia. She said that being scared, “should not have anything to do with vision changes,” which left me wondering why in the world I only react intensely to sound, not anything unexpected that I may see or feel. Once again, more questions to float around in my head; I didn’t yet have any of the answers I was seeking.

“Our eyes and ears are connected,” said Dr. Crystal Lilly, an associate audiologist that practices at multiple offices in Maryland. Our eyes and ears are connected with the help of the vestibular-ocular reflex, which helps our ears and vision work together in order to allow us to balance. However, the eyes do not play a role in many of our body’s defense mechanisms used when we hear loud sounds, like that which, according to Lilly, the body uses, “to protect the structures of our middle ear so that they don’t conduct the sound to the inner ear.”

She has no idea why my temporary blindness accompanies loud sounds. In fact, none of the audiologists I spoke to could answer most of my questions, including how genetics could affect my reaction, or whether some form of synesthesia—the experiencing of one sense through another—could be influencing my reaction too. Both Lilly and Ringie recommended that I talk to an ophthalmologist, as an eye expert might know more about how the eyes and ears are connected.

I also wondered if genetics played a role in my reflex. My mom is the only other person that I know who experience this same reaction to sound, and we often find ourselves yelling to each other after a loud noise echoes through the house, “Did you go blind too?” Turns out, there is some evidence to support that my family tree impacts my inability to see—only temporarily. According to Seth Norrholm, an associate professor of psychiatry at Wayne State University School of Medicine in Detroit who also happens to study the startle response, a person can have a level of startle that they’re born with, just like they were born with a certain hair and eye color.

* * *

Pointless inquiry? Maybe not

After briefly going down the Web-MD self-diagnosis rabbit hole and talking to some experts, I ended up realizing that what I have may not be a serious, mystery illness, but rather just a weird quirk that’s a running joke between my family and friends. Maybe it’s genetics, or maybe it’s just a strange genetic defect, like those goats that freeze and faint every time they’re startled. I’m not sure if I’m content with not knowing what this reflex really is, but either way, my reaction is not a debilitating condition that prevents me from living my life to the fullest.

I won’t stop cooking or spending time with loud friends in order to lessen the number of times I go blind. I just hope my future children don’t have to go their whole lives thinking at moments throughout the day that they’re having an aneurysm when they just got scared by their coffee maker making a loud gurgling noise.

Treat yo-self???

I loosened my pocketbook for a week in the name of self-care

By Callie Jordan

I remember scrolling on Tik-Tok one day and being barraged by mental health, wellness, and healing content. What I noticed was an over-reliance on fancy and expensive candles, serums, and bath bombs that seemed to me to be more of an easy product promotion and a lazy, short-term fix rather than genuine self-care. Even so, I had noticed the popularity of this influencer trend in my own circles. I had family members who were brand representatives of wellness companies and were constantly trying to sell me things. This bugged the hell out of me, and I refused to quite literally buy into the nonsense.

But here’s the thing: I’ve never given the trend a chance. I owed it to myself to see what it was all about and why I was so averse to the idea of it.

I decided I was going to commercialize my self-care routine and see if money and products can buy happiness, peace, and fulfillment as well.

I had one simple rule for my week-long challenge:

1. I had to use a different product each day for five days in a row in the place of my traditional regimen.

Before I even got started, I was getting caught in a spiral of anxieties. I worried about being a phony, but I told myself to buck up: Maybe I would find that I really did enjoy and benefit from this version of self-care and look at purchasing heavily marketed self-care items in a new light. If nothing else, I’d get to try some new gadgets, switch up my routine, and maybe even relax for a bit.

Day 1: Crystals

To kick off the week, I decided to recover a pricey amethyst crystal cluster I bought on a childhood vacation to the Grand Canyon. Originally the crystal sat on my dresser, displayed as a nifty souvenir. But now, I was repurposing it.

A quick search told me that my crystal was considered a good beginner stone and would help my mind and body achieve balance and rest. Apparently, amethyst is ideal for meditation practices. I then began what is known as “crystal healing".

I sat cross-legged on my yoga mat, holding the stone in my hand and repeating affirmations and my personal intentions. I looked like a crazy, nervous wreck chanting to the mythical anti-anxiety gods. Then I laid down and placed the stone on my third eye, the space between my eyebrows and forehead. I was sure I looked ridiculous, but supposedly, the crystals healing properties and energies were somehow realigning my chakras.

Before I absolutely gave up for fear of feeling sillier than I already did, I started to somewhat enjoy this brief moment of relaxation. The feeling of running my thumb across the edges of the rock grounded and soothed me.

Day 2: Journaling

After my venture into alternative crystal therapy, I decided I needed to return to basics. I went to Target and bought the most elaborate self-guided journal. The journal I chose had a prompt for each day’s thoughts, fun stickers, and quotes. I have to admit the crafty layout made me excited about writing.

However, I figured out pretty quickly how much I really didn’t want to fill the pretty pages. It felt like so much effort to answer a prompt about my day, and kind of pointless too, unless something exciting happened. It was way easier for me to leave it on my bookshelf and totally forget about it.

Nonetheless, I picked a prompt I liked, out of order, and set off in my response. When I finally looked up from writing, I was surprised how much time had passed and how much blank space I had filled. It was cathartic and somewhat soothing to recant the memories of the day.

I wrote about my family, my parents, and my cat because I missed them at college. It felt good to finally release what I had been holding onto so tightly inside.

Day 3: Lotion

At this point, I felt like I was doing such a good job keeping an open mind and staying on course, so I treated myself and splurged on a nicely scented foot and body lotion from Ulta. The lotion I chose was called Hempz and came highly recommended by the woman at the store helping me. It smelled like a weed cloud to me, but it also had hints of banana and coconut, which I thought made up for it.

When I got home from the store, I was hesitant to reach for it because of my sensitive skin and previous reactions to new cosmetic items. But I kept reassuring myself that the ingredients checked out, and I finally took the plunge.

That night, after work, I rubbed some into my hands and began massaging and kneading the mixture onto my legs and feet. It was a simply heavenly experience, and soon I realized I had used a fair amount of the bottle already.

This was by far something that I could support. It wasn’t until now that I realized how tight and tense I was and how I had failed to nurture my body with touch.

Day 4: Squishmallow

By now, I was feeling relaxed and quite pampered. I felt confident enough to walk into Walgreens and buy an adult plush as a sleep aid. I chose Ziggly in part because he was a cheaper, mini version, but also because he was a green zombie with a stitched-up forehead, and I like to be spooked.

On my first night with Ziggly, I was unsure what to do with him. Because of his mini size and round shape, I didn’t know where exactly to place him. I started out using Ziggly as a prop for my head to watch a show in my room, and pretty soon, I had fallen asleep. When I woke up the next morning, I realized I was now, suddenly cuddling and holding Ziggly tightly to my chest.

I didn’t think a stuffed toy would make a difference, but when I woke up, I was incredibly well-rested and relaxed. Ziggly’s soft green zombie skin and fluffy insides calmed me down and made me feel safe and secure. Using Ziggly made me feel less alone, and he was the perfect company at college in place of my regular sleeping partners, my cats.

Day 5: Herbal tea

To end my week, I turned to a cup of hot tea to help me wind down and reflect. As a novice tea drinker, the options were utterly overwhelming at Wegmans. I finally settled on a simple box of Bigelow’s Cozy Chamomile. It didn’t look too intimidating, and the tea was caffeine-free. I was ready to begin.

Using my Keurig, I boiled the water into my favorite mug. I steeped the tea for 3-5 minutes and waited until it was tolerable to drink. At first sip, it tasted like absolutely nothing but flower water.

I was just starting to get bummed out that I had gotten ripped off when I noticed more than half my cup was gone, and I actually liked the sensation of holding the hot mug in between my hands and feeling the tea warm up my unusually cold body temperature. Holding the hot liquid in my mouth and then swallowing it down my throat felt especially good because I had a Summer cold. Pretty soon, I noticed that my body felt less inflamed, and my sinuses were now clear.

Post Commercialized Self-Care Routine Experiment

By the end of my week-long challenge, I realized that I had come away with some positive and even enjoyable experiences. I understood the appeal of buying products as a form of self-care, and when I let myself be vulnerable, I learned a few things about myself, too.

 At the root of my reluctance to embrace the self-care buying craze was a deep-seated belief that I didn’t deserve it. It’s not that adequate self-care hadn’t been modeled for me, and the importance of it had never been imparted but rather that I had a type-A personality. I prided myself on never taking breaks, always going the extra mile to get ahead, and being my harshest critic. If I was gentle with myself, I believed I was wasting time and money that could be devoted elsewhere. In this way, self-care became a rare luxury for me instead of a necessity to be invested in and cultivated every day. Besides, I was young, healthy, and extraordinarily busy. I could do all the self-care I wanted at the end of my life when I had nothing better to do and the means to do it. 

But buying these products wasn’t self-indulgence. Maybe I won’t continue to buy in the place of other self-care practices, but an occasional purchase here and there I found to be a great and beneficial pick me up that I now look forward to. I no longer feel like I need to prove myself or wait until I am exhausted and burnt out to break down and buy self-care products. I changed the metric in my relationship to self-care to see that I am allowed to buy on days even when I am not so productive because simply surviving through the day is an achievement of its own. Buying products helps remind and affirm to me that I am human and navigating life is hard, and I have no guilt for that.

The Magic Of Riverby

Inside on of the lone reaming used bookstores; what makes them special

You can look up when the first bookstore opened, but you can't look up when the first used book store opened. Google can find a lot, but it can’t find that. A search turns up pages and pages of websites selling used history books. No matter how you word the question there is nothing, no matter what browser, including the library. They are so full of history but somehow at the same time, they lack one. They are a mystery, a place with no collective origin like a Barnes & Noble does. It is as if they have been around forever. And they will be around forever, long after we are gone. Maybe not the stores themselves, but at least the books. All around the world there will always be used books. This is not a story about Riverby books, which is my favorite bookstore.  This is a story about the books in Riverby books.

Riverby is a bookstore in downtown Fredericksburg. On the outside, it looks like the rest of the stores in downtown. It could just as easily be a boutique instead of a bookstore. As the surround stores flip their signs from open to closed and the doors slowly creak shut, locking them with a flip of the finger, a golden flag wisps in the breeze reading “open late.”  

Still outside, there is a lone cart full of discarded books. I place my hand on it’s splintering red wood, then rub the spines of the books laying out on the tattered shelf that sit lonesome on the sidewalk. Despite not being in the store yet I feel transported.

When I step onto the old checkered floor, I feel like I just entered somewhere special. Historic. Not historic because of the building, but because of what is in the building. The books. They make the everything seem new, even though they are used. When I walk into the creaky old store, I don’t immediately notice the young woman sitting at the counter fumbling around on the computer or even the indescribable smell of used books. I see the books, wall to wall. Stacked on the floor, covering the stairs. Laying on red and yellow shelfs, some appearing to defy gravity.

My eyes can't help but widen because I want to see every book, read every book. When I walk into a used bookstore it is like time slows down. I slow down. My pace becomes sluggish and my feet drag along behind me. I will wander around the store for hours because my eyes have taken over. Because my eyes want to see every rip, every fold, every coffee stain, every little note, everything. My eyes are curious for not only the stories in the books but the stories of who owned the books. And I like to believe everyone else is too, but I may be wrong. Either way Riverby Bookstore is special to the people of Fredericksburg.

I love used bookstore because they are like an escape. Any time my life isn't going my way I can always find an oasis in a book. It’s comforting to know that maybe out there in the vast maze of books someone read a book to escape too. Used bookstores make me feel less alone.

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My favorite part of a used book store is the stories within a story. On the second floor of Riverby sitting on a red, almost orange shelf is a tattered copy of Gone With the Wind. The inside pages are stained with mildew. As if it’s previous reader was so focused on the way the words are woven together they forgot they were walking in a downpour of rain. Later when the pages dried up sprinkles of watermarks stained the pages and grew darker and darker as the pages yellowed and the reader grew and forgot about the day they walked out in the rain.

Then there is the book I never heard of Quo Vadis, a book without a jacket sleeve to tell me what it is about. When I pick it up the green, nearly brown fabric of the book is sticky and as a germaphobe I almost dropped it, unsure of what I was touching. But then I open the first page and see a note: “To my dear Aunties with best wishes for a happy Christmas.” It was written in cursive and is so elegantly written that I could not untangle the intricacies of the letters to form a name. At some point in time. Possibly ten years ago, 50 years ago, or even more, Quo Vadis was a gift. And I was holding it, holding the a thoughtful gift from a young women to her aunts. A gift that somehow made its way here. Abandoned.

Every book in a used bookstore used to belong to someone else. Several of my own childhood books lay on a dusting shelf in a used bookstore, waiting to be taken away to a new home. There was Cat in the Hat, one of my all time favorites when I was younger and Mother Goose. A few may already have found one, possibly all, possibly none. Books are like the worn little toys at an antique shop. Once upon a time ago they were a child’s toy, their favorite toy, the one they slept with well into their older years or the toy that was always left behind in favor of the favorite toy. Used books have stories. That is what makes them magical or at least give me the sense of magic.

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As much as I like to think of used bookstores as magic and immortal, I know that is not the case.

Books on on the decline. Between kendals, Ipads, and tv, people don't have much of a reason to read anymore. It's time consuming and if they do read its normally on a device instead of a hardback book. No one wants to deal with paper anymore. According to the website “Stuff Nobody Cares About” at one point there used to be thousands of used bookstores, now there is only around a thousand. Bookstores are victims of of technology.

The reason Riverby books has that oh so beautiful cart outside of the store that I adore and makes me feel nostalgic everytime is see it is actually there to draw in customers because like many used bookstores they are probably not doing all that great. According to the Washington Post article, ‘Chaotic glory’: Why four millennials bought a used bookstore on Capitol Hill,” those are the cheapo book for two or three dollars used to bait people in. Bookstores are not easy to maintain. While I might view a used bookstore as something close to a winter wonderland. To the owners it might feel like a nightmare a times to keep afloat. Not to mention there are books everywhere and the majority of them are not going anywhere.

“The logistical nightmare of transporting books to Capitol Hill. Cleaning them. Pricing them. Selling enough to fund purchases at more estate sales,” states the Washington Post.

The regulars at the bookstore thinks of the store like it's Narnia. I can definitely agree with that. When I walk in Riverby, it’s like I’m walking in to that never ending closet that transports me to another land. Though if I’m going to compare a bookstore to a child's book, I think the better analogy would be its like going down the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland because I have spent quite some time sinking deeper and deeper in to the bookstore and I’m sure the owners can relate. Used bookstores do not make anyone rich for a reason.

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I could hear a soft voice welcome me into the store. Hidden behind the counter was a blond bobbing head smiling at me. When I was younger I always wanted to work at a bookstore. I wanted to be surrounded by the comfort of other people’s words. I never fulfilled my child-like dreams to work part time at a bookstore, but I knew anyone who works at a bookstore had the same dream as me, only theirs was fulfilled.

“I actually went to Riverby as a kid and I kind of always wanted to work here,” said Savannah Tweadale, who American Studies major at the University of Mary Washington. Tweadale began working at Riverby Books three months ago after her third of fourth time applying because her desire to work at a used bookstore drove her to continue trying.

Tweadale like many other native born Fredericksburg citizens grew up with Riverby just around the corner. Riverby does have a story according to Tweadale. The store originally opened in Washington DC, which still stands today. There is an ongoing phenonium that bookstores and used bookstore are closing. Most likely due to the rise in technology; however, Riverby, twenty three years strong remains afloat. A haven to college students and children and every person who has a love for books. I hope it will always remain open, but that may just be wishful thinking. Books, real books are a dying breed. Despite that, I strongly believe even after Riverby Books someday closes and its shelves are town down and the upstairs wood floors collapses onto the worn-out, teal painted stairs, I believe the books will remain. Maybe not there but somewhere, maybe in  someone else’s house.

My favorite thing about a used bookstore, not just Riverby Book is it is a store of abandoned stories. Books that once belonged to someone who loved to read and will someday belong to someone else who loves to read. Used bookstores are the beginning and end of a books life.

Return to Print

A week without the news as a news obsessed girl

I am that girl who constantly has her head buried in her phone, not because I am busy updating  social media, but because I’m addicted to the news. My best friends are the New York Times, Washington Post, CNN, Politico and several other prominent news outlets. I am obsessed.

I want to know all the facts and then I facts-check those facts. I read multiple articles from several different outlets on the same topic. While I’ve always liked journalism, I can definitely trace my obsession to after Trump was elected. Every moment of his presidency has felt like such chaos that I am petrified at any moment the world is going to implode. During the “rocket man” incident I was convinced that World War III was seconds. My obsession has gotten me into trouble. Sometimes, I bump into things. In fact, my cracked phone screen, which I still use to read, is one example.

Honestly, it’s started to feel a bit unhealthy. The constant dopamine fix is no doubt adding to my overall anxiety, which already tends toward the high side. I wondered if it might be a better idea to go back to print, when the constant barrage of new information wasn’t a thing. When I picture people reading the newspaper I envision an old married couple sitting quietly at the breakfast table sipping coffee and flipping through the pages while retro music plays in the background. I just can’t see anyone under the age of 60 reading a newspaper.. but I thought, maybe that was the problem. Maybe it would make me happier, and saner. So I decided for a week--Monday through Friday--no more mindlessly reading countless articles on my phone; instead I would read the newspaper. So I decided for a week--Monday through Friday--no more mindlessly reading countless articles on my phone; instead I would read the newspaper.

Day 1

Off to a Rough Start: In my groggy morning brain state, I forgot all about my experiment and unplugged my phone from my charger to read the first article that interested. I didn't remember until the third paragraph that this was a no-no. The habit had just become so ingrained in my everyday life. I needed my news fix.

After getting ready and heading out, I really want to read the news, but couldn’t. The library only had old newspapers, the campus coffee shop did not have a newspaper and neither did the bookstore. This made no sense to me. I was forced to wait until the end of the day when I had time to go off campus to buy a newspaper at Starbucks. Not to be a stereotype, but I am a broke college student and I was not thrilled about having to pay for a service that would otherwise be free. Quite frankly I just wanted to stomp my feet like a two year old. There were multiple issues I was following, the most important of which was the upcoming Kavanaugh senate hearing.

When I finally got to read the New York Times, it was nothing new because my friends had already been talking about it all day. It was incredibly frustrating because the news is what I do, without it I felt like I had no personality. Not to mention, I couldn’t even figure out how to read the paper. It was practically an entire tree and most of it was ads. There were too many words on one page, my eyes didn’t know where to focus. I ended up only reading three article.

I wanted to read more, but I have a visual tracking problem. When I read on my phone my eyes are not overwhelmed. I can make the words bigger if I need too, but I can't do that with a newspaper. The words were too tinny and too condensed, my eyes just natural skipped lines. It made it impossible to follow because I was reading two different articles at once. I just had to give up. Either that or buy reading glasses.

Day 2

No newspaper for me. Life got in the way. Newspapers are great if they get delivered to your door, not if you have to drive ten, fifteen minutes to go get one. I wished there was a way to get an advanced copy of the newspaper, but that's obviously not possible. There wasn’t even a way to access breaking news throughout the day, which was annoying.

The entire day I was stressed because I kept wonder what was happening with the Kavanaugh trial, but I didn't want to cheat and have a friend tell me. By time my day was over and I finally had the opportunity to drive out to Starbucks to get a Newspaper I ran into some unfortunate car problems. I was just done and went to bed uninformed. Day over.

Day Three

It was becoming clear that I do not have the self control to do this self experiment. No matter what I did my morning brain wanted to read the news. I even went as far as putting a sticky note on my phone one night, so I could remember not to read the news. In big words it said: “Do not read the news!” but did that stop me? Of course not! My parents always said I do somersaults in my sleep and they must be right because in the morning the sticky note was gone and so were my prospects of starting the experiment properly that day.

After not getting any news the day before, I was really craving a fix, but I didn't want to spend money on a Newspaper. I was about to drop a ton of money on car repair, an extra two dollars can really go a long way. So I decided I was going to be that that creeper at Starbucks who pretended  to be standing in line but was secretly peering over to the newsstand reading the front page of the major newspapers for free. It felt like stealing, but I told myself it was fine because I already pay for an online subscription, I could not tell myself that when I skimmed the Washington Post.

It was a perfect plan, but the lady at the register knew what I was up too and kept pestering me. I was too worried about getting in trouble so all I read was the front page, but I was too panicked to actually remember what it was about. I might as well not have read the paper that day at all. It would have saved me some gas.

Day Four

In the morning, I had to write the same message I put on the sticky note on my arm as a constant reminder. I am missed everything!

Once again life got in the way; however, this time it happened during the Kavanaugh trial, which I had been anticipating for weeks. And I missed it. I could have gone onto my phone and clicked on the beautiful little link that would have taken me to live video of the trial. Instead, I had to get all the details from my friends because my computer charger broke and I had to drop $50 to get a new one. So, I decided to put my debit card in a time out and read the free school newspaper. Lucky, it was a Thursday, so a new edition was out.

Unlucky, there was only one article about Kavanaugh and it was an opinion piece, which was not what I wanted. What I wanted was an advanced copy of tomorrow's news! I was beginning to feel like pent up animal. Pacing back and forth, back and forth, waiting for the news to come out and getting...wait for it...nothing!

Day Five

I had to spend my last dollar and all my quarters on the Washington Post because I could not afford the Times. This week was a disaster, I was reading the news, but I wasn’t getting any new information because once again everyone was talking about Kavanaugh and there was no way for me to avoid the topic. Despite the newspaper being current, it was old news. Friday, I waited in anticipation for the clock to turn midnight and the second Friday faded into Saturday, I was back on my phone.

Day 6

Strangely, this was the first morning I remembered not to look at my phone. It was only because I had to wake up early to finish an assignment. So instead of reaching for my phone, I reached for my laptop.

I was hoping to find a hidden beauty in the world, instead all I was left with was crumpled up pieces of paper. I can understand the nostalgia of newspapers, but they are not practical when the news is constantly updated on a phone. The only time I don't get the news for free is when I read more than five stories from the New York Times on my computer, but even then a month’s subscription is cheaper than a week's worth of print news paper.

However, my return to print wasn’t completely unsuccessful. Without endlessly reading the news on my phone, I needed to find a new way to fill my time and I found myself reaching for my favorite book The Night Circus and remembering why I love to read. So I did find a hidden beauty. Reading my book was calming unlike reading the newspaper. Since the end of my experiment I’ve actually switched gears a bit. I still read the news every day, but not on the same obsessive level. I’ve also since discovered that my clumsiness is not the result of  staring at a screen all day. I can be destructive all on my own, but at least now I don't have a constant sense of impending doom.

Ms. Who?

The Doctor’s unusual journey to becoming a woman and discovering what it means to no longer be a man.

Doctor Who is a popular British show about a man and his box. And by man I mean Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey. Time Lords have two hearts, the ability to know everything that happens and will happen through all of time and space. But most of all Time Lords can regenerate. When the Doctor dies he is filled with glowing gold regeneration energy and his consciousness is transferred into a new body.

And by box I mean Time And Relative Dimension in Space or TARDIS. In other words, a time traveling spaceship. On the outside the Doctor’s TARDIS may look like an ordinary Police box, but despite appearances it is much bigger in the inside and has the capacity to take him and all of his companions across the universe.

Since 1963, the Doctor has used his TARDIS to travel through time and space. With the help of his companions, together they fight creatures like Daleks, Cybermen, Weeping Angels, and even a crack in time. The Doctor has fought in thousands of battles and saved many lives, but for every life he has saved, the Doctor has also lost a companion close to him. He lost his lover Rose to a parallel universe, his wife River the first time he meet her. His best friends and in-laws, Amy and Rory to the Weeping Angels; ancient creatures disguised as angel statues that feed off of time energy and kill their prey by sending them back in time. The only way to defeat them is by never looking away, they can’t move when they are seen. But blink and you're dead.

There were others the Doctor lost, and at one point he thought he was the only Time Lord left in all of the universe and in a way he was right. The Doctor was the last Time Lord in the universe, but his people weren't dead like he thought. They were just trapped in a different universe.

The Doctor’s companions are not invincible and neither is he, though he can bring himself back from the cusp of death. But every time he regenerates, he would often change into wildly different characters. For twelve regenerations the Doctor always remained a man, but for the first time in Doctor Who history the Doctor regenerated into a woman.

The Twelfth Doctor regenerated into the Thirteenth Doctor during the Christmas special in 2017; however, Doctor Who fans had to wait until October of 2018 to get to meet the new Doctor and her companions. This time, the Doctor has three new companions. Yas is a Pakistani woman, Ryan is a black male, and Graham is a white heterosexual male; however,  he is Ryan’s step-grandfather and is much older than the Doctor’s unusual choice of companion considering the Doctor does a lot of running. It’s an incredibly diverse group, a stark contrast to the mostly white coterie of the past.

Doctor Who has taken on the challenge of addressing issues of social injustices, like many popular television shows today. Take the network the CW, they have made recent strives to be more inclusive of all people regardless of gender identity, sexual orientation and race. But unlike shows on the CW, Doctor Who has the unique opportunity to explore what it means to be the same person but of a different gender. It is even possible that one day they may explore what it means to be the same person but of a different race.

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Since the start of the season, the Doctor has faced new challenges since becoming a woman that she would have otherwise not dealt with if she were still a man. For example, on several occasions the Doctor’s authority has been challenged because of her gender. During the ninth episode of the season which aired on November 18, the Doctor’s own psychic paper lowed her status. Psychic paper is how the Doctor always manages to get into places and talk to people she would not have been able to talk to otherwise. It is essentially a fancy fake ID. The drawback of the psychic paper is while it shows people what she needs them to see, the viewers also has some power over the paper. They cannot see what they do not believe. When the Doctor used the paper on a woman she was portrayed as an authority figure; however, when she used it on a man, she suddenly became an assistant. And an assistant to a man.

This was not the first time the Doctor had faced challenges with the psychic paper because of her appearance. When the Doctor was Eleven the paper only showed wavy lines when he told a young boy that he was a responsible adult. But that was because the Doctor was trotting around, smiling like a bumbling goofball, not because the Doctor was a woman and the concept of a woman being in charge over a man is impossible to fathom.

The Doctor was once seen as a strong white heterosexual man who could swoop in and save the day without question. But now that the Doctor is a five foot, six inches, thirty-some-year-old, blue eye, blond haired, possibly LGBTQ+, independent woman. Now she is questioned at every turn. In the ninth episode, the king expected her to stand there and look pretty while waiting on the men. It wasn’t until she save the day that he respected her authority, but even then it was clear he was sceptical of her role.

As a woman myself I can relate to the Doctor’s frustration. The Doctor’s apparent inability to be taken seriously is an issue that women face on a daily. Men in power will always make woman feel small, but after diligently watching this season of Doctor Who with more excitement than I’ve ever experienced, I know the Doctor will never let a man belittle her.  The Doctor is a fighter and she will inspire so many people to stand up to injustice and fight right along with her.

However, while the majority of the Doctor Who fans are overjoyed at the prospect of a female Doctor, some feel that the trend towards political correctness is snuffing all of the fun out of Doctor Who.

“Doctor Who’s team of sidekicks, for example, appears to have been put together by a Committee for Diversity,” writes “The Spectator,” in the article “The new Doctor Who Jodie Whittaker is a delight – but the script isn't. ”

But it is possible the author's animosity against the script is because of the growing pains associated with getting a new writer. Not only did Doctor Who get a new Doctor, Steven Moffat, the main contributing writer left the show. However, the script is not the only criticism “The Spectator” has about the new season of Doctor Who.

“Inclusion and Bolt-On-Issue-Driven-Characteristics headed by Polly Toynbee: strapping black Ryan (Tosin Cole) has dyspraxia; his cowardly step-grandfather Graham (Bradley Walsh) is recovering from cancer; I’m not sure yet what Yaz’s (Mandip Gill) affliction is, but presumably it will be something incredibly relevant like gender dysphoria or advanced #MeToo syndrome,” the article continues.

However, “The Spectator” is known for being conservative and right-leaning. Since the start of the season the Doctor has been largely supported by the Doctor Who community. According to the article, “Doctor Who: Jodie Whittaker A Hit With Fans After First Episode” written by BBC News, approximately 8.2 million people viewed the series premiere.

“Whittaker's first episode as the Doctor drew the programme's biggest series launch viewing figures in 10 years,” writes BBC News.

Members of the Doctor Who fan base claim Jodie Whittaker is the embodiment of the Doctor; however, there has been some slight backlash due to the Doctor’s gender change. After the first episode of the current season aired a Doctor Who Barbie was released. Many people were outraged because they through that the Barbie’s hair was too shiny and they did not like how the Doctor wore heels when in the show she wears boots. Not to mention the Barbie retails at $50, but what the fans failed to acknowledge is the creation of the first Doctor Who Barbie will allow young girls to have a positive female role model that not only saves entire planets, but also proves that women are more than capable of doing anything a man does.

The show has yet to reveal the Doctor’s sexual identity. When the Doctor regenerates the Doctor experiences slight personality changes and appearance change, but at the end of the day the Doctor is still the Doctor. Each Doctor still has the desire to help people, be compassionate to other, and is anti-violence. And the Doctor still loves their family, companions, and love interests. The fact that the Doctor is a woman does not mean that she stops loving Rose and River or that suddenly she is attracted to male instead of females.

In every regeneration of the Doctor, the Doctor has small personality changes. Doctor’s Nine through Eleven each had their own catch phrases: “Fantastic,” “Allons-y,” “Geronimo!” Each of the Doctor’s catchphrases mimicked their personalities. The Eleventh Doctor is known for his borderline childish behavior, after all Matt Smith who plays Eleven is the youngest actor to be cast to play the Doctor. Within the Doctor Who community there was an ongoing joke that he would be would be the first Doctor to travel with his parents. Which he actually did, or at least he traveled with his parents-in-law. In fact, during his travels with his in-laws Amy pregnant with the Doctor’s wife River while they were traveling in the TARDIS. The Doctor’s goofy nature is also reflected in his outfit. Eleven dresses in a quirky tweed suit with a bow tie because “bow ties are cool” and on occasion he also likes to wear fesses.

When Eleven regenerated  into Twelve the Doctor had a bit of an identity crisis because of his newly peppered gray hair. The Doctor goes from looking like he is in his mid-thirties to mid-sixties. Twelve liked to act like he was younger that he actually was in a hip grandfather kind of way. He turned his sonic screwdriver into cool sunglasses that he worn all the time including inside and ran around playing the electric guitar.

When Twelve came to the end of his run fighting against unbeatable cybermen and regenerated into Thirteen it was clear that the new Doctor is the Doctor in every way. Between her quirky obsession with pockets to the Doctor’s continuing desire to help other people, Whittaker embodies the Doctor in every way. While it is still not possible to define the new Doctor’s personality like the other Doctors, what is possible to say is: Doctor Who is about a mad woman and her box.

Even the show has yet to address the Doctor’s sexuality, at the end of each regeneration episode the Doctor changes out of the previous Doctor’s clothes and into an outfit that suit their new personality. The thirteenth Doctor’s outfit has a rainbow on her shirt, which could be an indicator that she is LGBTQ+ because it is the symbol of the LGBTQ+ community. If the Doctor is revealed to not be LGBTQ+ then the producers would have backtracked all of the progress they have made and possibly even face consequences from the viewers for making the Doctor heteronormative.

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Whenever the Doctor regenerates, they are the same person, but at the same time very different. No matter how many times the Doctor regenerates, the Doctor is always against guns and the Doctor always pushes the TARDIS door open even though there is a sign on the door that says pull. Somethings about the Doctor never changes, but why is it one regeneration of the Doctor goes around wearing bow-ties and loving on everyone while the following Doctor refuses to give people hugs? The only reasonable explanation for the slight changes in the Doctor's behavior is it has to do with the body change because the Doctor’s mind stays the same.

The various personalities that the Doctor goes through brings up the age old question of Nature v. Nurture. The article “Natural Characteristics That Influence Environment: How Physical Appearance Affects Personality” found that the way someone looks actually does not have an affect on their personality; however, an individual’s appearance has an effect on the environment they are in and the environment is what affects their personality.

According to the article, kids begin to notice how people react to them around the age of ten.While the Doctor is not ten and is actually over 1,000 years old, after each regeneration the Doctor is treated differently and often times has to explain to their companions that they are the same person. Despite that the treatment of the Doctor still shifts and as time goes on so does the Doctor’s personality. In the first season after the Doctor regenerates, it is sometimes hard to put a finger on the Doctor’s personality. It is like the old Doctor is still lingering while the new Doctor tries to figure more about themself.

“Naturally, people react with certain biases to people who look one way or another,” States “Natural Characteristics That Influence Environment: How Physical Appearance Affect Personality.” “Good-looking children are treated as social superiors, because in society, stereotype dictates that popular people are good looking.”

Treatment is key to how an individual behaves and eventually dresses. The longer a person is in a certain environment the more likely they are to change how they dress according to how the environment influences them. At the end of every regeneration episode the Doctor does a dramatic changing scene. Its is possible the reason that the clothing change happens at the end of the episode is because the environmental factors caused by the Doctor’s body change has begun the process of influencing the Doctor and her behaviors.

When the Doctor comes out of the dressing room she is wearing a long trench coat with pockets because within the course of the episode the Doctor has developed an obsession with pockets after the ones in her old coat was destroyed. The Doctor pairs the coat with long hippy-like pants, brown combat boots and a rainbow shirt. The scene is supposed to indicate that the Doctor has rediscovered herself and she needs what she wears to reflect her change and her environment.

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I consider myself a feminist and social justice advocate. So when it was announced that there was going to a female Doctor, not only did the Doctor Who nerd in me scream out, or more accurately, squeel, so did the feminist in me.

In recent years, I realized that I didn’t have many strong female role models. I was a Disney Princess girl because that was what young girls were taught to watch. I went through a brief Power Rangers phase, but my friends did not harbor the same enthusiasm I did, so I slowly stopped watching it. I was back to Hannah Montana and Cinderella.

The only real female role model I had was Hermione from Harry Potter, which later turned into J.K Rowling once I realized she was the mastermind. But besides the Harry Potter series I was largely influenced by Disney movies. I was taught to search for my Prince so he can come and rescue me because my happiness depends on finding a Prince in shining armor. My role models taught me that if I wait around long enough someone else will take care of my problems and not to stand up for myself. I was taught to run away when things got tough, eat food from strangers, not fight back when a man I do not know kisses me in my sleep. My role models twisted the issue of consent into a fairy tale and made me feel like I would someday have to be a good little housewife instead of pursuing my dreams.

The fact that there is a female Doctor is absolutely groundbreaking for me because I adored the Doctor before, but now I can look up to her. Try to be her. I can replace all of my all of my cookie cutter Princess role models from my childhood with one who helps people because it is the right thing to do and so can other young women.

The Doctor is my new feminist icon.

The fact that there is a female Doctor makes me feel like I am represented. The Doctor can change into anyone, be any gender, any race. It's about time BBC mixes it up because white heterosexual males are not the only people out in the world.

While Doctor Who has yet to have a Doctor of a different race, having the first female Doctor is a step in the right direction. And so is the current casting to companions. The theme of the current season of Doctor Who may be trying to end planetary genocide but the show is also working towards informing the public of social justice issues and is working towards equal representation and intersectionality even if the Doctor is still white. Hopefully the next one won’t be and others can feel represented as well.

Regardless, the intersectionality of the season is nothing like it was before. Doctor Who highlights Yas’ struggles as a woman of color in the police force and the challenges that are presented in her line of work. The show also addresses racism in the Rosa Parks episode. The episode deals with significant issues discrimination because of race and as well as xenophobia.

In the third episode the season, the Doctor takes Graham, Ryan, and Yas back in time to a few days before the Montgomery Bus Boycott because a terrorist and white supremacists is threatening to change the course of time by making it so that Rosa Parks never refuses to give up her seat for a white passenger. While the Doctor and her companions are back in time Yas and Ryan are discriminated against because of their race. There are several occasions when Yas and Ryan are kicked out of restaurants and motels. Not to mention there is multiple occasions when Yas is mistaken for a Latina women. They are abused and misstreated, but because of their actions that day Rosa Parks not only changed America, she changed the universe.

“Asteroid 284996,” the Doctor whispers, standing quitely stairig out into the galezy in solidarity. “also known as Rosa Parks.”

None of the other Doctor’s companions ever had to deal with the same issues of racism that Yas and Ryan had to face in just one episode. The episode highlights the importance of the Civil Rights movement and how one event can change the course of history. It is even possible that this show could change history and be one of the front runners for inclusion in the movie and television industry. Only time will tell. Thirteen still has several more season to come before the next regeneration, so Who knows what Doctor Who has in store in her little blue box.