Dear New York,

You are the best friend I’ve ever had. You are the one I’d call at 3 am when I would just need to hear the comfort of a loved one’s stable breath. Your jutting skyline is the toothy grin that stabilizes my world, giving comfort with every glance out the window. Your sidewalk cracks act as directional arrows around every corner, reminding me I’m going in the right direction. Your honks, hisses, and howls are my jazz sound track scatting along with my footsteps. You are everything I need in a partner in crime and I am tremendously indebted to you. You have been my support system away from home, mirroring my loved ones. I see my father in the massive oaks amongst Central Park. I see my mother in the colorful window displays. I see my sister in the reflecting sunlight on skyline window. I see my oldest friends in the joyful dogs trotting along the sidewalks.

My darling city, I am so honored to have been welcomed into your bounds. In hopes of repaying all that you’ve done for me, I’m going to keep collaborating and contributing. I’m going to keep taking pictures, even if I look like a millennial fool. I am going to keep writing. I am going to keep making art. I know I will never be this fortunate ever again but I am going to commemorate everything within my power to honor your wonder. Not every moment is beautiful and I know I am optimistically naive, but I am so lucky and have no other option but to be hopeful. With my location, with my background, with my opportunities, with everything in my current situation, I am privileged. I am unfathomably fortunate for how you have refreshed, recharged, and rejuvenated me in a way I have never expected. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to repay you for how you have mended and transformed my soul but I am incredibly grateful. My wallet may be verging on empty but my heart has never been this full and I thank you New York.

Love, 

Emma

glitch

Like most people my age, I start my day off by snatching my phone off of my night stand and scouring over every social media platform, quenching my thirst to know what happened in the world when I was asleep. My morning then becomes filled with everyone’s careful online personas of themselves. These curated presences of my friends, old acquaintances, and idols have become my breakfast. And that is a very unhealthy, unbalanced meal because these projections are usually false. They’re usually edited or staged or taken out of context in order to create the exact image the user desires. Additionally, I am a blatant hypocrite as well because I subscribe to this obsession. I contribute by posting and sharing snapshots of my life that appear great in the context of an Instagram feed. And that isn’t necessarily a bad thing, to wisely choose how you want to appear to your followers, but to have a constant stream of manipulated and contrived material polluting your mind can lead to unhealthy ideas. To buy into them as if they’re an accurate representation of that human is toxic. No one is constantly surrounded by a squad of support or looking consistently camera ready. And I willingly allowing myself to be bombarded with these personas which, often times, are lies. It is so easy to forget that these pictures of people online are not a holistic representation. Social media is an art form and an outlet of expression but there are elements that can fuel unhealthy habits. We have to remember that it consists of falsehoods or else we will end up comparing ourselves to fictional entities.

Social media portrays the highlight real of our lives and while I strongly believe it is a valuable outlet, it is a fantastical, unreliable lie.  No one’s life is perfect and to believe that someone’s is off of a few pictures and a tweet is a glitch.

Justice for Eve

All it took was one bite. One little morsel of forbidden fruit and she became the symbol of shame and root of sin for humankind. Destroying their innocent haze, God made Adam and Eve become aware of their nakedness and therefore, ashamed of their own nature. As her punishment, God said onto to her, “Thy desire shall be to thy husband, and he shall rule over thee,” dooming her and the countless generations of woman after her to a lifetime of patriarchal oppression. Meaning all the Eves after her would encounter horrendous discrimination, barbaric cruelty, unoriginal “Get back to the kitchen!” jokes, and so much more.

So needless to say, it has been hard for Eve. Censorship, objectification, discrimination, you name it, she’s dealt with it. Yet, some Eves have had it worse than others. The translucent, pale Eve painted upon the stained glass windows of churches has had it rough, no one is arguing that she hasn’t, but the Eves who don’t share her white, privileged skin have had it worse. While all Eves make 77 cents on Adam’s dollar, African-American Eves make 64 cents on his dollar and Latina Eves make only 54 cents. Of those affected by LGBTQ-based hate crimes, 78% were people of color, and transgender people are 27% more likely to experience hate violence than compared to cisgender people (glaad.org). Not all women experience the same difficulties and in order to make men and women equal, we have to destroy the ‘one size fits all’ feminism that pursues a common good that isn’t inclusive for everyone.

We have to go out of our way to help our sisters who don’t have even footing in this race so they can catch up to those in the privileged lead. We have to be our authentic, beautiful, natural selves and be unapologetically proud of our womanhood. We, as an extension of Eve, as bold women, will not be threatened with subservience or shame anymore. It’s time to exterminate the vilified persona of Eve because with that little bite, she brought forth knowledge and reality. The paradise found in the Garden of Eden was an illusion and the trance needed to be broken because the fictional wonderland was unobtainable. However, we are getting closer to a realistic one. A land of equality for every gender is within our grasp. And we, as the unapologetic Eves that we are, are ravenous and don’t mind taking more bites of fruit in order to obtain the paradise we all deserve.

“The issue with separating race and gender not only undermines claims of intersectional feminism, it also undermines basic feminism. Feminism, by definition, is the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political,social, and economic equality to men. If we think of this exactly how it is written, we neglect the fact feminism should also be grounded in the advocacy of women’s rights on the grounds of political, social and economic equality to other women.”- Morgan McDaniel

“In a non-sexual context, female nipples shouldn’t be sexualized. The desexualization of female nipples is actually a lot more significant than many think; it decreases the objectification of women’s bodies and therefore decreases violence against women in general.”-Chloe Griffith

True Colors

I’ve seen a lot of things in the Barnstable High School girl’s bathroom. I’ve read inscriptions such as, “Life sucks but you gotta live it,” scrawled sloppily on the stalls. I’ve come across a lone chicken patty resting on the ground on one particularly sad day. And every time I head into the bathroom, I will usually find one girl in front of the mirror either putting makeup on, or doing her hair. Maybe she is really loving her look today and wants to touch up her lipstick. Maybe she was running late and didn’t have time to put her hair up into her go-to, messy bun at home. Regardless, they are doing what they like to make themselves feel beautiful.

I love spotting these girls making themselves up.

They are choosing how they want to present themselves and by watching them, I gain a little more insight into who they are as a person. They accept their surroundings and allow anyone who walks into the bathroom, a peek into their carefree routine. This comfort in who they are and how they look became my inspiration for this photoshoot.

To me, someone is the most beautiful is when they truly let loose of all inhibitions. When they showcase their bold, explosive personality without caring how others will react. Their beauty cannot be contained and they are uncontrollably themselves in those moments. When someone is being themselves and enjoying doing it, that is inarguably stunning.

More Than A Pretty Face

When I first watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s, I fell in love. I learned the ukulele with the sole goal of learning Moon River. A poster of Holly Golightly with her extendo cigarette in hand and seductive smirk on her face (look at the corresponding page for reference) hangs on my bedroom wall. The fashion, the apartments, the city, the lifestyle, etc., I was enamored with it all. This classic New York fashion flick is the root of my Audrey Hepburn obsession. Ever since her graceful presence flashed onto my screen with technicolor joy and elegant nonchalance, I became fascinated with all things Audrey.

She is the epitome of iconic. Her cat-eye liner and bold eyebrows caused a global revolution. Her acting and modeling talent will forever live on as legendary standards for young individuals. And in the peak of my Audrey obsession, I dove completely in. And that means more than memorizing her filmography on IMDB; I learned her whole life story. And amidst this research, my definition of her became increasingly more complex and describing her as just an actress seemed so feeble in comparison to her other triumphant accomplishments.

During World War II, she survived a Nazi invasion in her hometown. She worked for the Dutch resistance by carrying secret messages in her ballet slippers. She performed in secret ballet shows to raise money for the rebels. At the age of 16, she was a volunteer nurse in a Dutch hospital. And later on in life, she donated all her salaries earned from her later movies to UNICEF, giving back to the organization that aided her when she needed medical relief after the war. She was a hero. Yet, she is continuously identified as just an actress or reduced down to her contribution to the rise of the LBD (little black dress). She was so much more than just a pretty face on the big screen. She was a hero and these actions need to be recognized in addition to her accomplishments in the world of film and fashion. She was an actress, a model, a nurse, a heroine, a survivor. Audrey Hepburn cannot be pinned down to one category. She is indeed an icon, but in so many different realms and in more ways than one.

Bare It All

I was twelve when I was first cat-called. The summer had just kicked off and I was at the beach wearing my sister’s hand-me-down, blue and white polka dot bikini. I had a towel tied around my waist and was walking to the ice cream truck to get a snow cone with my friend. A van of young men pulled up to us, blared their horn, and one of them threw their head out the window and screamed, “Hey ladies, how much!?” I heard booming guffaws as they peeled out of the parking lot and carried on.

I looked down at my body, confused. The only skin that was showing was my pale, unblossomed chest, because, like I said, I was twelve. My body was far from sexually desirable and I was so confused as to why those men had chosen me and my gangly body. We returned to our beach chairs on the sand, having completely lost our appetites for the refreshing snow cones.

Unfortunately, this was not an isolated innocent. Copious shouts of “Looking good!” have been thrown at me or, from those who are a little more shy, taunting car honks which translate to their salivating approval. And now, living in New York City, it’s almost routine to receive prolonged stares through car windows or exclamations of endorsement thrown at me from sidewalks. Once a man insisted he was only trying to sell me a bottle of water because I looked “so damn hot” and then continued to follow me for two blocks. It, infuriatingly enough, is part of the city experience as a woman and my examples are comparatively mild to what other women have gone through.

And this threat of potential commentary, unfortunately, has seeped into my own self-perceptions.

It’s an everyday battle to be proud of my body and to  be comfortable in whatever I wear, regardless of the opinion of others. But luckily, I have found a great source of ammunition in this tumultuous war: a group of inspiring females who are brazen in their self-expression, constantly surrounding and inspiring me. And for me, Bessie Rubinstein is my greatest weapon.

Sometimes when you meet a certain person, it’s like everything clicks into place. You look at them as a sense of overwhelming familiarity floods through you and start to forget what it was like without their presence in your life. It feels incredibly familiar, as if you are taking the route of an old drive, recognizing the twists and turns along the way. That was my first impression when I met Bessie.

It was hot and sweaty, peak college orientation madness. We bonded over our similar Spotify playlists and swapped our favorite SNL skits, the signs of a great friendship from the start. In addition to her bold humor and bright energy, one of the things that I found so compelling about her was her outfit: a red A-line skirt and black crop top. She was baring her midriff even though her stomach adorned a particularly prominent scar that split her torso in half. She was unapologetically having it peek through, a subtle way of flipping off the typical standards for a crop top.

Her outfit was a challenge. In fact, her whole personality is a brave jest, daring anyone to interfere with her philosophy. Bessie embraces her body and all its history and her outfit on that day was a challenge. In fact, her whole personality is a jest. She lives accordingly to her own objectives and thus dresses that way as well, without concerning herself with other’s perceptions.

Months have gone by since our initial introduction and her fierce nature has continued to inspire me to live and dress solely on my own accord. So, I urge anyone who has let others affect your self-expression to reconsider.  And if someone spits out their unasked for thoughts and has the impudence to believe their ideas matter, remind them that they are irrelevant and the only opinion that matters is your own.

My battle is one of the many in the crusade of self-appreciation for women everywhere. It’s a tiresome effort but something we can never give up because our bodies are beautiful and uniquely our own. If women keep joining forces and the army of inspiring women continues to grow, a triumphant, self-loving victory will be in our collective future.

Knight in Shining Armor

At 2 a.m. on a Saturday, you’re ready to go home, and who could blame you, it’s been a long night. You and your group miraculously make your way to the Broadway-Lafayette station, its emerald sign acting as the Gatsby-esque beacon of hope you need. You and your friends stumble and shuffle down the sticky steps, holding hands and counting the steps out loud as you go.

You pull out your yellow metrocard that was sandwiched between your Sephora gift card and an old receipt for hot chocolate. You look down at your golden ticket and the map of the subway system flashes in the back of your mind. The unyielding power of one swipe quite easily goes to your head: With one swipe of $2.75, you can go almost anywhere on your beloved island and within the thrilling boroughs. “Should we go to Brooklyn? Brooklyn is fun,” you think to yourself. “Wait, what? No, Emma. It’s two in the morning, go home.”

You shake off that idea and instead, toy with the idea of jumping the turnstile. You’re so broke that the thought of shelling out more funds from your dwindling bank account physically hurts. But you remember how the last time you ungracefully attempted to sneak below the silver contraption, it did not go well and now you owe the Transit Adjunct Bureau one hundred dollars. You begrudgingly swipe through and wait along the track with the other dutiful citizens.

All you want to do is sit down and unstrap your glitter heels but the benches are filled with young boys who are up way past their bedtime and singing a song so horrendously off-key it’s almost endearing. And just as your faith wears dangerously thin and your messy bun droops to a new low that crosses the line between purposefully chic to rat’s nest hot mess, your knight in shining armor arrives.

You and all your station comrades usher into the car like dutifully children following mother’s orders. Its tricolored decor and peeling maps give you a sense of ease, reminding you that someone else is in charge now, you can grab onto the pole and just rest.

You can press pause and forget about the buzzing hubbub above ground. It’s hissing lullaby soothes and shushes your worries as it sends you safely uptown. There is a mysterious phenomenon that occurs on any ride over ten minutes and soon enough, a spell settles itself upon you. With each station it passes, the subway cunningly whispers in your ear, “it’s okay, I’ve got you. You can close your eyes.” Surrounded by the energy of drowsy strangers and feeling the rhythmic motion of the car zooming to your destination, your eyelids flutter as a sleepy haze envelops you. You almost let the peace overwhelm you but the rational fear of falling asleep and waking up in Harlem, far from home, keeps you alert.

After what was either fifteen minutes or an hour, (time isn’t quite linear underground), you pull into your station. You exit the metallic tube, make your way up a different set of stairs that are still just as unsettlingly sticky, and inhale the smell of doughnuts, soap, and something else you’d like to pretend to ignore.

As  you  climb out of the station, a swift gust of wind envelops  you, perking you up and fully lifting the trance that settled itself upon you. As you and your friends march home, you reflect on the night and mentally thank your silver savior. The beloved BFF of New York City, always acting as the designated driver whenever, to wherever, without any questions asked. The subway serves its city well. Our valiant hero navigating through the complex underground, safely getting herds of individuals to where they need to go. You are the hero New York City deserves, and the one it will always need. Our not-so-silent guardian, our watchful protector that sticks to a loose schedule. Our Silver Knight. Thank you, subway. Keep serving your civic duty and until next sloppy weekend.

Loud & Clear

I never considered myself a political person. At the dinner table, in history class, on the bus, whenever the passionate conversations started and the opposing aisles became apparent, I held my tongue and daydreamed of a more peaceful topic. It’s not that I didn’t care, I just didn’t know how to eloquently express how I was feeling. Things were complex and as shameful as it is to admit, I never was compelled to find a reason to make sense of it all. But this year was different.

This time, as a newly turned adult, I understood the massive importance of it all and found reasons to get involved. And on November 8th, when I watched the TV with tears in my eyes, I knew something had changed inside me. With purposeful actions, our nation had just elected a man whose main campaign components were threats and hateful rhetoric, deeming these bullying tactics as permissible within our country. The horrific, unimaginable had just happened and it is not normal. And it felt as if our nation was on fire.

Later that night, a group of friends and I joined one of the many protests that our streets were hosting. We fell into a rhythm with the other protestors beside us and soon, we became part of the collective unit chanting into the night. That feeling, of being completely immersed in unadulterated passion will be something I never forget. People of all ages and backgrounds were actually taking initiative and vocalizing their concerns with physical action. They were making history and I was fortunate enough to be apart of it. And for the whole time I was there, everywhere I looked, people were filming and documenting the night. Through the aid of smart phones, digital cameras, and the ease of social media, this night was able to be shared and spread with thousands. It was a night purposefully made to be unforgettable. These pictures from that particular night, the undeniable proof of passion, helped those who could not attend, or those who feigned deaf to the national unrest, become aware of the fervorous noise.

However, in regards to protesting, social media can be a double edged sword. Disingenuous people jump onto movements through easily accessible platforms to perfect their online personas as trendy, which is offensive to the cause. If you want to post that beautiful picture of your body with the politically charged caption, #PussyGrabsBack, do it.

But don’t do it as an excuse to show off your latest matching set from Aerie and to score more likes: do it to furthermore prove that you, and only you,  are in charge of your body and want to contribute to the movement.  If you are going to post it, make sure you mean it, stand behind it, and are willing to defend it.

  When I left those rallies that night on November 8th, my ears were ringing with the chants from the passionate strangers marching beside me. And the photographic evidence created an unignorable echo ringing  throughout  the ears of our entire nation. This is a sound needs to continue to be heard and it doesn’t just have to be from loud herds in the streets. There are countless methods of reminding everyone that what is happening is not acceptable and that it will not be normalized.

Regardless of how you protest or what you do, be loud. Make art. Have discussions. Research and stay informed. Declare your adorations with pride. Stand up for your passions. Love yourself unapologetically and be bold in doing so by sharing it for many to see. We can use social media to our advantage to keep the conversation going. Because we cannot let the noise die out. We must continue to use every tool at our disposable and be as loud as we must be in order to be heard.

Power of Words

August 2nd 2016:

It was two days before my 18th birthday. The wind was whipping sea salt into my hair and my feet were submerged in sand when you told me you couldn’t do another year. Of being together, apart. I stared at the ocean and longed to be a fish so I could dive fathoms below into a world where distance wasn’t something to be scared of. At 11:11 later that night, I wished to be whole again.

September 9th 2016:

You asked me how New York was. I typed out four different responses but deleted all of them and settled on silence. I prefer the conversations in my head where only the ghosts of your old messages reply.

                                                                                                                           November 14th 2015:

“I am crazy in love with you. At a time when I’m thinking about the future and how important it is, I can’t picture mine without you.”

September 25th 2016:

It’s 2:30 am and I can’t stop looking at the pictures from France. Do you think about me? Do you regret what you’ve done to me? Do you even know what you’ve done to me? I wonder what my tarot cards would say about me now.

                                                                                                                               October 10th 2015:

“Maybe I’m young and in love and crazy about you but I think we really have something amazing.”

October 10th 2016:

I went home for a weekend and decided to clean my room but you were everywhere. My box of you is growing into a vicious monster with teeth. I shoved it under my bed but it bit my ankles when I slept. I moved it up to the attic and put it next to the Halloween decorations.

                                                                                                                                        May 5th 2016:

“It was just 11:11 so I made a wish, and I know I can’t tell you because then it won’t come true, but it was about us so I just wanted to mention it.”

November 30th 2016:

I saw the back of your head at my favorite restaurant and the world shifted beneath me. I hyperventilated in my car for 12 minutes afterward. I was mostly upset because I had caught myself in a lie; my internal mantra of “it’s fine, we are friends now” was revealed to be false on all accounts.

                                                                                                                             December 7th 2016:

“I love you to all the universes and back.”

December 3rd 2016:

I miss laughing together and all the comedy specials we’d watch. You’d hug me close and when you’d laugh, it would echo in my ear. When I concentrate, I can still hear it but it doesn’t hurt anymore. It doesn’t hurt so much when I think about you at all.

May 11th 2015:

“I was just wondering what you think about us? I know I’m going away to college in September but I do really like you and I think we should give it a shot (even though I don’t really know what that means), what do you think?”

January 18th 2017:

Our song came on the radio at work today. It made me smile. Thank you for cutting the rope that would’ve strangled me once I jumped into my new life, it was for the best. At 11:11, I wished that you were happy.

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Gender Bender

 

Existing in the sensory overloaded reality we live in, it’s hard to sort through what has meaning and what doesn’t. Constantly being bombarded with how the “Kardashians wore this” or how “the camouflage revival is real and thriving” can cause you to roll your eyes into the back of your head and continue to label the fashion industry as a  trivial element of our society. It’s hard to recognize the significance amongst the meaningless headlines, but if you sort through the “fluff” news, you’ll recognize the monumental importance of what is currently occurring in the fashion world. For years, models strutting down the runway, ad campaigns, street style, and influencers all played their different roles in fashion—their very gendered roles. But times are certainly changing. Gender expression is becoming as fluid as chiffon fabrics down the runway and that movement continues to take shape in endless silhouettes. While there are key pieces that have shaped the more androgynous looks highlighted in high end and streetwear scenes alike, it goes far beyond individual articles of clothing. This movement is more than Caitlin Jenner’s corseted body in the latest magazine spread—this is the combination of fashion and social change and it’s making history. For those who look to their closets and make their selections regardless of binaries and expectations, this is a call to individuality and to blurred boundaries.

Taking pieces out of a man’s wardrobe is not a revolutionary concept—women have been pushing gender boundaries wearing tuxedo-inspired looks to red carpet events for decades. Recently, however, it has infiltrated women’s daily looks and is slowly but surely helping break the gender stigmas found inside the fashion world. Items such as boyfriend jeans, neckties, and even baggy sweaters have been integrated into women’s attire and are sending girls to their father’s closets for pieces. Even looking around Fordham’s campus, looks with tailored trousers and boxier blazers can be spotted on a frequent basis, a nod towards the greater movement brewing in our society. It may not seem to appear as a revolution to have women steering away from typically feminine ensembles, but these small touches have been influenced by much bigger ripples higher up in the fashion world and our society. They represent the decreasing amount of pressure concerning gender and all the expectations that go along with it, a monumental achievement.

High-end couture has embraced the increase in wardrobe fluidity with companies, such as Dolce & Gabbana, featuring ad campaigns of women in suits and with, typically, non feminine styling. Nuances like a less feminine narrative in the Dolce and Gabbana editorial lightly touch on one of the most highly talked about topics of our modern era: gender. While this ad may not seem all that controversial, when compared to the uber feminine ads that highlighted the sweet little girly girls that were plastered on billboards and displayed on glossy magazine pages from the past, we can see just how important this change is. These ads help break the typical stigmas surrounding gender and spread the message that clothing should represent the individual, not their identification or society’s expectations that are attached to these labels.

In addition to women borrowing from the men, vice versa is also becoming a more and more popular commonality. There has been a shift in the physical aesthetic and styling of male models in the industry with models, such as Willy Cartier (if you want to cry, go check out his cheekbones), and Gucci sending their men down the runway in cardigans with pussy bows. And even just scrolling down your Instagram feed, young fashion pioneers like Jaden Smith can be seen donning skirts and dresses on a regular basis, showing that the non-masculine look is not just reserved for couture—it’s street style as well. The fashion world is continuously evolving and the increase in wardrobe flexibility shows just how frivolous all the previously enforced fashion rules are.

While there has been an abundance in crossing gender lines in the fashion world, it is absolutely crucial to recognize that gender nonconformity is more than a trend: it is directly applicable to some individuals identities and lives. It may be appearing more on the runway and on magazine covers, but people, especially LGBTQ+ individuals, have been expressing their identity for years, and often times that meant not identifying as traditionally male or female. Gender nonconformity is not a passing fad; it’s an identity that is often overlooked in our society and while the increase in popularity from the fashion world is helpful in making it more accessible and spreading acceptance, it should never be trivialized to the point of choker necklaces and crushed velvet. From a fashion standpoint, there is a trend aspect to these ideas (boyfriend jeans, blazers, etc.) but the movement as a whole represents a group of people who can not be disregarded, reduced, or capitalized upon.

We are heading towards an age where androgyny is becoming more and more common, helping to shed the rigid confines from yesteryear. We, as a society, are slowly creeping our way towards an open-minded perspective, with milestones such as 17 year-old James Charles becoming the newest face of CoverGirl, to show for our progress. This accepting attitude has also leaked into the fashion world and we now are beginning to see pieces once considered as traditionally gendered, as items worn and embraced by all. People should aim to be as true to themselves as possible and breaking down the confines revolving around gender norms in the fashion world is a commendable achievement. It proves that we, as humans, are finally inching our way to respecting everyone’s desire to express themselves how they please and the importance of gender identification is slowly crumbling.

In theory, clothing is nothing but mere dyed fibers strung together. No matter the style or article, with any piece of clothing, a similarity (a common thread, if you will) can be found that unites them all: they’re all just assembled strips of fabric. Regardless of this commonality, stingy rules have been enforced in society for far too long that constrict countless individuals and, frankly, are useless. Thankfully, we, as a fashionable society, are slowly breaking loose from those shackles and exploring all articles of clothing, regardless of gender or identification. Whether you identify within the gender binary, in between it, or outside of it, clothing can be a useful creative channel through which to express yourself. Explore the boundless options from any wardrobe, wear whatever the hell you want to wear, and embrace everyone’s choice to express themselves accordingly.