Transforming Rage into Care
Rage is a powerful thing. But way too often, when it is unleashed by marginalized folks, organizers, or even students, this rage is weaponized against those communities.
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Rage is a powerful thing. But way too often, when it is unleashed by marginalized folks, organizers, or even students, this rage is weaponized against those communities.
If one tuned into cable TV sometime in the past two decades, they might be familiar with a number of Western music competition shows. American Idol, where individuals compete for the attention of the American public, birthed stars like Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood. Or X Factor, which created groups like Fifth Harmony, One Direction, and Little Mix that dominated much of the 2010s.
For a select few, dreams of college travel conjure images of cold daiquiris on white sand beaches or never–ending cobblestone streets in far away cities. Instead, for most of us, travel is meticulously budgeting Amtrak tickets, sampling unfamiliar dining hall fare, and cuddling up to watch a movie in an unfamiliar twin XL bed.
No matter how shiny high–paying summer internships may look on our resumes or LinkedIn profiles, the reality of many of these jobs is less dazzling. But it isn't just the endless hours of Excel weighing us down. Unpaid internships continue to prevail in America, with over 40% of internships not being paid. This unsettling statistic is only another scheme of corporate America (again) reaffirming its capitalist agenda. This time, exploiting a pool of young workers—many of them college students—who may be stepping into the industry for the first time.
Growing up, summers consisted of going to the playground every evening, reading at my dining room table as my parents grilled barbecue chicken in the backyard, and playing with Legos in my living room while Good Luck Charlie played in the background. But summer has changed. College marks an end to our childhood, and our perceptions of summer shifted with it. Rather than being a season for leisure and family time, summer is now a period where productivity and building our resumes takes ultimate priority—internships, research opportunities, career preparation, academic obligations, financial responsibilities. Gone are the memories of relaxation and play, replaced with professional development and productivity.
What happens in college a cappella doesn’t always stay in college a cappella.
As the sun rises over Penn’s campus, the smell of hot coffee, toasted Sizzli breakfast sandwiches, and fresh Amoroso rolls wafts through the air. It’s not coming from a local West Philly kitchen, and definitely not from campus dining. The source? Wawa.
You don’t tend to hear drivers honking their horns in LA. It’s just another example of the stereotypical laid–back nature of Southern California that my East Coast upbringing hasn’t prepared me for while working here this summer. But I was easily guided to the picket lines by the sounds of supportive beeps flooding downtown Culver City on Friday, July 14, as I headed to the Sony and Culver Studios lots to march with the strikers.
“Peel slowly and see,” reads the tiny text pointing to the tip of a bold yellow and black banana peel. Underneath the sticker, at least on the original copies, is pink, fleshy fruit. This phallic imagery and tongue–in–cheek humor—a signature of Andy Warhol's aesthetic brand—make up an iconic cover artwork that has earned the nickname "the Banana Album," but for those who have spent time justifying their pretentious music taste and idolizing the ’60s art scene of New York City, it's better known as The Velvet Underground & Nico. It’s the kind of album cover that has become ubiquitous with the music world, and one that you recognize without ever having listened to the band.
By many metrics, the Western has been one of the most important genres in cinema history. Tales of the Old West were hot commodities in Golden Age Hollywood. Similar to the superhero movies of today, it wasn’t stars or exciting stories that made these movies popular; it was the genre itself that sold tickets and made people like John Wayne stars. And the idea of a Western proved adaptable, especially with European Spaghetti Westerns, which in turn incorporated elements from Japanese samurai films. The Western even served as a launching pad for other genres, with Stagecoach being the prototype for the Hollywood action movie.
My whole life, Taylor Swift has been an omnipresent refrain in my life. As each new album was released, everyone in my life—be it classmates, family members, or coworkers—would arrange listening parties and obsess for hours about the intricacies of each song, lyric, and supposed easter egg. All that time, I was left out, declining to participate as Swiftie culture conquered nearly everything around me.
Inside a building full of art galleries and artists’ studios in the northern edge of Chinatown is Iffy Books, a small independent bookstore filled with all things “hacking, free culture, gardening, zines.” While they may seem unrelated, this tagline summarizes the many passions of founder and Penn alum, Steve McLaughlin (C ‘08).
The 76th Tony Awards, which took place on Sunday, June 11, went a bit non–traditional this year. Beyond simply taking place for the first time in the United Palace in Washington Heights, the awards ceremony was aired entirely unscripted. Despite the lack of script, the show went smoothly, with historic wins for transgender performers and awards that confirmed that audiences are thirsty for original material.
Nothing can dominate pop culture forever. No matter how good the plot, how passionate the fandom, or how high the box office, eventually, all stories run their course. Westerns were once considered a permanent moneymaker. Then it was musicals. Star Wars was thought to be invulnerable to the public: now over six films and television shows have been sent back to development.
Editor's Note: This article contains spoilers for Season 3 of 'Ted Lasso'
America's obsession with the true crime genre is no secret. The never–ending re–enactments are everywhere, from documentaries to television shows and podcasts. But as the genre reaches peak saturation, the question emerges: are these traumatic true stories really binge–worthy?
With skies darkened by wildfire soot, melting glaciers, and oceans littered with plastic, it’s easy to feel like the world is burning. Nature documentaries are an escape from this reality where it feels like all we do is threaten the outdoors. Last week, Netflix premiered Our Planet II, the sequel to the award–winning nature documentary series, Our Planet. The episodes showcase the stunning imagery associated with the genre, but also acknowledge the threat that humans pose to our environment. Our Planet is one of many nature documentaries on streaming services. Wild Babies, Dancing with the Birds, Life in Color, Chimp Empire, Our Great National Parks, Wonders of the Sea, Magical Andes … the list goes on. So why do streaming services keep churning out nature documentaries, and what does Our Planet II have to say about this growing genre?
In an era of feed scrolling and 60–second videos, no one has any abundance of time to read hundreds of pages in novels such as Victor Hugo’s famous Les Miserables or The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas. But that doesn’t mean that reading is mutually exclusive with our shortened attention spans of the modern age. What if you could read in–depth stories with multifaceted characters and plots in less than 100 pages?
Picture this: It’s 2021, and you’re seventeen years old. Your family is watching Friday Night Lights together as a COVID–19–era bonding activity, with your parents, who love the show, showing it to you and your little brother for the first time. You adore Jesse Plemmons’ nice–nerdy guy Landry and his relationship with not–bad–just–troubled girl Tyra (Adrianne Palicki). He kills a guy who is attempting to assault her. The season abruptly ends while halfway done, and the next one does nothing to resolve this plotline. You are very, very confused. The writing, prior to this, was very good. This … this is bad.
During my childhood, the floor of my family’s Toyota Sienna was always covered in a film of sand and dirt. My parents took every chance they could get to share the outdoors with my sister and me. They were more than happy to load up our minivan with camping gear and placate my sister and me with audiobooks and Cheez–Its during trips to national parks. My mom’s constant refrain was "nature is good for the soul,” and we lived by this mantra. My family battled mosquitoes, hiked around scorching hot battlefields, pored over interpretive signage about the flora and fauna—and I loved it. Many of the formative outdoor experiences I had as a child took place in America’s National Parks. As an adult, I yearn to experience these marvels again, and make new memories.