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In most queer TV shows, the performance of straightness is merely a phase. A queer character might be in denial about their sexuality or reluctant to share details about their sexuality with others. They hide parts of themselves, presenting themselves in ways they think will be acceptable, and eventually come out—a moment of revelation framed as liberation.
Francisco Goya’s Black Paintings sit in a dim room at the far southern end of the Museo del Prado, across the museum from the stern gaze of his likeness in bronze at the main entrance. After walking through grand halls of romantic historical paintings and light–filled salons of sculpture, entering this small, grey room feels a little like walking through a portal. Suddenly, you’re faced with walls of twisting greys and blacks, the brightest color being the crimson blood spouting from the severed head and wrist of the child in Saturn Devouring His Son.
The first time I read a book cover to cover, I felt like I had been let in on a secret. At five, however, I didn’t yet know that it was a secret not everyone gets to be in on. That not all stories are told, and not everyone gets to see themselves on the page. I grew up in a small town where school libraries did not put stories of queer love on their shelves, where classrooms didn’t discuss things like race, power, or grief. At first, I read to escape. But as I got older, I read as a form of resistance and reclamation. I read to find words for the things I felt and to make sense of the things I didn’t understand. To see worlds I had never been shown. Literature didn’t just entertain me. It built me: one book, one question, and one dog–eared page at a time.
I didn’t grow up around film sets or cameras, but I did grow up with sitcoms and movies. They were the one constant in my life that connected me with everyone around me. Growing up in an Asian household, shows and films filled the emotional gaps that my parents and I didn’t always know how to communicate. We could always talk about the movie we just watched, though. Whether it was a Nickelodeon sitcom or a blockbuster that they’d take me to see in theaters, shared watching experiences became ways of expressing our excitement, humor, and affection.
From a young age, we are taught that rules exist for our own good. Wear a seatbelt. Get vaccinated. Don’t drink and drive. The idea that safety requires legislative intervention, even coercion, is propagated to the public as “tough love.” But where is the line between protection and control? A recently proposed Philadelphia bill tests the law’s bioethical bounds, allowing courts to involuntarily commit individuals suffering from substance abuse. Advocates argue it’s a necessary regulation in a city increasingly overwhelmed by overdoses, while critics contest it’s a blatant violation of medical autonomy disguised as care.
There’s a scene from The Summer I Turned Pretty’s recent Entertainment Weekly shoot that stays with me, from the beach where the cast reunites just days after wrapping up the final season. Lola Tung, Gavin Casalegno, and Christopher Briney all stand in the sun doing the same thing they’ve done for years: pretending not to be pretending. Tung laughs. Casalegno stares. Briney, off to the side, skips rocks. He waves. They wave back. It’s not scripted, but it might as well be.
Walking through Delhi’s bustling Sarojini Nagar Market, I found myself swept into a stream of unremitting sound, heat, and motion. The morning air was heavy with a torrid warmth, tinged with the sweet smell of frying chaats. Yellow and green tuk–tuks darted alongside the road while vendors called out their wares: vibrant bangles, lehenga cholis, glittering rows of pendants.
There’s nothing like almost getting hit by a car to drag you out of a Monday morning stupor. You slip recklessly through an amber light. A car comes out of nowhere as it makes a sharp right turn, unfortunately crossing your bike lane in the process. You swerve and raise an acknowledging hand as the driver lays on the horn, but you can’t help but think, “What do you want me to do about it now?”
I didn’t think I could still feel anything watching a superhero movie. Not in 2025 after capeslop became a term. Not after watching two decades of men with god complexes punch each other across cities while monologuing about loss, legacy, and their inability to cry.
When Christian Dior introduced the New Look in 1947, France was still rationing sugar. When Chanel sent out an all– white blossom couture set in 2009, the financial world was mid–meltdown. And when Schiaparelli put a $19,000 lion head on Kylie Jenner during an inflation panic, no one at the atelier flinched. They weren’t responding to interest rates—they’re responding to legacy, archival bravado, and the kind of zero–friction economic ecosystem Coase could only dream of.
In the now–dusty relic of 2010s pop–R&B, “Boyfriend,” Justin Bieber whispered threats of “swag, swag, swag on you,” hauling the term from the fame of 2000s rap stars to a new audience of white kids all over the nation. Not surprising, if you knew his affinity for Lil B, the West Coast rapper most associated with “swag” at the time. Thirteen years later, Bieber’s back on the same wave with his seventh album, SWAG, and the jury’s out: does it really live up to its title?
Season seven of Love Island USA came and went with the wind, which means summer is also nearing its end—and no, I’m not ready for it. This season, much like all of the others, was a roller coaster: chaotic, dramatic—and as always, quite entertaining. Others may use their screen time to consume media with deep meaning and real sociopolitical perspective, but if you’re anything like me, TV time is best served sun–drenched and overproduced; an escape from real life and into a multimillion–dollar Fijian villa.
In just a few short years, Chloe Gong (C ‘21) has built a literary empire. Since making her debut with the historical fantasy novel These Violent Delights during her time at Penn, she’s become a No. 1 New York Times bestselling author known for her Secret Shanghai series and the adult fantasy Flesh and False Gods trilogy. Now, she’s returning to her young adult roots with something completely different: Coldwire, the first book in a dystopian cyberpunk trilogy set to release this November.
It has been just over two weeks since Tyler, the Creator dropped his ninth studio album DON’T TAP THE GLASS, and the surprise album is running the charts. This marks his fourth consecutive No. 1 release on the Billboard 200 albums chart.
This year, I was lucky (and blistered) enough to be at Cannes Film Festival—hobbling down the Croisette in my mother’s vintage Manolos, which I wore so religiously I started bandaging in the shape of them. Every morning began with my beloved roommate’s sacred rites: “What are you wearing?” followed closely by “Does this purse look stupid?”
In between my two weeks of summer research in Palermo, Italy, a myriad of people and experiences entered my life. From Hinge dates to aimless wandering, I found myself experiencing a sort of urban Panismo—a concept born from the mind of Italian poet and political leader Gabriele D’Annunzio to explain a mystical fusion between humans and their environment. This fusion occurs during most of my travels, the experiences I collect leaving an imprint on my mind and body. I hope I’ve left my own in Palermo.
Seeing Ocean Vuong at the Philadelphia stop of his latest book tour feels, in a kind of communal, spiritual affect, like going to church. Ironically, Vuong actually does give his talk in the First Unitarian Church of Philadelphia, speaking to pews of enraptured readers from beneath an enormous stained–glass window. For those who have hailed Vuong as one of this generation’s biggest literary superstars, the poet–turned–novelist’s words might not be scripture, but they land somewhere close.
I’m one of the first to arrive. The room is stuffy but bearable. I set my bag and skateboard down and get ready to learn something new. Homages–in–painting, rudimentary audio equipment, and loose pieces of furniture fill the room. Two dancers across the room are stretching to warm up. As more people stream in, the energy lifts. Practice eventually starts, and from the get go, I realize I will not be able to keep up. So I watch.
Casual conversation fills the air in an audience of thousands. Excitement grows, anticipation roots among showgoers as curated playlists and light cues subtly tease toward the performance. Suddenly, the pop rock rhythm and guitar riffs from “Obsessed” break through, accompanied by the sounds of screams. From the relatable, angsty teenage lyricism of “Good 4 U” and “Brutal” to the heartbreaking ballads that are “Lacy” and “Enough For You,” it is evident to anyone who has seen Olivia Rodrigo perform (whether that be in person or online) the amount of sheer talent and passion she has for her craft. At just 22, the artist has reached extraordinary milestones: winning three Grammy Awards, selling out venues for her albums SOUR and GUTS, releasing a documentary with Disney+, writing a song for the major movie franchise The Hunger Games, and visiting the White House. Despite all her success, Rodrigo never fails to honor the musical giants who shaped her sound, spotlighting icons like David Byrne and Ed Sheeran for fans both new and old.
After another grueling 24 hours in the villa, Love Island USA season seven has hit its home stretch. In just nine episodes, 10 islanders are sent home, couples are broken up, and some are brought together, and one lucky pair wins a whopping $100,000 prize, along with the coveted title of America’s favorite couple.
Solutions by The State News