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The advent of a new year in the turbulent aftermath of the last comes, at least, with a dose of certainty: Street's annual transition of power is again complete. Beatrice Forman (C ’22) will take command as editor–in–chief, overseeing the operations of the magazine and managing an executive board of three other senior editors. Campus editor Chelsey Zhu (C ’22) will supervise Street’s Features, Word on the Street, Ego, and Style sections, culture editor Mehek Boparai (C ’22) will direct Street’s Focus, Music, Arts, Film & TV, and special issues content, and assignments editor Karin Hananel (C ’22) will mentor and train the magazine’s team of staff writers.
Dear Bea, Chelsey, Mehek, and Karin:
“I remember walking home from the Hill,” Olivia Troye (C’99) says. “I remember walking home past the Pentagon while it was still on fire.”
Content warning: The following text describes domestic violence and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the bottom of the article.
Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed away on Friday, following complications of pancreatic cancer. My mother called me to tell me. I don’t remember what she said, because she opened with, first, Justice Ginsburg’s name, and then my brain turned to static, and I don’t remember the rest of the phone call. It was short.
When Jacob Hershman (C’20) was fourteen, he was pretty sure that the world was going to end on December 21st, 2012.
Today would have been Hey Day if we were all on campus, which means, primarily, two things: classes have ended, and the juniors are now (kind of) seniors. The tradition is meant to mark our “moving up” to the senior class, but with finals and an uncertain fall term ahead, it’s hard to feel like something significant has changed.
Today is my birthday, and I am twenty–one years old. But this is a letter from the editor, not about the editor (questionable statement given some of my prior ones), but I thought I’d let you all know anyway.
I’ve been re–watching Daria since school went online. I think it’s relatable and hilarious, but maybe that’s just because the main character of this cult hit cartoon series is a sarcastic and pretentious bespectacled brunette, and so am I. I’m not going to go very far into explaining the premise or characters or different seasons, because that’s mostly irrelevant to what I’m going to write about. (I also want to clarify that the bangs I may or may not give myself during quarantine are in no way, shape, or form inspired by Daria herself.)
We interrupt the stream of vague and cryptic vignettes that have been passing as Letters from the Editor with an announcement and a promise:
I came of age rather late, or at least that’s what books made me think. A bildungsroman narrative is satisfying when you’re in high school and consuming it in some discrete little package. I liked The Catcher in the Rye when I read it. I liked John Green's books. I liked Harry Potter. I cried often at endings. These characters were kids. I liked them; their flaws were my own and their successes gave me hope.
I dreamed about my grandmother yesterday. I dream realistic dreams that aspire to mimic daily life, though they are never lucid. I sank easily into sleep, perhaps a little too late at night.
A woman offered me some gum on the trolley yesterday.
I used to write in diaries. I traded dark under-eye circles for tiny tirades and forays into self-discovery. There were always prettier notebooks to use, but I waited until the first was filled to start the next, always more intricate, always more satisfying journal.
In high school, I used to do my homework at a table near a window where I could see the sun drop behind the houses down the rest of the block. Sunsets were beautiful, and so, I assumed, were the sunrises that I always slept through.
To write this letter, I did some research. I read Annabelle’s first letter, Nick’s, Orly’s, Emily’s. There’s a thread of precedent, of sincerity, honesty, and passion for Street, art, and culture.