It’s officially been one year since I moved back to America. I can’t believe it. Time has really flown.

My life has changed completely since I set foot back on that good New Jersey soil last June. It’s because I really hit the ground running. Before I even came back, I made a list of things I wanted to do. On that list was to become a regular at my public library, start doing volunteer work, and to join a DSA chapter. Overall, I wanted to make a concerted effort to change my life and the lives of others, instead of just posting about it. Though I wasn’t sure exactly how that was going to happen, I knew I was bound to learn from these three spaces and the people that inhabited them.

And now, one year later, I can say with full certainty that this method worked. I started with so much imposter syndrome. But not only did I manage to find my footing doing something I feel fulfilled by, I was able to find a community to rely on in the very same process.

The journey here helped me understand that revolution isn’t just about a singular act of bravery or even a movement itself–it’s also about how you choose to carry yourself through and apply yourself to life. Once I started to get involved, I realized the change was already happening inside of me and in those around me. And in turn, the tides even started to change nationally too.

It’s my mission to get more young people involved in organizing and to keep spreading the hope that has been inspired in me. Especially since the administration has come out even more aggressive towards leftists–with Trump even calling for the arrest of DSA leaders–it’s important we continue to stand in solidarity with one another and to do so without fear. Besides, a movement only needs to be threatened when it is turning the tides.

So, I wanted to make this beginners guide to becoming active in your community. It shouldn’t feel daunting or scary–and contrary to popular belief, you don’t need years of experience to operate in these spaces. You just need to have hope, mutual respect, and a passion for your cause.

1. Become a Regular at Your Local Public Library

Have you ever been to your local public library branch? I am ashamed to admit that before 2025, I had not been to mine. But I went on my first week of being back, eager to see what kinds of books they had in store.

What I found was that the library doesn’t just give you access to educational material: it’s a community space that offers a plethora of resources and support. On a summers’ day, it might be one of the only places offering public access to a bathroom and AC. It’s one of the best places to go for wifi, printers, and to work in a quiet space. You can usually borrow tools, museum passes, and sometimes, instruments. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t use the library as a safe space to cry it out or just take a breather when I didn’t feel like I could do that at home.

I highly recommend reading this article by Emily Jabrinski, former president of the American Library Association and member of the DSA, on how public libraries have become public commons. She calls them “the closest thing to a socialist institution in the contemporary United States” for the very reasons I laid out above. She is way more thorough and qualified to speak on the topic than I am but if you think about it, her argument makes perfect sense. Public libraries are widely accepted as a common good that should be allotted to the people, without much question.

When I first moved back and didn’t have much else to do, I would visit regularly. I checked out a few books a week, challenging myself to finish more than I did the last. It not only gave me something to do when I was finding my footing or had too much free time but I learned so much valuable information. I got to hear from revolutionaries, politicians, comedians, and incarcerated individuals. All the wisdom I could accrue from those library shelves made the space completely priceless to me.

Reading is an underrated art that I wish we all appreciated more. It is arguably one of the most seamless ways to integrate yourself into someone else’s life and their experiences. We don’t exit the bubble that is our own consciousness enough; reading allows us to tap into that creative, childlike energy of imagination that is so crucial to us as a species.

Reading is certainly a muscle, and if you don’t read for a long time, you’re bound to feel frustrated the next time you pick up a book. So here’s a reminder to exercise that muscle today. Some books I read—all borrowed from the library—that I’d like to recommend are:

1. Where We Stand: Class Matters by bell hooks

2. Freedom is a Constant Struggle by Angela Davis

3. This Nonviolent Stuff’ll Get You Killed: How Guns Made the Civil Rights Movement Possible by Charles E. Cobb Jr.

4. Defend / Defund: A Visual History of Organizing Against the Police by Mariame Kaba

5. Still Doing Life: 22 Lifers, 25 Years Later by Howard Zehr

6. Anthem by Ayn Rand

2. Start Volunteering

Find a way to give back to your community that you will enjoy. There are so many different ways to volunteer your time. You can help a friend move, offer to mow your neighbors lawn, or volunteer to help school kids at cross-walks. You can volunteer your time through different nonprofit organizations or for campaigns (which we will get to more in the next part.) But when I first moved back–before I even went to my first DSA meeting–I immediately signed up to volunteer at my local food bank.

At the food bank, we’d pick through discarded food brought in on trucks from different big box stores in the area to see what was still edible and unperished. We’d throw away the rotten stuff, separating the unperished food. We’d clean it off, repackage it, and stock shelves of a trader-joes style storefront for neighbors to “shop” through. There was a point system and a neat line, and it was always kept sparkling clean.

Volunteering at the food bank was super easy and fun, especially if you enjoy organization like I do! It was extremely satisfying to stock the shelves with beautiful, fresh produce that was about to go to waste. And you’d be surprised at just how much good food we’d find. Because of our efforts, we were able to keep shelves constantly stocked and hungry families in the neighborhood fed. And that didn’t happen because the big box stores took the time to make sure food wasn’t going to waste but because community members volunteer their time to collect and sort through what is salvageable. Mutual aid is so important at a time like this, when the wealthy are notoriously not giving back. It is up to us, as a community, to make an effort to provide for each other as much as we can.

I didn’t go every single day but there were many who did. And the staff were some of the most dedicated people I met. Not only was I thrilled to be able to give back my time to the community as much as I could, but I always felt extremely fulfilled after a shift at the food bank. I couldn’t recommend it enough!

3. Join a DSA Chapter

Haven’t joined the Democratic Socialists of America yet? That’s okay–it took me several years between becoming initially interested in socialism and actually joining the DSA. I didn’t really seek it out—joining happened organically:

When I first moved back, I joined Hot Girls for Zohran (now known as Hot Girls Organize.) My friends there–who are also amazing organizers–implored me to start Hot Girls for Jersey and volunteer my time to a few DSA campaigns in New Jersey, in a similar manner to their strategy with Zohran.

We organized joint canvasses, social media campaigns, phone banks, and even put together events for all of our endorsed candidates. It was my first time canvassing and though it seemed intimidating at the beginning, it was much easier than I thought. I even found myself really enjoying it! It was amazing to really get to talk to people and understand what drives each voter.

Part of what made it so easy was that I truly believed in the policies, and so did most of the other people I spoke to. Who can disagree with universal childcare, a lower cost of living, public services that work, and a promise to fight to ensure the working class have the right to healthcare, housing, and food? I found this messaging was pretty universal, no matter what political affiliation the person claimed.

I joined the DSA on a huge upswing–many I know felt very discouraged after Bernie’s loss and have told me they had given up on seeing the DSA have its day, like one may argue it is having now. But volunteering for campaigns last summer was truly a one of a kind, amazing learning experience. It did numbers for my hope that we can become more unified and fight for a government that actually works for us.

To me, joining the DSA is less about being a dues paying member (although you really should make sure to support them by paying your dues,) and more about actually getting involved. Whether that means joining campaigns or the many working groups offered, it’s about becoming integrated into a group of people looking to make actual positive change in their communities. It’s about being a part of a collective not willing to accept that we have to live the way we have been living for so long.

If I had to choose the most impactful item on this list, joining the DSA is at the top. Through the DSA, I found a community that rallied for me at some of my lowest moments. I found a way to give back that was impactful. I joined a space that led to a real passion for politics. A space that taught me to harness my voice and to speak up when I see injustices. Organizing within the DSA taught me how to apply myself in stressful situations and make waves with my words and actions. And it taught me that accepting our futures as lost should not be, is not, and can never been an option. The DSA showed me how to remain hopeful through that fight: by reinforcing community, mutual aid, and having fun every step of the way.

And it’s not like volunteering with the DSA has never repaid me. Just like the public library, it has become quite priceless. I’ve received expensive textbooks, tech equipment, and legal advice through DSA comrades, just because they want to hand them down to someone who needs them more. I’ve been employed by DSA members at several different and difficult times, and always felt respected and seen, despite my controversies. Heck, I even got my thanksgiving turkey last year from a DSA turkey drive!

And just when I didn’t see a path forward for America to reform its broken systems two years ago, the DSA stepped in and gave me hope for a way out of the hellscape we find ourselves in. That’s everything.

These are just three ways to apply yourself but they will, surely, change your life as they have mine. The library is a gateway into learning how to do the volunteering that will teach you how to be of service to your community. And organizing shows you how to effectively fight for your community and make real change happen.

Many people have passion, but not many know how to channel it. It is okay, in fact, it is normal, to feel outraged, moved, or stunned by what you see happening day-to-day. However, we do not have the time to be frozen in fear, paralyzed by inaction. I know it is easier to scroll away and fill the void with easy escapes. But it is important to channel the surge of energy these emotions give you into something productive. Organizing is truly the best way to do that.

It’s easy to post an infographic or repost an angry tiktok. What I believe separates a passionate keyboard warrior from a real life organizer is stepping outside of your comfort zone and using your voice, body, and presence to bolster another cause. Your passion for it has always been enough reason to show up for it.

This act of putting yourself out there may not come naturally–it can be extremely daunting! But putting the aforementioned three steps into practice will teach you the gall necessary to volunteer, work or advocate for whatever you’re passionate for, and moreover to know which words, actions, and facts to use when you do so.

I’d be curious to know other beginner friendly ways you, reader, might have to become active in organizing. Let me know!

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When I drove home from work on Friday, I could already see one person lined up in the press pews outside of Thurgood Marshall, and it was only 8:00 PM. The media had been plastering a million headlines about a plea deal on every site possible, so it was not necessarily a shock that they finally hired line sitters after almost two years of showing up late everyday.

Despite my reputation for always being one of the first people in line, I knew I needed to get at least some sleep, especially if it was to be the big day everyone was promising it was going to be. And my gut was telling me I’d still likely be fine even if I just went early in the morning. So, I went home, scarfed down my dinner while editing some videos for work, and fell asleep by 10:00 PM.

I woke up with a jolt at 2:55 AM, five minutes before my alarm even had the chance to go off. I was out the door by 3:45 AM. When I got to the courthouse shortly after 4:00 AM, there were ten line sitters in the press section. Being number eleven isn’t so bad for getting a few solid hours of rest, I thought to myself.

Because it had been such a last minute hearing, I had no company with me. I missed my girls, who I know wanted so badly to be there. However, the young journalist who lined up behind me was extremely kind and we had a lovely, respectful conversation, despite her knowing exactly who I was. I felt relieved that it wasn’t some legacy media journalist who was going to spend all morning conniving on how to bring me down a peg or record me for clicks.

By the time staff came by with the list to sign us in around 7:00 AM, there was a huge line of press wrapping around the side of the building. The actual number of people lined up seemed to be at about forty by that time, which kept expanding as the day went on, so much so that there had to be an overflow room arranged for the excess.

The public line grew in the same way, although it was harder for me to see, as they stood on the opposite side. For the first time ever, though, it seemed like there may have been a larger presence of members of the media than of the public.

I thought back to last February, when 300 people packed the courthouse hallway. I thought about the protests that used to be arranged outside for each hearing date. There were many people handling that side of things for a while, so I made my own path. When it took a pause, I thought that wintertime had made it too arduous to arrange these sorts of actions for the suppression hearings. But after seeing many of these organizations fail to come back from hiatus, I realized, with much dismay, that some may never come back. Seeing their failure to launch makes me feel even more activated to continue speaking up and showing up in whatever ways I can.

I had heard that the Department of Justice had denied rumors of a possible plea deal with the defense so I was skeptical about what the hearing was actually going to be about. I took my seat in the courtroom at around 10:30 AM. I was in the fourth pew back today, even though I was in the first row of press. That usually meant I should be seated in row one, not four. I inquired with those next to me about the space left open. They informed me about a rumor that Brian Thompson’s family could be attending. Since I don’t trust the media’s reporting, I was skeptical that the plea would really be happening today. That was, until those pews were packed by Thompson’s family and United Healthcare staff. I realized then that there likely would be something quite momentous happening.

The defense team finally walked into the courtroom around 10:40 AM. Karen announced to someone in the gallery that her daughter had welcomed her baby shortly before, and so she seemed to be in very high spirits. (And congratulations to them!) I noted that the whole team seemed very at ease that morning, chatting with the prosecutor’s side openly. Despite the good energy from the team, the gallery, conversely, fell silent. On a Friday afternoon in court while we are waiting for court to begin, everyone is normally chatting, laughing, and discussing the day ahead. It feels especially lively on Fridays. However, it was so quiet on this day, I could even hear the in-house press, who sat all the way at the front of the courtroom, typing away at their laptops.

Luigi was led into the courtroom at around 11:07 AM, wearing the MDC issued tan jumpsuit. As the court officers removed the shackles from around his wrists, he took a sweeping view of the whole courtroom. I saw people reporting that he explicitly avoided eye contact with Thompson’s family and UHC executives. But I personally did not find this to be true. What I did observe was him taking an overall look at the room, as if to take in the whole scene quickly. I mean he only had a few seconds, after all. He did not specifically look at them in a pointed manner, but he certainly looked at them.

Luigi seemed rather unphased, albeit a bit tired. He has always been so good at keeping a nonchalant demeanor in court. I did not really expect any less from him today, regardless of the expectation of a plea change. As Thompson’s family saw Luigi, they seemed immediately upset, and comforted one another. Again, I noted how silent it was, as Luigi finally took his seat. I could see Thompson’s estranged wife, Paulette, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

I noted to myself that the US Marshals seemed to be more present for todays’ proceedings than I had ever seen them in that courtroom before. Usually, the federal court has surprised me with the lack of presence when it comes to court officers. In state court, there are always several court officers present and they stand so close to Luigi that no one can really get a great look at his face, unless you’re angled right.

In federal court, the officers don’t normally do that. But for the start of the proceedings, they were hovering closely around him. As Judge Garnett asked Karen to explain the reason for the hearing, I could see Luigi hunched over a document. I could not see whether he was simply reading it or writing something down, but he seemed preoccupied, nonetheless.

Karen explained that Luigi intended to plead guilty to both charges, which came with a whole set of what I assume are procedural questions from Judge Garnett. Questions like:

Do you understand the plea? (Yes.)

Do you understand you have a right to a trial? (Yes.)

Were you promised anything in exchange for this plea? (No.)

Are you happy with your representation? (Yes.)

Judge Garnett then proceeded to ask Luigi to swear under oath and introduce himself by stating his name, age, school, and the subject of his studies. He answered each question simply, only answering exactly what was required.

But he also wasn’t hasty with his answers–he took his time to reply to each question, as if considering each mindfully. Even if it was just a yes or no question.

Judge Garnett asked about his mental history, to which he replied that he had no recorded history and had not been seeking any care for mental reasons currently. He also confirmed he had never had a drug addiction or been hospitalized for one.

The only answer that seemed out of the ordinary came when Judge Garnett asked whether he had taken any substances that could have an effect on him and his plea. He paused for a second, and discussed something to the side with Karen. “I took a trazodone 2 nights ago for sleep,” he stated.

On one hand, It made me chuckle to myself–clearly Judge Garnett was asking about something more serious that might affect his ability to plea, but he chose to be so honest that he confessed to something quite trivial. But on the other, it was not exactly surprising to hear that he wasn’t sleeping well–I could tell from the state hearing a couple days before that he had likely been up all night–yet hearing this made me feel sad nevertheless.

Judge Garnett confirmed that Luigi seemed clear minded enough to understand his plea, which all parties agreed to. She then asked Luigi to confirm, once again, that he’d read through the indictment clearly and understood his charges, which he affirmed. This prompted her to explain all the rights he would be giving up with a guilty plea, and the process ahead. Namely, the fact that he will have to “incriminate” himself by explaining why he did it.

She went on to explain the maximum penalty possible–a life sentence for each charge–but asserted that this may not be the decision she comes to upon reviewing all factors. She went on, stating that there is no parole available in the federal system, though Luigi could become eligible for time credits for good behavior. This still means at least 85% of any sentence handed down by Judge Garnett must be served, and this will be set up consecutively with whatever other sentences could be handed down from the state. She also went through the financial penalties attached to each charge, which carry a hefty dollar amount of $250,000 each. She explained that she wouldn’t rule on the sentence in court that day, as it would take time to create a pre-sentence report and come to a meaningful decision. Finally, before she allowed Luigi to read his testimony, she asked him one last time if he understood that he would not be able to withdraw his plea once it was set into action. He confirmed that he understood, and chose to proceed.

For a moment, he shifted, seemingly unsure of whether he was meant to sit or stand. Judge Garnett seemed to understand and told him that he could do whichever was more comfortable. He said that he would like to remain seated, and straightened out a paper in front of him.

At first, he started quietly and a bit quickly, and Judge Garnett interrupted him to ask if he’d start again, and at louder volume. He began again, yet not much louder. I was cupping my ears to hear and leaning in as far as I could, hovering over the UHC executive’s shoulders.

These were his words:

I learned that United Healthcare would be holding its annual investor conference in New York City on December 4, 2024, although the specific location was not publicly disclosed. I then researched the event online. I observed that the annual conference of America's largest health care organization with the stated mission to make health --excuse me -- with the stated mission to make the health system work better for everyone, would be attended by company executives, the board of directors, and hundreds of investors, not doctors, nurses, and patients. In November of 2024, I traveled from outside of New York State to Manhattan. I then emailed United Healthcare leadership posing as an investor at a firm managing over $50 billion in assets and requesting information about the conference. Unlike my previous interactions with insurers, I received an immediate response within an hour. Before traveling to New York, I used a 3-D printer to make part of a gun, and I equipped the gun with the silencer and magazine. My travel to New York and email to United Healthcare was with the intent to shoot Brian Thompson. On the morning of December 4, 2024, I shot Mr. Thompson in Manhattan and he died. When I did so, I understood that my actions would place him in fear of death or serious bodily injury. I knew what I was doing was illegal.

I want to set the record straight about his demeanor during his testimony. I could actually see Luigi very clearly as he read, from his side profile. There was not one singular point in time where he looked emotional or like he was going to cry, as some people have reported. This seems like a way of once again denying him of his truth, by painting his admission to the shooting as a statement forced into place by some unknown power. As if he is being held at gunpoint while saying it. But this is not how I perceived him. In fact, he has proven to be very capable, and does not at all seem like the sort of man to do something he does not believe in, even if it is suggested to him by a team of lawyers.

To me, Luigi looked as he always does: self assured, unperturbed, confident, unwavering. Despite his soft words, he never stuttered, his voice did not shake, and I did not find him to look timid. Many of his statements were laced with cheeky digs at the health insurance industry. I found myself nodding and smiling to myself as he was reading. It was, once again, astounding to see how courageous he was, knowing America was watching. And it was vindicating to hear him embrace what I knew to be the truth from day one. The truth as to why so many of us support him.

Despite Luigi’s federal charges not constituting murder (those charges were dropped months ago,) he still directly admitted to the killing, stating that he knew what he was doing “was illegal.” This was a very interesting move that I believe the defense could have been saving up for a long time. I mean, Luigi wasn’t exactly slick about the double jeopardy thing: he literally spoke up about it months back in state court when he told Judge Carro that “1+1=2.”

Because the charges Luigi did plead guilty to make up the same overall crime as the murder charges in the state case, admitting to both emphasizes the double jeopardy argument even more. I do believe that even if Luigi is forced to go to state trial, double jeopardy protections will get any convictions handed down in the trial thrown out. I’m sure this would constitute a lengthy fight to appeal. But regardless of if trial does proceed or not, it just goes to show that throwing the book at Luigi and attempting to overcharge him from day one will backfire on the prosecution big time, one way or another.

Their confidence that this was an open shut case not only caused them to collect evidence in shady ways, like not informing Luigi that he was being filmed in the interrogation room or turning off body worn cameras for 10+ minutes at a time. They were so certain, that they somehow did not even have the foresight to realize that he could be legally protected from multiple jurisdictions fighting against one another to parade him as their trophy.

It seems absolutely ridiculous to me that someone who admits to murdering only one person, regardless of who that person was or why he did it, should be facing charges in multiple jurisdictions. Just goes to show exactly which kinds of lives we prioritize in this country. Mass murder by policy goes unpunished, while one man with screws in his back and a 3D printed gun faces multiple possible life sentences for one murder.

I do have faith that Judge Garnett will reduce the sentence to an amount of time that feels more fair, since she has always seemed less interested in partaking in the sensationalization around this case. America is watching, and they already think the wrong person is being punished. Sending him away for life isn’t going to dampen out the movement. It will only make him even more so a martyr in many peoples’ eyes.

After Judge Garnett accepted Luigi’s plea into official record, she asked that Karen and Luigi expect to sit down for an interview to create the report for her sentencing decision within the next fourteen days. She announced that we would all be back in court for sentencing on December 18th, at 11:00 AM. She finished by requesting to both parties that any person who wished to testify at sentencing must be registered with her two weeks before the day. And with that, we were dismissed.

When I exited the courtroom, it was hard to describe how I felt. I was processing it in real time as I was doing interviews on the sidewalk outside of the courthouse. A hefty line had formed for me to speak to different journalists about my thoughts on the day. It felt like everyone wanted to see if supporters would be devastated, or better yet, denouncing Luigi. I’m sure I disappointed them when I did the complete opposite. It was absurd to me that they expected me, of all people, to feel that way, given my unwavering stance on the matter.

The first feeling that washed over me was relief. I felt relief at the fact that I no longer had to argue with other “supporters” on why relating him to a cause was justified or not. Now we finally had concrete confirmation–although I do believe we had that from day one.

If December 4th wasn’t enough, this fact made itself known repeatedly throughout the last two years. Looking back on some of the letters Luigi wrote to supporters, it seems like he was screaming out into a void sometimes, asking for people to fully grasp who he is, while many were choosing to do the opposite—at least publicly.

For me, it’s always been pretty obvious that he sacrificed himself to send a message about something that deeply affected him and those around him. It was in the evidence collected at the crime scene, the target chosen, the “manifesto,” his reddit history, and just about everything in this case from day one. I came into this community thinking we all agreed on that. But unfortunately, it was an open book test that so many failed.

I understand some supporters were trying to become his defense team, or perhaps even do better than them, by touting this framed-bambigi narrative. But doing so denied Luigi of the exact truth he chose to throw himself passionately at exposing. The fact of the matter is that supporters were never the defense team. He had a strong one already. And we never had to be them. We were always the supporters, who saw a brave young American standing up to the lived experiences we all share.

I feel a lot of expectation from the community, now. If my words and repeated efforts to activate them weren’t enough to see them show up at medicare for all the rallies and other actions I helped organize this last year, surely Luigi’s words will be enough? Or will “supporters” remain in denial, and continue to promote a message that denies Luigi from his own chosen act of heroism?

I felt anger that people decided to spend two years of pre-trial hearings trying to deny him his truth, and instead using all their time to dox those who supported him because they saw him as innocent, even if he did do it. A lot of self reflection is in place for the community at large and what they chose to prioritize. This should have never been about picking apart supporters on reddit threads. Those of you who participated in what is largely a tabloids’ job should truly be ashamed of yourselves. But look on the bright side: you might have a future at the New York Post.

In the days following the hearing, the reactions I witnessed online were fascinating: While the supporter community seemed to be in shambles or saying “I guess we should talk about medicare for all now,” I saw the public–normies as one might call them–rejoicing and having amazing discussions. His admission solidified his folk hero status for eternity, in the eyes of many.

I saw some people feeling angry at Luigi or his team, for what they saw as giving up the truth too easily. In some ways, even though I knew it was extremely risky, I was hoping for a chance to see if we could get jury nullification to come through for him, even if we were looking at three potential trials. Maybe it was overly ambitious, but I feel like we could have done it. The American people would not have found Luigi guilty.

Despite this though, I think the choice the defense team made was ultimately the most rational one that still allowed for Luigi to stand on business. Judge Garnett has always been more patient with the defense, and from what I understand, a federal facility is much more livable than a state one—though I obviously prefer him to be in neither at all. I maintain that he will be free one day. Even if I have to become President and pardon him myself.

The most resounding feeling I experienced after the plea, was determination. This movement does not end with a conviction. Nor does it end with passing medicare for all—and we will pass it. This movement was always about being an active member of your community, using your voice to speak up for injustices, and refusing to back down, even when the odds seem out of your favor. That means coming together with those that share your goals, even if you do not agree on everything, because way too much is at stake not to. Our futures are at stake.

Luigi’s sacrifice should not be in vain. It will not be, at least as long as I am alive. But one person alone cannot solve the crisis that is healthcare in this country, though many of us will try. Medicare for all advocates have been waiting for the younger generations to take up the mantle and demand our country do right by us. If you feel strongly about Luigi’s case at all, now is the time to join in and allow him to be your introduction into organizing. There is never a “right” time or manner to get involved. Don’t listen to gatekeepers that try to say you don’t have enough experience to have legitimacy in this fight. This fight is about all of us, and for all of us, so we should all have a seat at that table.

Medicare for all would help us all–saving about 100,000 lives annually and $1 trillion. Taking care of American people properly by ensuring their health is a priority opens up the door to a future in which people no longer have to choose between paying insurance bills over rent or food. It would allow us to live in a more dignified manner.

I believe that medicare for all is going to be one of the hottest issues in the upcoming midterm and primary elections. We’ve already seen how campaigning around medicare for all secured Abdul El-Sayed a win in Michigan, despite AIPAC reportedly spending upwards of $30 million to ensure his swift defeat. Fixing this broken system is a desire across the board; it is a desire unbound by political affiliation. After what have been many dark years of alienation and blame games between the American working class, I hope that we can find more common ground by unifying under this fight, and finally see that everyone deserves access to basic human rights like healthcare, housing, and food, especially before anyone buys themselves another yacht. Luigi’s actions may have reanimated a spark once fizzling out, but it is now our choice how we continue to nurture that flame.

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I woke up early on the morning of August 11th, but not like I used to have to. 3:00 am was nothing compared to my old two day wait. I’ve sort of got a rhythm going with it anyway. I took my time getting ready, having breakfast, and getting dressed. I had plans to meet a production crew nearby and so we did some interview shots while I drove us to the courthouse.

Upon arriving at 100 Centre street, I was surprised by just how many members of the press there were on the opposite side of the street. You see, this is normally where newscasters set up to get those live shots you see on the news, with them speaking and the courthouse in the back. You’ll see them out here all lined up with their big shiny lights and fancy outfits. That is, fancier than the journalists that come inside the courtroom who mostly seem to dress in a toned down manner. Except for the odd few, like me. I wore a lot of green today.

I lined up, and there was no one there yet. Not even a cop in sight. Ashley joined me soon after, and we stood, chatting. I was grateful that I had brought a jacket as it was uncharacteristically chilly for an August morning. I felt like having a hot tea but hadn’t packed any. And the banana I brought for lunch had turned to mush in my computer bag. Great. I opted for a cough drop instead.

As the line started to develop behind us, there was not too much going on. It’s always pretty calm in the mornings. I wasn’t even really sure if I would be on the reserve list, aka the list of 86 journalists who get first dibs on seating for the trial. The OCA had announced overflow rooms, but hadn’t given too much more information. I had received email communications, however they were often vague or perhaps I did not understand them properly. However, I was ultimately included on the list. I am grateful to the OCA for being gracious and accommodating to that end.

Who I was not so grateful to today were the two male “journalists” who tried to boot Ashley and me out of our spots like a bunch of high school bullies. Everyone knows you stand in the same order upstairs in the hall that you do downstairs on the line. It’s always been that way, for the two years I’ve now been doing this. They denied this, refusing to let us back into our spots once we arrived to the thirteenth floor. They tried to claim they hadn’t seen us in front of them that morning, that we likely had lied to get on the reserve line, and we were missing some other ID card necessary to access it.

I protested, as I hadn’t gotten up early for nothing. They tried objecting to the court officers, who didn’t seem to care much. I did notice that after they alerted the Press Office to us (as they threatened they were going to,) no one else made much of a fuss. Coincidentally, the same person they alerted was the one who had just written numbers 1 and 2 next to Ashley and I’s names on the reserve list moments prior, and thanked us for being there early.

The legacy media claims to have so much respect for its craft but will resort to intimidation tactics and making up blatant lies they know won’t hold up. All just to have to quietly sit right next to me the whole hearing and have the same access as I do. But I digress.

We were finally escorted in around 8:30 am. It took around an hour of sitting around in wait before either team walked through the doors. It was quite muggy in the courtroom, and that’s when I noticed it was also really packed. It seemed like everyone showed up early today–except for Judge Carro, who came in ten minutes after the court photographers had finished capturing photographs of Luigi. Though when he did sit down, he immediately got after it. He began to scold the defense for their questioning of the press plan as he claimed that there “has never been a decision to exclude the public or press.” In fact, he even insisted that the court went overboard to accommodate. Marc Agnifilo began to state that the court had only done so after their objections, to Judge Carro’s immediate denial.

However, I have to say that I would agree. I believe overflow rooms not only could have been arranged in order to expand press and public access to this case from the start, but they absolutely should have been. Why couldn’t they have been arranged all along? Like in February, when 300+ people showed up. Or in December, when 40+ of us camped out in below freezing temperatures.

I also believe that if the defense wants for the trial to be live-streamed, then they should be allowed to arrange for that. I don’t see why not. I’ve seen plenty of other recent high-profile cases get live-streamed. However, Judge Carro seemed to feel pretty defensive about this, and so Agnifilo conceded, saying that they were simply “grateful.”

Judge Carro spared no one as he also seemed to admonish the prosecution, waving off their request that overflow rooms only contain audio and no video feed. He maintained that this is not the court’s first high-profile case so they know how to handle the management of said overflow rooms. He went on to explain that because of the high volume of interest in the trial, the reserve seating was expanded to 86 individuals from 68, meaning there will be much less room for the public. I think to remedy this, it would be preferable to set up several overflow rooms for those members of the public that do not get to make it inside.

As for the issue of who will get to cover jury selection, the court and press office maintained their initial statement that a rotating pool of 6 journalists will be chosen to spectate. How, is unclear. Not only that, but that the jury itself will be anonymous. I don’t mind at all if the jury wishes to stay anonymous. Why would anyone object to that? I’d probably wish for that too having experienced the media circus surrounding the pre-trial hearings. But to limit the amount of press allowed to view jury selection is disappointing, to say the least. I was really curious about the whole process and excited to spectate. And this feels like a lack of transparency, frankly.

Judge Carro moves on with a request to both sides to get their ducks in a row. He asks that they “come together and come to a decision about the questions they will use” for the jury questionnaire. I’m wondering how that’s going to happen, while there is a brief mention of a protective order, signed off by both sides. He then has them approach the bench, and we are stalled for quite some time. I could have sworn I saw Luigi mouth “what is taking so long” to his team. He seemed quite exhausted. His eyelids looked droopy and he appeared to be blinking a lot. I wondered what time he had been woken up for what would likely be a quick meeting. Maybe around the same time I had?

At a quarter past 10, Judge Carro dismisses everyone from the bench and we are adjourned shortly after for jury selection which is set to begin on September 8th.

My thoughts post hearing today are scrambled: I’m really pleased to have been given a spot on the reserve list. Yet I’m sad that more accommodations can’t be made, especially for the public to have a chance at being inside. While members of the public fight really hard to be in those rooms (see: my substacks last December,) these “journalists” that try to cut me in line and then follow me after hearings also show up late, report lazily, and won’t know the details like the members of the public will. Some of these individuals have spent days lining up to attend. These people know the case deeply and constantly reorganize their lives to be present. Commitment of that kind should not be treated as less deserving of access just because it doesn’t come with a press credential. Just as my access to cover this case shouldn’t be infringed upon just because I wasn’t born 20 years earlier and/or didn’t sell my soul to NBC Universal.

Lastly, I wish veteran journalists could have a little more respect for their craft. I understand allowing newcomers they do not relate to into their spaces seems daunting and intimidating. But sleazy tactics when all other attempts to humiliate or alienate me have failed may not work for too much longer. Did they ever, really? It just seems really embarrassing and tiring. I implore my journalist friends to relax and try to get used to me. I don’t bite, I promise! And I intend to cover as much of Luigi’s trial as I possibly can as I now have the access to do so.

This is very much the end of an era. I look forward to what is ahead.

Thank you for reading!

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I acknowledge that the statements shared by the Mangionistas on May 18th were not unanimously well received. And while I recognize that rage baiting the press may be an effective strategy in gaining a bombastic amount of coverage in one month, it is not my method of advocacy in this case or for my activism outside of it. I will remain focused on the relevant societal issues at hand. AI is increasingly being used to surveil us, no one should be profiting off of deaths by denials, and the cost of living continues to rise in an insurmountable way.

Moving forward, I will be conducting myself as an individual and would like to make it clear that I speak solely for myself, not on behalf of anyone else. And similarly, no one else’s statements should be taken as a representation of my own thoughts.

I’d like to begin with the Second Amendment, and my statements on its intended use. The fight to block legislation that would make it harder to access firearms has been championed by the right, no matter how much they’d like to claim they are the less violent side. In Charlie Kirk’s words:

It is interesting to me that Kirk was not just permitted, but expected to make inflammatory political statements without these being construed as criminal threats. I believe this same standard should apply to everyone, not just the right. And thus, my reiteration of the purpose of the Second Amendment should be taken in the same way.

It is not my opinion, but an actual fact, that the Second Amendment was not written so that disgruntled people could kill innocent school-goers en-masse to send a message. It was, in its inception, understood as a tool to stop the federal government from disarming its citizens and, thus, preventing tyranny from taking over. Tyranny is defined as:

“a form of government or rule where absolute power is held by a single individual or a small group, exercised in an unjust, cruel, or oppressive manner. It is characterized by unchecked authority, the absence of constitutional limits, and the suppression of individual rights.”

And there is no doubt in my mind that many Americans believe we have already met this threshold.

I am not pro-violence, and would prefer our democracy worked; allowing for our voices to be heard and legislation changes to reflect that. This is the reason why I work to create content for politicians with my organization, Hot Girls for Jersey; I want to believe these representatives can change the system from within. While most of the politicians/candidates I work with operate at a local level, my concern is that we are not currently being represented at the federal scale.

There is no doubt in my mind that a small group of people is currently exercising its power in a cruel and oppressive manner. And this is blatantly going unchecked, while our constitutional rights are being diminished and our individual rights dissipate right before our eyes. So I don’t think it’s outlandish to state that if we are going to fight to keep the Second Amendment, we should only be wielding firearms for the purpose our founding fathers had when they wrote up the constitution, not to shoot innocent children simply trying to graduate from elementary school in one piece.

From mere observation, I already knew how under attack First Amendment rights were. In one of my first substack pieces, I wrote:

“It is clear that the government is utilizing this task force (FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force)—and whatever other resources it can mobilize—to intimidate those who they deem dissenters–even just those that dissent with their use of free speech or protest. They have even blatantly stated they are looking for ways to legally deport citizens. I can’t help but wonder: how will they operate when the fine-line between dissenting and exercising one’s constitutional rights becomes more and more blurred? Will those that believe in the constitution–even those who may have voted for the current admin–be labeled terrorists for even attempting to uphold our fundamental rights?”

It’s been fascinating to see my questions being answered in real time. I’ve noticed the same people who are currently under attack—the press—perpetuating a narrative against me, all because the billionaires who own them don’t agree with my opinions. It’s also been compelling to watch how the same people who yell “comedy is illegal!” when their free speech comes under fire—the right—were the same ones jumping to suppress my voice and demand my access be revoked.

My first statement which came under fire was in regards to the White House’s Counterterrorism Strategy document, published in early May of 2026. I maintain that no matter what side of the political spectrum you are on, this should be alarming to you. The document (which I recommend you read in full as it is not long or challenging to understand) states that Americans that are radically pro-transgender or anti-fascist should be considered “violent left-wing extremists,” and that the administration “Will Find You and Will Kill You.”

Because the alleged killer of Kirk appeared to partake in transgender subcultures, their justification seems to be that anyone that is pro-transgender should suffer the consequences of his killing. It has also been suggested that Tyler Robinson was allegedly deeply entrenched in right-wing subcultures, so the White House’s attempt to solely dump blame on one of the most persecuted groups of people in our country right now, is, in my opinion, blatant propaganda.

The Trump administration is able to utilize just one instance of violence towards Kirk to feel justified in not just threatening, but guaranteeing the use of federal violence against leftist Americans (note the use of the word will and not can.) In a reversal of the POTUS’ own words, I stated that if the White House can threaten its citizens by general association like that, “then we should be able to SAY” that we want the POTUS to meet his end in a violent manner as well.

It was not an encouragement of violence, but a commentary on how the White House continues to abuse its access to the First Amendment, while making sure we do not have the same individual freedoms. Despite it being obvious hyperbole, some tried to paint my comparison as an actionable threat to the President, which is ridiculous, especially when you get the full context. But when the average person reads a headline and runs with it with little to no room for critical thought left, I have, sadly, zero expectation for them to go looking for said context.

Despite the fact that I’ve never owned weapons or had any run-ins with the law, the White House decided to waste their time and taxpayer money by sending the Secret Service to my house, to intimidate me into “answering some questions about my threatening statements.” They admitted that my statements were low on their list of concerns, yet they sent four officers (2 Secret Service officers and 2 police officers) to my house, around my neighborhood, and spammed my family and I with calls until my lawyer contacted them and stressed my rights.

Many will see their appearance at my house as proof that my statements were not protected free speech. But this is untrue, and their lack of recourse to take action against me should be proof that the White House is, in fact, using anything at their disposal to intimidate citizens they deem out of line.

The Secret Service have since left me alone, but these intimidation tactics are becoming more frequent (the Government recently subpoenaed SMS sites for data on users who expressed criticism of immigration tactics), which should be a concern to every citizen worried about the erosion of free speech. Though Kirk’s statements often quite blatantly fanned the flame of violence towards marginalized groups, he was not only never pressured by the Secret Service (that I know of), but also made extensive use of his platform to push his agenda.

Only advocates, activists, and journalists backed by the right are allowed to use inflammatory language or have any sort of bias, it seems, as there is no mention of right-wing extremism in the White House’s document.

I’m sure by now everyone has seen the constitutional debate sparked by my access to a press badge, which is both ridiculous and predictable at the same time. I’ve spoken at length about my lifetime within the media sphere. Since my childhood, I’ve been a vehicle for the people to project onto and expect statements from, until it’s convenient to blow me off and say I don’t represent anyone or have anything to contribute to a political narrative. Despite this, I’ve seen success in my political comms work as Hot Girls for Jersey.

Even Mamdani, someone who I used my 10+ years of experience in the media field to help get elected, decided I wasn’t worthy of being in the journalism and press debate. For a Mayor that probably wouldn’t have been elected without having screamed “do you believe in the First Amendment, Tom Homan?” I was extremely disappointed by his immediate dismissal of my own First Amendment rights.

Since Mamdani brought up the debate, I’d like to add my two cents to it. It is no secret that the public has become increasingly distrustful of MSM, instead turning to influencers, podcasters, and personalities. If you won’t believe me when I say MSM is compromised, take it from industry professionals themselves. Just yesterday, former 60 Minutes host Scott Pelley detailed his experience with Bari Weiss’ takeover, as she rejected his reports on the shooting of Renee Good. Though he says it was obvious that Good’s tires were turned away from the officers, Weiss insisted that he use language that described her car as moving towards the officers.

He was, ultimately, fired from 60 Minutes. In his farewell, he stated:

“‘new management has instructed me to inject falsehoods and bias into a politically sensitive story,’ and claimed politicians had been allowed to choose correspondents for interviews.”

Still think that’s unbiased journalism and not propaganda? Then look no further than your own habits to decide whether the media is compromised: do conservatives watch Fox News because it’s convenient, or is it because they know which bias to expect from them? Do liberals watch CNN because they love Anderson Cooper, or because it espouses the narratives they believe in? Do leftists watch Hasan Piker because he’s smart, or because he’s not afraid to expose both parties, in a manner that is influenced by his socialist ideologies? Is any of that considered “unbiased journalism”? Or is that not the push of propaganda, on any side?

So, to the public, the Luigi community, and Mayor Mamdani himself (who should know this from his own experiences): next time you’re reading a headline, I want you to ask yourself why this was pushed so ferociously into the zeitgeist. I want you to take a beat and remember that the Ellison’s Skydance merger with Paramount allowed them to acquire CBS, and to push for ownership of CNN. Remember that Jeff Bezos owns The Washington Post. Remember that the Murdoch family owns Fox News, the Wall Street Journal, and the New York Post.

Remember why they want you to think I am an imbecile for simply questioning the erosion of our constitutional rights. Remember why they reduce me to sexist stereotypes, and claim I am not a legitimate source.

Regardless of the lackluster nature of some of the arguments presented, I found the overall debate about press freedom and freedom of speech to be endlessly fascinating, and a sign of the times. It’s not just about me, or the Mangionistas. There is a larger question today of press freedom in the US in general. In April 2026, Reporters Without Borders published their annual World Press Freedom Index, in which the USA ranked 64th out of 180 countries and territories, falling seven places from the previous year.

The analysis found that the administrations’ cut to budgets, attacks on journalists, and overall threats to democracy are the main causes of this decline—not some girls with strong opinions. Project Censored pointed out, and rightfully so, that only a few corporate media outlets reported on this. Shocker. They state:

“While the Trump administration has seriously accelerated the erosion of press freedom in the United States, these outlets failed to address the overwhelming threat of corporate and billionaire influence within the media industry.”

It is the independent voices, who are not interested in being in the pockets of the very class stealing away our futures, that report without a specific desired outcome because they actually can. Of course, bias still exists. But when being biased is basically a prerequisite to working for the mainstream media, not having the backing of the MSM is exactly what makes people want to listen to me. To exclude me from a debate because of how I built my career in media or for the opinions I hold is hypocritical. And if you’re at all against what the billionaire class is doing, you should also have enough media literacy and critical thinking skills to see propaganda when it appears in front of you. For your own sake, at least.

I still believe Mayor Mamdani is doing some incredible things for the city, including filling potholes, fighting for a rent freeze, and balancing the budget deficit. This is why I worked to get him elected, despite not living in NYC at the time. I understand that the hierarchical nature of his position makes it necessary to capitulate to the establishment so they will allow him to get things done.

Regardless, I believe that the statement he made about me was in poor taste and hastily made, considering his other associations with “problematic” political influencers. I love Hasan Piker, and understand how many of his previous comments have been overtly sensationalized by the media in the same way as my own. But to see the Mayor make room for his boys club when they make incendiary comments, yet not stand by my right to my own opinion, made me realize that in a heated moment, the left always capitulates to the right.

I found it disheartening to watch as someone who fiercely defended free speech didn’t defend mine when it became politically inconvenient for him. I find this sort of capitulation to be largely a left specific problem: ask a Trump supporter how they can still support him when he says awful things and they will tell you they don’t agree with everything, but because they align on some points with him, they are able to overlook the rest.

The left has proven incapable of doing this, and is why we find ourselves increasingly fractured and useless. In an attempt to act respectful, even to our oppressors, we police our own, effectively becoming enforcers of the oppression we seek to fight against. We need to be better with unity, as leftists, if we want to get anything done.

And that brings me to the journalists who came together to ignore real news and make sure I remained a national headline for two weeks straight. It seemed like some of them had the time of their lives digging into my background, screenshotting pictures of me in bikinis, and calling my biological father (who abandoned me completely at twelve years old with zero financial support.) It would be outright dangerous to consider their attempts at humiliating me and making up blatant lies journalism.

Rather than allow space for my concerns about our constitutional rights or how the President is actively threatening US citizens, the MSM decided to wield their influence to try and suppress me by painting me in the worst light they could find. JB Nicholas of The Free Lance news was one of the only people I noticed that reported on the situation with nuance.

While I take responsibility for any consequences my statements had, it is extremely out of touch to claim I should not have press credentials because I am not an “unbiased journalist,” while using yours to post pictures of my house, forcing me to move on a day’s notice out of fear for my safety. To those journalists: I have no hard feelings. I know how hard of an industry this is, and I know I give you guys clicks. I’m happy for you, if it worked out.

I am able to have empathy for those in this industry because I grew up in it. My perspective allows me to understand that mainstream media must operate within a corporate structure. Those hierarchies create an incentive, and those incentives influence what is covered. Reporters have less freedom than the public realizes, and as a result, coverage becomes sensationalized, sales-driven, and deferential to the powers at hand. Rather than encourage nuance, this structure rewards inflammatory coverage, truthful or not.

After getting to know some of these people, I don’t believe that most sought a difficult career in journalism because they wanted to publish tabloid stories about citizens. I am fighting for socialism for them, too, so no one has to sacrifice their beliefs to make ends meet.

I truly hope every single person who chimed in will reflect on the consequences of their actions, in the wake of this. Perhaps it will not be felt until the tables turn, but just know, especially in the case of female journalists, when we utilize misogyny against each other, there will be a day when it is turned back on us.

Is it not scary to those of you who spew freedom of press, that in order to be invited to White House briefings, you must make the POTUS happy with your reporting, lest suffer exclusion? The Meteor found that while female reporters make up ½ of those invited to press briefings, they made up ⅔ of Trump’s targets for harassment. Is that the press freedom you wish for? To suppress the independent young voice, and muffle it with the megaphone of fascism? To make yourself small and compliant, to ensure you will be invited back to the POTUS’ briefings, simply to be berated?

I wish those women, many of whom I’ve found come from immigrant backgrounds, utilized their hard work in getting to their positions to actually be the journalists we need. To actually expose what’s going on in our country. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: we desperately need journalists to expose the truth, especially in the face of fear.

And I don’t care if that someone is with CNN or just Sally from down the street: you’re still valid to me.

Those who wrote articles about me would likely not be able to withstand a day in the media storm they created. Thankfully, I am used to being painted in this light. I have thick skin. I learned watching how Paris Hilton utilized her blonde bimbo image and silly voice to disarm the press, and then got serious when it came to the issues she was advocating for. I like to think of my methods as similar; while the press is busy writing fan-fiction sounding prose about my appearance, they still allowed for my statements about our constitutional rights to slip through the cracks.

I wish to respect the symbiotic relationship I find myself in with the media. I wish for the mainstream media to be reporting on this case just as much as they wish to be doing so. And I wish to share my views with them, if they are to be represented fairly.

However, MSM should have learned from their attempts to make Luigi look like a class traitor, that Gen Z and socialists love a class traitor. If you were trying to make me look bad, calling things like a “nepo-baby turned socialist” was probably not the most successful tactic. I hope these journalists noticed the hundreds of comments from the everyday person, exposing just how biased they think the mainstream media has become.

You can accuse me of being a leftist propagandist; but to pretend as if there is some arm of the media that is unbiased and not spewing propaganda in the year of 2026 is, quite frankly, “an insult to the intelligence of the American people and their lived experience.”

I understand that being an independent reporter, a political influencer, and an advocate is not going to be sustainable if I allow everyone else to tell my story for me. In the past, I have spoken to any outlet who desired to speak to me, because I want even those who believe they are against me to hear my story and my views. Maybe they will find we are not so different.

I believe a big part of the reason why our country is disjointed is because we are so quick to shun each other based on the views we hold due to our upbringings. If we were open to dialogue with those we don’t always relate to, without disrespecting them in the process, then maybe we could come up with answers that work for us all. Until then, even if we pretend we do not, we live in a world where people want their news to act like a social media algorithm. I hate to burst your bubbles, but a little discomfort is necessary to come to terms with reality and find ways to improve on it.

That being said, until I am treated with more empathy and nuance, I will be making the conscious decision to no longer humor every journalist. I do not wish to collaborate with those who feel justified in harassing my friends and family. I will never retaliate in the way I experienced; I have never sought information on journalists’ families or living situations, and I never will. I’d hate for what I had to endure to turn back on even those that do not have empathy for me. Please, do not send hatred on my behalf. I’d simply like to let those individuals know that you reap what you sow.

Regardless of what happened, I am happy, supported, and safe. I am endlessly thankful for the lessons this taught me. I see much of what happened as divine intervention, aligning me further with my path. Sure, I may have had to move out of my house on a day’s notice because I was doxxed publicly by the press. But if none of that happened, I would have never seen how my DSA comrades would rally for me, how my friends would support me, and how all this would land me an amazing apartment in NYC, a place I never dreamed I’d be able to move back to, at least not so soon.

So, thank you for that.

I take my advocacy—not just in Luigi’s case but for my generation’s future—extremely seriously. Too seriously to allow the mainstream media to tell my own story in a way that cherry picks and omits my truth. This experience taught me that no matter how much I feel the world may be against me, the hate is just loud. There are many that are not ready to be open about their support for a fairer world, because they see what people like me, who have stricken a nerve, are put through.

I do this for all of you, who cannot.

At least not yet.

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I used to hate living in New Jersey, when I was a kid. But I learned to love it, in more recent years. One of my favorite things about living in New Jersey is how nature erupts into a cacophony of green leaves, furry creatures, and striped wasps in April–we are known as The Garden State, after all. Suddenly all life comes bursting to the surface, and once it starts it won’t stop for anything. I know it’s here to stay when every single type of bug, even the ladybugs, squeeze their way through the tiny cracks in my house and I find a million of them in my bathroom.

When life erupts into red polka dots like that, it’s impossible not to take notice. On those clear blue sky days, it honestly feels like a disservice to yourself to be indoors or working. I find myself wondering how anyone can avoid being “radicalized” against capitalism these days. Even if all our current predicaments weren’t being caused by it, it would only take a peak outside your window to be reminded that we are living unnaturally.

This morning, while I was straining coffee, I noticed two squirrels scurrying up the thick trunk of a tree. One was bigger than the other; most likely a mother and child. I watched as they frolicked through the shards of grass, eating nuts and immediately stopping in their tracks as I walked to open the window to let the breeze in. I thought to myself how magical it was, that those squirrels never once had to wonder how they would make ends meet to have somewhere to live or something to eat. They hold steadfast to the belief that the Earth will provide them with the nutrients they need and the resources to survive, and so far they have not been proven wrong.

It may seem tougher to us when you realize that none of these things are guaranteed to the squirrel. How does he keep his peace of mind? He can’t go to a nut store and stock up on as many as he needs. He can’t pray to a squirrel god to ensure they keep coming. Yet, nuts are not scarce, and the squirrel worries not. I wonder to myself, often, why humans are the only species that manufactures our own scarcity simply to claim that certain things–like food and shelter–should have a monetary value imposed on them?

The squirrels; they are always taken care of. As long as there are nuts to be had and dirt holes to sleep in, they don’t care. Not knowing what capital is doesn’t seem to bother them one bit. And though spending all day storing nuts for the winter might not create the new AI genius bullshit gimmick or the next electric car that you can sext, squirrels will continue to thrive.

I envy the simplicity. They just look happy. That’s real freedom. It is a freedom a human born into the capitalist hellscape we live in, even though we preach freedom, can never fathom. Even as children, most of us are bound to a school system that teaches us more about submission than how to take care of ourselves. We are cast into a societal structure based on hierarchy, competition, and shame. We are taught to focus on and point out our differences instead of marvelling at the fact that despite it all, we all find ourselves on this planet struggling through the same thing. The same plight even the squirrel struggles with. Survival.

While we may perceive the squirrel as constantly having to fight to survive, are we not in the same predicament? Our existence on earth is being threatened, in more ways than one. Climate change has always been on my mind, from the minute I was conscious enough to realize it was happening. I grew up during the Obama administration; I remember being in elementary school and being taught to reduce, reuse, recycle. The whole concept was something new they seemed to be pushing, I guess to see if they could hammer it into children that it was somehow our fault, yet still within our control, that our climate was warming rapidly and ocean levels rising. We switched to pasta noodle straws and paper straws and then just no straws at all. I didn’t really mind the changes. Life is about constant change. Humans are adaptable. But the climate still warmed, no matter how many paper straws I drank a hole straight through.

But how can the climate not warm, when just my one state is having to fight back against hundreds of data centers seeking the green light to build within a matter of mere days, and against the NESE pipeline we’ve been fighting for years from polluting our air and water? The New Jersey I love–home of all the abundant greenery and wildlife I love it for–is being led to ruin by the same people who seek to steal our futures. If they can convince us that everything we need is fed to us through a screen and keep us loyal to apps and subscription services to deliver our every need to us, we will never see that every remedy, every solution, everything we need, is already abundant around us and has been for a very, very long time.

They cannot let us find out that caring for our planet and our community is regenerative and infinite. It cannot run out like money can. Like taking from the earth and those who inhabit her without taking care to reinvest back will. The greater public buying into this mentality would be devastating for the 1%. So they make sure we are desperately subservient to our jobs by tying them to our healthcare plans and inflating grocery costs, stealing away every ounce of energy and time left in our days, and feeding us the remedies of doomscrolling, weed pens, and online shopping.

When will it stop being enough?

When the wells of cash to supply our overlords runs dry, and no one can even afford a chatgpt membership or a labubu or even a meal…what will happen? Will we all offer fruit from our backyards’ trees to our neighbor, and accept the eggs from their chickens, even if the hands that pass them over look different from ours? Or will we all loot from each other’s houses and eat the carcasses of their loved ones and pets?

No matter what I’ve seen with my own two eyes, I do not believe that it is human nature to be focused solely on self preservation. I believe we want to help each other, and we want someone to be there to help us. We want to see humanity win, even if it means sacrifice to send that message.

And when we support one another and come together, we do change lives and help our planet. I’ve seen this recently, with how local climate activists and groups like Climate Revolution Action Network have spent every waking hour for the last year–at least from when I met them–fighting for the Polluters Pay/Climate Superfund act. And how they’ve flooded hearings to speak on their stances against AI data centers being built across the country, and successfully stopped many of them from going forward.

It’s easy to go on autopilot during such hard times. Apathy, caring for yourself only, and hoarding your resources are symptoms of capitalism. I can’t fully blame someone for something a cancer has corroded the mind with, especially when most jobs leave people with little time or money to learn or think outside the box. But I know for a fact, if we believed our housing and food was guaranteed like the squirrel knows his is, no one would willingly choose to give their life up in the form of wage slavery any longer.

If our basic human needs were guaranteed and we had time to actually live–even if we had to pool together our own resources to make it happen–who would turn that down? If our purpose wasn’t to create infinite wealth and harness innovation for a handful of people, can you imagine how that time, effort, and thinking could uplift a whole nation? It’s hard to even fathom it, really.

Even before most of my readers were born, we have lived in what reminds me of the Sims world. Figure out the infinite ‘MOTHERLODE’ money glitch (in Sims you actually don’t even have to rely on human suffering for this!) and you can have and do anything. Some people will even stick up for your wrongdoings, because they also want to be a parasite one day. But our lives are not part of a video game, and there are actually no preset rules. Humanity makes its own destiny.

We do not answer to a mouse on screen or any force or entity for that matter, but life and death themselves. We are our own Gods and can remake our systems in any way we can imagine. There should not be anyone with access to cheat codes. And if they want to use cheat codes, like fear or systemic violence, we can and should subvert those and use them for the collective, if not just simply to prove why nobody needs to have them in the first place.

However, as we know: in order to get out of autopilot and break out of the Sims , you have to care enough to get out of your loop. And for many people, caring can be unplugged and stomped out, until it comes shooting out through your veins like lightning. Usually this epiphany comes when your reality has become too stark to ignore, or an emotion/message/visual snaps you out of your system. Many people are actively choosing to remain the way they have been conditioned to be because it is simply much easier (and widely acceptable.)

But this last year, I have seen people care, more than I remember ever having seen it. I have heard how much they care. And it’s not just my own personal community in New Jersey, or even just the people I share political ideologies with. Everyone is being affected right now. Everyone is struggling to make ends meet. Unless you’re the one percent, of course. The rest of us spend everyday toiling to pay to live a life we are fast forwarding through, because it is often too painful to live wide awake and caring.

Why should we have to carry on this way?

What if I say that they owe us more than just a liveable wage? Free healthcare? Housing? Food? What if I say that we can never get back all the time our ancestors spent accruing the wealth they hang over our heads? What if I say that all those billions could never be earned, only stolen? What if I say it all rightfully belongs to the people? What if I say that asking your oppressor nicely for your rights never works?

They are allowed to say that they want a transhuman AI race and to take away all our hours outside of work and our ability to make choices for our own bodies. They are allowed to utilize AI systems to reinforce the flow of constant violence in the form of denying us coverage, surveiling us, and bombing innocents abroad with our own tax dollars. So to hear the fake shock in a washed up late night show hosts’ voice when he laments why the youth have lost sympathy and the desire to collaborate with the occupiers of our own fates feels–no pun intended–rich. I think they’d be smart to start feeling a little generous and abide by our calls to tax the rich while the people are still feeling… semi-cooperative and only setting property laying dusty in an empty warehouse aflame.

In all honesty, we need to be louder. And less afraid. Out with the truth. Taxing the rich is a start. But yes, I would still eat Sabrina Carpenter though my forks really aiming for you, Peter Thiel!

All you had to do was let us be squirrels. In the meantime, if profit remains the only goal in sight: may the wrath of the people grow a million fold. Let the wrath of our ancestors encapsulate those sick with greed and burst them into flames where they stand.

Consequences exist. And the well of empathy I had allotted to the 1%–if it ever even existed at all–has run bone dry. I cry now solely for what my people have been through and what they will continue to be subjected to.

And to what end exactly? So Elon Musk can scratch his balls on a yacht so big and so empty, all he can hear is his own fart being echoed back to him? When our people are currently in dire need? Save it.

And hear me when I say this:

We deserve the freedom to live. Yet freedom will never be had, if we allow our basic human rights to be withheld by a handful of losers (who still somehow lack proper security detail.) It is simply the bare minimum to speak up and demand the right to live our lives. So I must ask you, as there are more of us than them: What can you do–within your community or even simply your own spirit–to ensure we not only survive, but thrive?

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I never meant to become an online persona. Posting felt like a private sanctuary, somewhere I could exist outside of my presentable form. When I first opened up my social media accounts, I posted because it was my own personal diary. A way to keep track of who I was and what I did. Before I had a following or was a part of any communities, I used my pages as a historical record of the cool things I ate and the funny things I saw. It was not about social capital, or political commentary, or establishing influence. It was not even meant for others’ consumption, but my own, in retrospect. There was no rhyme or reason to it. I’d post a blurry, under-lit photo of a slice of avocado toast at 8PM on a Monday with zero expectations but that it would still be there when I logged on the next day.

My view on what the internet can be shifted greatly when I first stumbled onto the fandom side of the internet. The k-pop fandom was still very small, and even more so niche. Most of our community existed within the confines of websites like Twitter and Tumblr. At first, I was stunned by how resourceful everyone was–because we had to be. It wasn’t just about trading pictures and fun facts, although it may have looked like it on the surface. There were a lot of things we, as foreign fans, didn’t know how to navigate, as many of us didn’t know how to speak Korean or had only just begun learning. Official fanclubs, which clued you into events and allowed you to stay up-to-date, required an address in Korea to join, so we had to form our own coalitions and keep each other in the know.

We befriended people who could help–those who had been fans for even longer than us and had the lived experience. We taught ourselves to at least understand, and eventually learned to navigate Korean websites and portals with VPNs. We became translators and made guides for each other. We stayed up all night to stream performances and interviews to international audiences. We did what the American media had not yet caught onto doing: covering k-pop happenings in our own language to spread the Hallyu wave, not make fun of it like they had when Gangnam Style went viral. It would take many years for the American press to catch on and start reporting on k-pop in a… semi respectful manner.

Unlike the media, fansites gave support in many ways, like providing food for the idols and staff and doing promotion for albums with fan funded billboards and events. It was not just a way to spread awareness and help out fans abroad, but a way to give a boost to the bands we loved and to spread the culture we had been operating within to a country that was still very much adverse to it. Most of the time, we didn’t even see any benefit from this work. And man, was it a full time job. Other than finally convincing bands to tour in the USA, we were still being bullied while k-pop became more mainstream.

But we filled a niche that the media could not have ever fulfilled, as the media was (and is) focused on reporting the news in a sensationalized way. Even now, as k-pop has become mainstream, reporting around k-pop is better but still confined to certain narratives. However, I do not think k-pop could have amassed the huge success that it has now had us first and second generation k-pop fans not put in the work and endured the scrutiny that we did. That experience changed the way I understood disseminating messages, especially when it came to supporting a community. We paved the way for the popularity k-pop enjoys now. And it has come to inform me greatly with the work I do in my advocacy, funnily enough.

It’s important to note: those that sought out the reporting of fansites were, quite obviously, supporters. We seek out what we want to consume, and the algorithms do the rest. Just like someone with conservative views might subscribe to the Free Press and make their decisions based off of the lens their media conglomerate of choice utilizes, everyone has some agency over which outlets they choose to support and if they want to block out those that they don’t. Regardless, it is good practice to not just consume the media that confirms your biases, but also all the other sides, to stay informed of what is being bought into by other people.

Media literacy, especially in the age of social media, is a muscle we have no other option than to train, for our own sake. You’d think people would be even more wary about this, given how AI’s advancements have made it harder to distinguish what is real and what isn’t. But more than ever, whenever an interview of mine is spliced up to give me the most simplified edit possible, I see people fall for the bait and immediate jump to attack me, as if the editor wasn’t fighting for his life trying to get me at an angle that fits the narrative his boss told him to adhere to. Instead of remaining critical of the structures in place that manufacture and disseminate media in a biased manner–reminder that a few billionaire owned conglomerates control every channel and what you hear/read and even how it is disseminated to you–audiences seem to fall for it every time, especially if it fits into their inherent bias. I believe we can be better than this. But in order to do so, we must be open to questioning a claim that justifies something you might already strongly believe in, even if it is irrational or untrue.

My point is, everyone has an inherent bias when they make choices and navigate life. Even the media–and especially the media–has been proven to be biased. The age of objective journalists is long gone, although this is really the only age I’ve ever known when it comes to the media, despite my own wishes (how cool would it be to see more real, fearless journalism exposing the facts?) I’ve seen their shortcomings with my own eyes: Luigi simply speaking up for himself is reported as a violent outburst towards a quaking little judge. Or the lack of reporting on how he was given a cavity search on the grounds of a false ID charge–which is not something normally done. They instead opted to report on supporters. Most importantly, the way the media has continued to report on me and others who advocate for Luigi’s case has been the most biased thing I’ve quite literally ever seen. You guys are lucky I can take a joke at my expense, that’s all I can say.

I understand, from what I have been told by journalists off the record themselves, that even if they were to report fairly on the case or even favorably on supporters, their bosses would make sure the final edit did not appear that way. Journalists, especially the ones that are lesser known and thus do not have leverage, are puppets. They are given a brief to fill and are not allowed to have much creative freedom. If they were to write something complimentary of me or what I do, their bosses would undoubtedly either scrap the piece or re-edit it themselves without even needing the permission of the journalist who originally wrote it. I’ve seen articles written in support of what I do (or even just reporting more objectively) be rejected in favor of reactionary cuts or deleted altogether. Regardless of this, I have always been respectful to journalists and collaborative with them. As a content creator and a supporter, I understand firsthand the importance of reaching audiences across the state and the nation in general, and so I can respect the position of the media, in that sense. And as a former… entertainer (?) I know first hand how much it sucks to have to hold your real views back to pay the bills and get work, so I can empathize on that level.

However, it goes without saying that the media relies on people like me for their stories, no matter how horrified they pretend to be by my presence. It is no secret that the legacy media, independent journalists, and even supporters-pretending-to-be-just-a-journalist have used me for LOTS of content. No matter what, I’ve always spoken to any journalist who approaches me kindly, and they know this now.I think you all know it by now, but I strongly believe that the support should be documented on the record, and in a way that we will be proud to look back on one day.

I don’t blame some supporters for staying anonymous. The manner in which the press approached us at the start was extremely absurd and cartoonish. I remember a distinct interaction I had when I attended the first hearing I went to for Luigi’s case, on December 23 2024. I came around 4am, and was one of the first on line. I met some really lovely, motivated and inspiring people that day, while freezing our asses off. I brought a book to read and didn’t even open it because I had such amazing talks with the people there. Mid conversation, a woman with a huge camera in one hand shoved her iPhone at me with the other: “Is this why you’re here?!” she demanded. On the screen was a zoomed in photo of Luigi’s face. I laughed at her and carried on with my exchange, but I couldn’t fathom being the sort of journalist who thinks they can bully a headline out of someone exercising their right to observe a hearing.

I do maintain that as long as we can have a respectful conversation, even those who disagree with me deserve to see how Luigi inspires people and what change those people aim to create. I see my relationship with the media as oscillating between parasitic and symbiotic because of that–while they can suck me dry for whatever narrative they want, I have to hope my message still falls through the cracks and inspires someone in their audience. The media platforms me on their terms; meanwhile I’ve given them countless hours of content, provided transportation, been asked to record b-roll footage for them to use when they don’t want to wake up early to come do it themselves, done whole day shoots without food being provided, and kept them constantly up to date with the next court appearances and times that they don’t even seem to be in the know about. These have all very real requests that journalists have made to me. If relying on someone who is a supporter for information is dangerous, then why is the media constantly relying on me for things that they should be able to do with little to no effort?

Don’t get me wrong, I am more than happy to help. I want as much coverage on the case as possible. I want as many people talking about Luigi as possible. And I would support anyone who wants to cover this case in any sort of manner to utilize their capability to get a press pass and do it. At the end of the day, when you are focused on your own goals and projects, other people showing up in your space shouldn’t change things for you in the slightest. Regardless, I will always be cordial and professional. But after last week’s hearing, I felt the need to say my piece. You see, after weeks of no one batting an eye lash, I was interviewed by a journalist about how some of them were angry that supporters were getting approved for press badges. I did notice that day a handful of those I knew from the public line had come with badges. But it was only a handful. And if they are going to report on the case, then they have every right to be there.

Some journalists have spoken out publicly and apparently even threatened legal action against the press office for its choices. I find this to be hilarious. The people who are upset and using that energy to call us “fangirls” are the ones that show up an hour before the hearing (did you wake up late girl?) or who are closeted supporters themselves (loved the Luigi toothpaste in your hotel room queen!) Listen, everyone has their right to deal with their frustrations in whatever way they see fit. If you need to go vent online, more power to you. However, I’d like to remind my lovely journalist friends that they may want to stay in our good graces, if they want to get their stories out about us during trial. Also because you’re going to have to see me there…And that’s awkward, right?

I’d also like everyone to remember that in our current media sphere, social media is a very valid form of media, whether you like that fact or not. What makes content creators different from a livestreamer, a podcaster, or a student studying journalism? Are only some members of our nation deemed “legitimate” enough to be able to report on things? Is suppressing someone’ s access to reporting to an audience because of a certain opinion they hold not unconstitutional?

If you ask me personally, I want a world where every citizen speaks up loudly and passionately for what they believe in. Everyone should be able to utilize their free speech and the amazing, tiny little broadcasting device we now hold in our hands at all times of the day and find an audience, no matter what they believe in (at your own risk, of course…consequences still exist.) In fact, many gen z-ers and beyond rely solely on social media to stay informed, my followers included. I think many of us actually prefer it that way. We lost trust with the news a long time ago, and this was not by choice.

Despite this, I do actually want the press to be packing the court. Some of the reporting from the suppression hearings was swaying people I knew outside of all this, because the injustices were that undeniable. And I want the supporters’ pews to be full. That’s why I helped organize the line so more people could find the stamina to come. And it’s why I felt frustrated with the press’ lack of dedication to being present and getting all the facts when they were coming late and leaving early during the suppression hearings, leaving the pews hollow, while supporters were turned away outside.

I’d like everyone to remember because it seems like maybe we forgot: this is a very high profile case. People are going to want to be there (probably more than you sometimes) and more people are going to look into how. There might be a lot of people sometimes and there may be few others. You won’t make it into every single hearing. Everyone who is there is going to have different reasons for it and different opinions about it. Some of them are going to talk to the press and some will not. And you won’t be able to control any of this. None of us can.

This demand to be at Luigi’s hearings has been established from the start, mind you. Does anyone remember the state hearing last February? I do. I saved up all my credit card points and spent them on a round trip flight from Amsterdam for a couple day long trip to attend Luigi’s state hearing. I didn’t tell anyone, and especially not my family, because I wasn’t really openly supporting Luigi yet, until the following summer. Anyone who was there can attest to that day being insane. The courthouse hallway was packed with what seemed like 300 people. We were all sweating as the body heat made it swelter. It was so loud and hectic. When we were nearing the start time, people began to get more desperate. One person even offered me a family sized bag of kitkats for my spot in line, which tickled me endlessly.

Someone must have overheard that I came from Amsterdam and made a whole reddit thread ridiculing me for travelling to show my support. It was a lot of sacrifice, and unfortunately, I didn’t even end up getting in. A few people cut the line and the cops chose to have it in a smaller room at the last minute, narrowing down my chances to a big fat zero. As the line was cut off in front of me, the girl behind me got on her knees, tears in her eyes, and begged the officer to let her stay in the hallway as he walked in as she had waited all day. I felt her pain as I turned to take the elevator down to the ground floor. I went back to Amsterdam on a flight the next day, knowing I’d failed, and ruminating on that. I realized I really had no one to blame but myself, for not coming earlier. I waited 8 months to get another chance to attend a hearing. After that day, I knew I would fight for my place to be there. And I don’t think anyone–even the media–can say that I haven’t. Whether you agree with what I support or not is a different story.

Lastly, I just want to say that if people have any disputes with my career in media, you can also refer to my two whole decades of work in several fields of the media sphere. This has been my entire life. Using the media to reach people was not a choice, but is second nature for individuals of Gen-Z like me, who grew up online and went onto build careers in that sphere. Just like you can get a press pass to push anti-socialist slop, I can also get one to use my voice to platform what I believe in. Trying to censor voices we don’t like is never going to work. I really would like to keep this relationship symbiotic. However, some self reflection is in order. Like myself in February, those complaining only have themselves to blame. Your lack of nuance in matters that clearly resonate with the general public creates a niche that will get filled by those who see its presence and care enough to do something about it. If you’re showing up late, leaving early, or not coming at all and yet still relying on me for content, I think we can all see who’s really doing the work here.

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None of us were really sure what to expect on February sixth, other than to be presented with future scheduling decisions. I had noticed that the May 18th date was listed on the court docket as “rescheduled,” with only February sixth remaining as an active date. Since May 18th was meant to be the hearing where Judge Carro would announce his decision on the suppression hearings held back in December, many of us, public and press included, thought that he’d made his decision sooner due to Judge Garnett’s own ruling on the suppression request in the federal case made on the previous Friday. I couldn’t help but feel incredibly nervous in the days leading up to the hearing because of this possibility. Not sleeping the night before had become quite routine for me by this point, but I felt extra on edge as adrenaline coursed through my veins. I bit all of my nails down to stubs before finally falling into a deep sleep.

I woke up around 4:30 AM and the city that never sleeps was shockingly still. I had stayed the night in Brooklyn at my best friend’s place so I could sleep in a little bit longer, as opposed to driving straight from New Jersey. I like to get ready slowly, especially on mornings when I might feel anxious. There’s nothing worse than running late when you’re already stressed, so I always opt to be extra early instead. I had already packed my bag and laptop away the night before, so all I really had to do was make myself look presentable. I did so in complete silence, mulling over the endless possibilities of the day.

It was not lost on me that this was going to be the last hearing for quite some time, which was disheartening. I had gotten quite used to attending court often since there had been hearings almost every week since December had begun. It was great to have movement in the cases, especially as the first few months had been so slow. And man, was there a lot of positive movement. The defense getting so many of the major charges knocked off made me feel spirited and poised to continue the fight. If waiting so long to have Luigi’s cases heard felt frustrating to me, I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around how infuriating it felt for him. Coming to hearings will, at the very least, help to break up the monotony of being incarcerated and being forced to live within a constant groundhog day.

I loaded into my car, layered up as much as possible yet still somehow shivering. I don’t usually like to drive with shoes or gloves on, but I couldn’t get away with taking either pair off this time. “Hey Siri, text Ashley that I’ll be there in 20 minutes,” I croaked out. Those were my first words of the day. As I drove across the Brooklyn Bridge, I couldn’t help but notice the beautiful sunrise starting to illuminate the sleeping city. I stole glances as I drove, wary not to drift across the lanes while doing so, but feeling drawn in by the pink and orange burst enveloping me. There is something so special about that time of day, before most people are up. My sleep schedule has naturally shifted due to the early nature of the hearings, but I have come to really love waking up so early. I seem to do it naturally without the need for an alarm now. Watching the sunset erupt into colors every morning is the perfect way to ignite my inner flame and encourage me to press on.

As I passed by 100 Centre Street on my way to my preferred parking spot in Chinatown, I could see the public line already gathered together on the sidewalk. I wanted to beep my horn in a silly greeting, but I was mindful that they must feel tired and opted not to. I’m also extra wary around some members of the public line now, as I’ve received a lot of anonymous intel about individuals who I’ve lined up with and shown kindness to who are talking about me behind my back constantly. Many are fake-nice to my face until it is no longer convenient, and then spend their days and nights constantly speculating about me online and plotting their next smear campaign. It gets pretty old to hear of those sometimes even twice my age photographing me in secret, analyzing my every move, or twisting my actions and words into some weird online fan-fiction or fodder for their obsessive Abril focused chatrooms. Some of these Luigi pages should really rename themselves to “Snark Page for Abril” because they seem to really be relying on me for all their engagement and entertainment. These individuals can claim all they want that they are simply reporting on happenings within the support group objectively, but a climate that constantly amplifies delusion breeds danger, especially for a woman like me that refuses to disappear.

While much of the rumors that come out of these cesspools are extremely comedic and admittedly very entertaining (somehow they seem to believe I’m simultaneously UHC’s paid honeypot spy but also in cahoots with Luigi’s whole team and a paid PR agent), it concerns me that someone delusional enough to believe any of it would be inspired by the incessant hate these rumors encourage and incite to do something to me in person, so I don’t really interact as much anymore, especially with those I am not already acquainted with on a deeper level. I’ve chosen very much to step away and take a more individual approach with my advocacy, though I wish the rest of them well in their own endeavors and I don’t have any hard feelings. What anyone chooses to think of me is not really any of my business after all, and I’m not interested in convincing ideologues to support what I am doing. I know I am so much more than anyone’s projected perception of me. I am focused on the case, my own personal efforts to do my part for my country, and the things I can expressly control. I am attending to be a witness, not to judge others or be content-farmed (though I know the latter will happen regardless.)

So, I parked quietly and walked the block and a half to the courthouse, feeling the cold permeate through my cashmere tights. I had on three pairs of socks on top of my tights: one regular, one thermal, and one fuzzy. Yet, I could still feel my toes getting prickly, and eventually, going completely numb. “Don’t they say you’re not supposed to not feel your toes?” I asked Ashley, since I remembered seeing some warning about numbness and frostbite on the news last week. She shrugged. If we had to get potential exposure to frostbite to bear witness to the proceedings, we would gladly do so. Someone’s opinion or a chilly breeze isn’t going to stop me from doing me. In the past, the officers had let those with passes in around 7:30 AM. But on this occasion, the time agonizingly crawled past eight and we were still waiting outside, wishing we had stayed in my car for a bit longer. I missed the federal courthouse already; we’d barely had to wait outside to attend federal hearings. To pass the time, we chatted (off the record) about the case and our expectations for the day with journalists from News Nation and MSNBC, as we shifted from foot to foot to keep warm. I even tried to trick myself with reverse psychology, repeating how warm it was over and over in my mind.

Finally, at half past eight, we were let in. I was shocked at how quickly I went through the x-ray. I had gotten used to the absolutely grueling process that the federal court made us go through to enter the building, especially since it had been weeks since I’d been at the state courthouse. This process felt rudimentary in comparison. When I stepped into the elevator, I didn’t even have to check the floor number. I knew it was going to be in the same room as always. I clicked the 13th floor button–my lucky number–and up we went.

The hallway was devoid of photographers, other than David and a couple others. I took that to mean that Luigi would likely be brought in through the back of the courtroom again, and not paraded down the hall like the early days. That was a positive thing, at least. We were filed in around 9:00 AM, and Ashley and I opted to sit together on the left hand side of the courtroom, only a few rows behind the prosecution’s table and diagonal from the defense. When we took our seats, both teams were not yet present. Nor was the judge. In fact, it took two whole hours for anyone at all, other than court officers, to appear. For whatever reason, we weren’t called to order until half past 11:00 AM. Luckily, I had my computer, so I could at least get some other work done as we waited.

Once both teams were present, they joined Judge Carro at the stand for a sidebar to begin. While I could not make out most of what they were saying, it was obvious that there was a heated discussion taking place. From the little I could make out, it would seem that Judge Carro and Joel Seidemann were teaming up against the defense, due to their frustrations towards Judge Garnett for scheduling a trial date before they could. While I could hear Karen and Marc Agnifilo posit that there would be no way for them to be ready to go to trial in the state case in between preparing for the federal case, Seidemann continued to bring up arguments that felt quite irrelevant, like the fact that the victims’ mother was getting older and wanted to be able to attend, or that the prosecutors wouldn’t have a case if they went after the feds (referring to the double jeopardy issue.) Instead of hearing these excuses and keeping an open mind, Judge Carro seemed to immediately side with Seidemann’s strange excuses and did not even allow the defense to make their case otherwise. While Judge Carro continued to interrupt Karen Agnifilo, the press were getting antsy, shifting in their seats. In the past, they have objected when long sidebars take place, citing their right to know. This time was no different. There are limits to this right, however, and the court staff immediately intervened and assured the reporter who had her hand raised that the important information would be put on the record for their access.

After the sidebar ended, Karen Agnifilo walked into the cell area, likely to check on Luigi, who had not come out yet. At this point, many of us wondered if he was even present, since it was odd that he hadn’t been brought out by that point. She returned alone, and another sidebar took place, which only lasted a couple minutes before both parties sat down and Luigi was, finally, brought in. I was frustrated to see that not only was he back to wearing his MDC issued tan jumpsuit, but he was completely shackled throughout. This means he was unable to take notes or even drink water. It seemed absurd to me that he seems to be given more dignity and respect in a federal courtroom–one that seems much more foreboding and unforgiving–than in the dingy and paltry state courthouse.

It has been very clear to me from the start that the NYPD is allowing their ego to dictate their treatment of Luigi, and this was reflected by Judge Carro who spoke over Karen as she listed the work they had yet to do, immaturely posturing “but what about the work that the NYPD has done?” Rather than a courtroom, Judge Carro’s arguments and his inability to be respectful to the defense team had turned the courtroom into a kindergarten playground, in which a little boy screamed at the top of his lungs: “but what about me!” But what about the defendant, who has spent the last year imprisoned, waiting to have his case heard in front of a judge? Does he not also deserve to be heard, as is his right? With each rude interruption on the judge’s part, the gallery got more antsy, and murmurs of discomfort were impossible to ignore.

Once Luigi was sat at the defense table, Judge Carro wasted no time announcing a June 8th date for the trial (September 8th if the feds decide to appeal the dropping of the death penalty.) Joel Seidemann seemed to jump for joy as he thanked the judge for granting him his wish, and chastised the defense for “delaying” the case. Karen Agnifilo, on the other hand, stated quite simply that “Mangione is being put in an untenable situation.” She ran through the process they still had to go through, once again insisting that they would not be ready in the summer. She reiterated Seidemann’s own prior claim: that the DA doesn’t want the federal case to go forward because he doesn’t want to be barred by double jeopardy. Judge Carro interrupted her mid-sentence, once again, to claim that the county that issued the arrest warrant should go first.

Luigi looked absolutely perplexed at this, and so was I. If we were to humor Judge Carro’s downright ridiculous claim, wouldn’t the first jurisdiction to get dibs on scheduling a trial be Altoona, then? How was New York State the “first county that issued the arrest warrant”? Anyone with common sense would think that the most serious case should be the first to go to trial. It was quite obvious to me that Judge Carro and Joel Seidemann were teaming up in their little boys’ club to cherry-pick arguments to fit their own desired narratives and to repeatedly interrupt a woman who was simply doing her job. Karen continued, unperturbed, stating that it would be legal malpractice for the defense not to pursue double jeopardy, and they had every intention to do so. I felt like clapping. Though I’m not a legal expert, it seems more likely to me that the defense can use the double jeopardy argument if the state case does actually go first. So, Carro and Seidemann’s egos and misogyny might cost them their beloved case anyway. And boy, wouldn’t that be satisfying. It would seem to me that it would be in their best interest to take the Altoona Police Department’s ego-driven malpractice as an example of what not to do, and perhaps be a bit more impartial and fair, as is a judge’s job.

Karen spoke up to say that the defense was not delaying anything, but rather had submitted many long motions that had also been extremely successful. She cited the charges being dropped because of the motions that took time to file, which was an absolutely necessary step to take before any of the cases proceeded to trial. With the sass that he never dropped for a second of the day, Judge Carro condescendingly quipped “you’ve done a great job, so be ready June 8th,” and quickly adjourned the court before another word could be uttered. Or so we thought.

Suddenly, someone was speaking. But I didn’t see the defense, the prosecution, nor the judge’s mouth moving. It was coming from Luigi himself. I was shocked to hear his voice in court for the first time since he pled not guilty on December 23rd, 2025. As they stood him up and started to walk him out, he spoke clearly and confidently towards the judge: “1+1=2. It’s the same trial twice. This is double jeopardy by any common sense definition.” He did not yell. He did not speak aggressively, nor act in any way that was anything other than peaceful towards the officers that led him out. I felt his words were not only justified by Carro’s own disrespectful approach to the days’ proceedings, but also extremely cathartic to hear. Luigi’s bravery to speak up for his rights in the face of a judge bent on mistreating him is commendable, and reflected my own desires to interject–a desire that I am sure many in the courtroom shared on that day. Though I knew the media would go on to twist Luigi’s words and actions–as they have, claiming he was “yelling” or “violent”–I saw the truth. He simply was trying to be heard. Anyone in the same position as him would feel the same frustration, and I’d hope they would get the chance to air out their exasperation in the same way.

After we walked out of the courtroom, there were many mixed emotions on display in the hallway. Some of the members of the public ran out in an upset. Some were visibly emotional and trying to recount his statement, since it can be hard to hear from the back of the room. While feeling upset towards an upsetting situation is completely warranted, I felt quite differently. I felt proud of Luigi, for being the same person I chose to support since day one. I was pleased to see the passionate person, who fought for himself and others. I was harkened back to the early days of his arrest, when he spoke out in protest of the coverage of the case outside of the Altoona courthouse. Though I was already in support of whoever was behind December 4th from day one, that day was the first time I felt drawn to Luigi since his arrest had been announced. It wasn’t the alleged Reddit history, or the friends’ stories, or the photos that people dug up. I was fascinated to see someone that was the same age as me not be perturbed by the daunting case in front of him, or the empty soulless cameras pointed at him. I was delighted by his assertion that the American public should not be taken for fools. I was inspired by his audacity, bravery, and strength in a time that felt so hopeless. So to see him, once again, unleash that fearlessness, I did not feel sad. No. I felt a fire reignite in my spirit. Sometimes, though we know our actions might have repercussions, we need to air them out regardless to be able to sleep at night. And I do believe this was one of those necessary moments. Especially as the next pre-trial hearing is scheduled in several months.

So, now what? We wait. We plan. And we act. I’ve seen many people filing complaints against Judge Carro’s actions. Good. I’ve seen many starting new projects to spread awareness about Luigi’s cases. Great. What would be absolutely asinine to do right now is to stay quiet and let this moment pass. To not cause any waves. To not call any attention to what’s going on. What is important right now is to be as loud as possible and to continue speaking out, even in the face of opposition. Especially if you live in New York, or have a platform with a large basis in New York (like me), you have a duty to speak up. Compliance, acting respectfully, making yourself small in the face of oppression and violence does not get you anywhere, because your oppressor would never choose the same tactics on you. Why would they, when their way of forcing us into submission through fear-mongering and stripping us of our rights has worked so well? If you haven’t learned by now that the oppressors do not give into the oppressed by simply being asked nicely, then I don’t know if you’re even capable of consciousness. It is the time NOW to act. Not in a few weeks or months or years. Now. It is time to speak to your neighbors or anyone who might be jury eligible about jury nullification. And if you are eligible, consider submitting yourself for jury duty and keeping your cards close to your chest.

While Luigi may only be able to speak up for himself in brief moments in court that rarely occur, we, the public, are able to fight for him–and in turn, fight for ourselves–in any way we see fit. And if you’re choosing not to do so, or even trying to “cancel” those who do because you are threatened by their audacity instead of being called to action, you may as well be locking his cell door yourself. So go ahead, call me whatever names or spread whatever rumors about me. You can even say I personally woke up on December 4th, shot Brian Thompson, and framed Luigi myself. I’m sure that’s the next rumor coming in the weekly rumor mill. But I’ll never stop speaking up for him, for the nation I call home, and for the just future I still have hope is possible for us. Will you join those of us who have chosen to stand up with pride, or will you continue being a sheep herded towards oblivion, forced to blame your neighbor rather than fight back against the oppressive class?

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The morning of the 23rd was brisk when I woke up. It was six in the morning and still dark as night. I skipped out on breakfast that morning; I felt uncharacteristically nervous about the hearing and hadn’t slept well at all. I must have fallen asleep for an hour or two, because I remember having a dream that I forgot my press pass and only discovered that I had misplaced it once at the courthouse. Coffee would help with the fatigue, but not with the nausea from being anxious. So, after taking extra care to pack my press pass with me, I opted to drive to the city on an empty stomach.

Arriving at 40 Foley Square, I could immediately see the line of public spectators gathered within the barricades. One of my friends from the line ran up to me to catch me up on what the night had been like. They told me that they had arrived the night before and had to brave not only the cold, but also some drama. It’s to be expected to a certain extent. Everyone cares so much about this case and mixed with lack of sleep and the cold, tensions are bound to arise. But in such harsh conditions, I worried about everyone’s health first and foremost: their noses were red and I could see them shifting so as to keep as warm as possible.

Federal grounds do not allow for tents to be pitched for overnight camping, like the state courthouse grounds do allow for. The night had been especially nippy, with high wind chills. Due to these constraints, I believe there were only around 15 members of the public when I arrived that morning, with sufficient room for more to attend had they shown up around 7:30 am. I wondered why there had to be any back and forth about the line at all when there seemed to be plenty of room and more collaboration between those who were braving the cold day after day to provide palpable support inside the courtroom. Though I no longer had to brave the public line nor was I involved in organizing it in any capacity anymore, I still felt proud of their displays of strength and solidarity (despite some quarreling.) It’s always so nice to see the same familiar faces and chat with everyone in the halls, too.

We were finally let in a few hours later and went through the grueling check-in process. It is akin to TSA, except they make you check in all your electronics and pick them up at the end. I always ring incessantly when I go through the X-ray scanner. This time, the female court officer asked me to remove all of my jewelry. Some of my rings have been on me forever–not out of choice, but because I’ve had them on for a decade straight and my knuckles have fused them into place. I couldn’t remove them if I tried; they are a part of me. I refused and asked for a more thorough scanning process instead. It did not take nearly as long as removing all my jewelry would have and I still felt like myself…just barefoot and scrambling to collect my things.

Once finished, Ashley and I sat by the courtroom on a wooden bench, chatting with the journalists that we have become acquainted with through our attendance of the hearings. The majority of them are kindhearted individuals who treat us respectfully. (Of course, I can often be disappointed with the final edits shown on their networks, but in person I find them to be lovely people with interesting things to discuss.)

Once it was time to file into the courtroom, we neatly lined up and made our way in. It was notably cold in the room–usually, it is quite the opposite and I find myself suffocating from the heat. I was sat in the first row allotted to the press, which is about three pews back from where the defense and prosecution sit. From where I was positioned, I had an unobstructed view of the defense table especially, as I was placed in the aisle diagonally across from it. About 20 members of the public were filed in last. The defense team seemed to be in high spirits, chatting away. I am always so impressed by their energy and aura.

When Luigi walked in, the room hushed. He seemed to be in a better mood than the previous hearing, however he looked tired as he often does. His hair was short and he had a bit of a beard. He was in his MDC jumpsuit and sneakers. For most of the hearing, he was extremely pensive and took avid notes. There were a few occasions when I caught him looking in my direction. I always try my best to smile encouragingly back but sometimes I feel frozen in those moments and I’m not even sure if I managed to have any reaction. I also noticed him looking at the windows on the right and left sides of the roof, and the details on the walls. I often find myself doing the same; the courtroom is ornate and grand with beautiful wood and marble detailing. I wonder if he might be taking in all the interesting shapes and textures before he goes back to the gray underwhelm and repetition of the Metropolitan Detention Center.

Judge Garnett opened with administrative notes about scheduling. Namely, she wanted to set a pending date of September 8th for jury selection (or January 11th, if it will still be a capital case by then.) She then reminded the court what was to be discussed, namely the Altoona Police Department’s procedures concerning the securing and safeguarding of personal property in a public place. Marc Agnifilo announced that he’d be doing the cross instead of Jacob Kaplan, to which Judge Garnett only made one comment: this hearing was not to be an extension of the state hearing.

The witness was let in from the back and everyone, Luigi included, turned around to watch him walk down the aisle of the courtroom. Deputy Chief Nathan Snyder introduced himself as a man who had been employed at the Altoona Police Department since 2009, climbing up the ranks from a probationary officer to a police chief. Because of his seniority, he oversaw training of probationary officers who sought to become a part of APD. He would train them on written procedures (called general orders and task sheets), take them out onto the streets to put these into practice, and then finally, they’d be administered a written test to pass in order to rank up. Snyder testified to never having viewed the BWC footage or being on scene for Luigi’s arrest on December 9th, 2024. He claimed to have been working in another part of Pennsylvania that morning.

In regards to training procedures for probationary officers, Snyder testified that while general orders were typically approved for the manual and signed by a police chief, task sheets were additional “building blocks” implemented by the training officer to aid probationary officers in learning the concepts laid out in the orders. He claimed that they typically focused on more specific aspects of the orders. The prosecution then introduced several general orders into evidence, which were subsequently posted on the screen for the courtroom to view:

• General order 3.1 which laid out APD’s procedure for “inventory searches of detainees.”

• General order 3.5 which covered the procedures for “receiving and detention of evidence and property.” Judge Garnett asked for clarification as to what would fall under “category B: recovered property.” Snyder testified to this being anything recovered that could be linked to a defendant. He also claimed that any property left on its own, whether it could be identified as relevant or not, would be catalogued.

• General order 3.6 was regarding the “collection and preservation of evidence.”

Snyder testified to all of these orders being in effect as of December 2024, despite not having been signed by an overseeing police chief. Judge Garnett asked Snyder to clarify whether the information on task sheets applied to all officers, or only probationary ones. He testified that they, in fact, applied to all officers.

Two task sheets were then discussed: one regarding custodial arrest procedures and another regarding detention of prisoners. These task sheets stated that a search would be conducted in the intake area and all inventory recovered would be written on the prisoner log before being separated into evidence and personal property (which was then to be promptly stored in a locker until any decisions were made.)

After Judge Garnett asked a few clarification questions, it was time for Marc Agnifilo’s cross examination. He started by requesting clarification of who writes the task sheets and general orders. Snyder claimed that while a training coordinator can write a task sheet, a general order has to be approved by a police chief. This is when Agnifilo pointed out the lack of a police chief’s signature on the pages of the manual. There was the name of a prior chief typed out underneath, however this person was no longer serving as APD’s police chief at the time of the arrest.

The importance of the general orders as compared to task sheets was stressed by Agnifilo, who confirmed once again that one had to be approved by the chief and the other did not. With that in mind, he brought the general orders presented in the direct back up. In order 3.1.9, he pointed out that there is no reference to bags or backpacks. Not only this, but the order is more specifically about searching a detainee’s belongings on their person than it is about searching property found in or around the scene. Snyder agreed. Agnifilo suggested the same issue with 3.1.10.

Agnifilo then brought up general order 3.1.2, which deals with the search and seizure procedures. The prosecution objected and claimed that this was outside of the scope, but Judge Garnett allowed Agnifilo to continue after a brief explanation of his intentions. In the section regarding “impound inventory search” which deals with searching vehicles, there are specific mentions as to how to take closed containers into evidence that are, very notably, omitted in the other general orders. It seems strange that some general orders remain pointedly vague in comparison.

He continued, questioning Snyder on whether it was typical for officers to transport evidence to other departments if the inventory search is meant to be for safeguarding first and foremost. With a small hesitation, Snyder testified that it was not typical to do so. The prosecution objected to this, and instead of sustaining the objection, Judge Garnett asked a clarification question and allowed him to proceed.

For the final leg of the cross, Agnifilo pointed to the prisoner log that the defense submitted as a supplementary document to the court. It lays out every item found on a defendant at the time of their arrest. In this specific example, a journal was logged onto Luigi’s prisoner log. Agnifilo questions if an officer would be expected to read a journal if one is recovered, or just simply log it. Snyder testified that they would not typically read a journal’s contents.

To this, Agnifilo asked Snyder to also confirm the importance of chain of custody, which he did not hesitate to agree on. Lastly, Agnifilo asked Snyder how general orders come to be prepared. Snyder could not answer this for certain, and the defense decided to rest for the time being.

Before she allowed for the redirect to take place, Judge Garnett asked some follow-up questions about a hypothetical arrest example she presented. She inquired as to why APD wouldn’t simply transport a closed bag directly into a safe locker to await any further instruction. Snyder testified that it would be a safety concern, so all weapons had to be properly removed first. She then asked why valuables considered personal property must be inventoried on the prisoner log, to which he testified that it is for safeguards against claims of theft.

At this, Agnifilo jumped up to ask one more question: “If you found something illegal during a search, would you do anything other than continue the search?” Snyder said: “no, we’d stop and get a search warrant.” This felt like a gotcha moment. I think Snyder had slowly been realizing that he was saying what the defense might have been hoping for, as he seemed to stutter through his answers as the proceedings neared their end.

Even in the redirect, when Snyder was asked if he’d get a warrant in other examples, he always testified that he would. The recross was brief, with only a clarification question as to the relevance of general order 3.1.2 being brought up.

After both teams rested for the day, the judge thanked everyone and said that the information presented helped her a lot. She stated that she had a lot to discuss and that we’d be seeing each other on the following Friday for scheduling. Though much was discussed, the hearing itself was quite brief, only lasting a few hours. It was definitely nothing like the state suppression hearings, which were long and seemed to turn into a mini trial. This was succinct and to the point, in comparison.

As we left the courtroom, we chatted with supporters and friends about whether the death penalty would be dropped before the next hearing, or whether Judge Garnett was waiting to announce it in court on the 30th. I felt nervous but hopeful, especially seeing how fair and open Judge Garnett has seemed so far. She’s patient and respectful, yet firm. I can tell she is not dozing off or getting bored with the proceedings, like Judge Carro seemed to in December. Her follow-up questions are always helpful for my own understanding and her statements are easy to follow. I can only believe deeply in my spirit that this will bode well for Luigi and charges three and four will be dropped. I do believe they will be.

Whether or not the charges do get dropped, however, it is vital that those of us who support Luigi keep speaking up and showing palpable support in every which way possible. And that we support those that do, no matter if our methods are different from one another. The more unique approaches that can be added to the mix, the better. Anything that evokes strong emotions can shape how the public, and by extension, the justice system, understands a defendant, a case, or a system itself. Many of us can disassociate from facts, but it’s hard to look away from something that evokes a deep feeling in you. Regardless of the decision on the charges and the long journey ahead, I do believe in our capability to spread awareness about Luigi’s case and to continue fighting for his acquittal.

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As a young girl, I learned very quickly that there were unspoken rules for my conduct. Be palatable, always smile, and don’t have too many opinions. Especially not the different kinds of opinions. Those were the worst. I’ve spent a lifetime being berated and punished for deviating from the norm: by schools I attended, industries I worked in, and crowds that I thought I’d be accepted in. This is a story of my journey through accepting that I was unacceptable, and choosing myself even when no one else would.

When I was first put into modelling at the age of six, my parents thought it was best for me to hide it from my school and my peers. Despite having a full time career at one of the top agencies before my age even reached double digits, my parents, and especially my mom who had been a model herself, knew very well what would follow: judgement. So I lived two separate lives to start; my professional one, where I was respected and seen as a top child model, and my everyday one, where I was shy and kept mostly to my books. I always loved to read and gain new perspectives. Since the professional space I inhabited did not usually take kindly to the outward, rebellious expression typical of a child finding its personality, I would delve into stories and writing to expel it from my system.

From the moment I can remember gaining consciousness about societal expectations, I was taught that suppressing my emotions and opinions in favor of a more palatable and submissive version of myself would take me the furthest in my career, and allow for me to gain the most widespread popularity in life. This was hammered into me by my agency—who expected us to get even a miniscule haircut approved by them—and by the media—who spent the early 2000s plastering rebellious women like Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears on their front pages with inflammatory headlines. I always loved reading these magazines on set. Not because I agreed with the tabloids’ depiction of these women, but because I was fascinated by their displays of freedom. I was enthralled by their capability to act in a way that was true to themselves, even in the face of constant harassment.

When I moved to New York from New Jersey after a year of commuting to the city for castings and shoots, my career ramped up. I also skipped the third grade, and had to make sure I learnt multiplication tables in a week or else fall behind in fourth grade, where everyone was older and thus, more intimidating. New York felt like the land of opportunity but it was also the land of the unknown. I still played with Barbies while my new friends were calling each other “bitches.” I was just starting to dress myself when my friends were begging their mothers to let them buy training bras. I had to grow up fast to catch up. And my career expected the same thing: never cry, never deviate, always act poised. Be an adult. Though I rose to the occasion, it was a lot of pressure for someone so small to handle. I loved being told I was mature and an “old soul.” I loved that people had expectations for me, and were impressed when I even surpassed them.

But I was also a deeply sensitive person, who was learning that her emotions were not safe to express. I can remember feeling misunderstood by the world, even then. It only got worse when my secret was inevitably revealed. One of my peers brought a catalogue I had done for Macy’s to school one day. In the early 2000s, these pamphlets were sent to peoples’ homes to advertise the releases they had for the upcoming season. They unfolded it in front of me and set it down on the table, pointing at a picture of me smiling in a track suit. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

From then on, I wasn’t the quiet girl who always had her head in a book anymore. Suddenly I was seen. But not in the way I was seen in my professional life. Rather, I was a target for bullying. Those who had never once spoken to me before, the popular kids, would come up to me giggling in gym class: “don’t break a nail!” People would murmur as I walked down the hall, but never tried to directly engage with me. For the most part, I only had a handful of friends, and only one that I felt truly seen by.

When my school caught wind of my outside life, they called my mom and I into a conference to discuss their concerns. Though I had been at the top of my class and always got my schoolwork done on set, they expressed the belief that my career would get in the way of my education and distract others from theirs. With only a few months left until graduation, they threatened to kick me out of the school. My mom had to beg for them to let my performance and hard work speak for itself and allow me to finish the year, which they reluctantly did.

And it would be fine going forward, or so I told myself. Because the following year, I was set to attend Professional Children’s School. A performing arts school known for its celebrity alumni, PCS allowed for kids to pursue careers in the arts while giving them the infrastructure and the support necessary to still receive a meaningful education. As long as you were getting your work done on the online portal, you could spend weeks on set and no one would bat an eyelash when you returned. I thought there was no way that I could be outcast again, when everyone around me would be so similar to me.

When my parents went through a nasty divorce and custody battle for me, I was just entering the seventh grade. It shook me deeply and I went through an identity crisis. After my father lost custody of me, he cut me off completely, and told a twelve year old me that it was my responsibility to fix things with him, and stop listening to my mother. My mother told me not to listen to him, and I watched as she dealt with her own struggles as an immigrant single mother in the most expensive city in America. Though I was deeply hurting, I did not feel like I had any sort of safe space to be heard and to express how I felt, especially when my moms’ issues seemed so much greater than mine.

So, I went online. I became infatuated with k-pop and the online subculture surrounding it. I made friends, most of which I didn’t ever actually meet, but some of which I still know to this day. I stayed up all night watching live performances and taking notes on k-dramas to try and teach myself to speak Korean. I made many friends, one of which would even take me to Korea with her for the first time when I was only thirteen. I loved it so much that I fell deeper into my passion. I opened my own fanbase for my favorite idol and started to translate documents and attend shows. I would line up for once-in-a-blue-moon concerts for days at a time on the streets of Times Square with people twice (and sometimes even three times) my age. I would go back to Seoul every summer and spend months there. These things don’t sound that outlandish now that k-pop has become so integrated into American pop culture, but back then, no one much understood it.

My friends were supportive, but when my principal caught wind of me telling my peers I wanted to move to Seoul one day, he called me into his office. I’ll never forget how fearful I felt, because he had never even spoken to me much before this, and I couldn’t even guess what the meeting was going to be about. “You know, so many would kill to be in the position you are currently in. But you want to throw it all away to go to a place that’s basically only rice fields? A place that could fall into nuclear war at any minute? You’re going to throw it all away for a phase?” He was calling me ungrateful, and suggesting that I stop pursuing what made me feel passionate.

But being within this community was one of the first times I didn’t feel misunderstood. It was one of the first times I was allowed to be frivolous and emotional, yet still learn about other countries and spread awareness of their beauty. To him, because I was not choosing the convenience of my own privilege and instead yearning to understand something else, I was being naive. I was just a silly fangirl who couldn’t possibly be serious and who most definitely wouldn’t be successful.

When my dad stopped paying my tuition mid-year out of spite, I had to transfer at the last minute to a public school in my district. I was scared because most of the kids there had already known each other for years, and I was going to be the weird newcomer. I had dreams of a high school experience like High School Musical, where even the weird kids could dance and sing with the jocks, and everyone would eventually come to support each other. But again, this was not the case. I still remember my first day of tenth grade. I felt twelve again, as people murmured about me in the halls and no one came up to speak with me. Someone told me that a rumor was spread about me coming: that a “model” would be joining. What they didn’t expect was for me to be a weird k-pop stan. I struggled immensely to make friends. I can only remember having a few and these were the kids who also liked k-pop so they didn’t see my interest as weird.

The popular kids, on the other hand, would bully me, pointing to the photo on my phone background and calling the idols I liked women. Or calling me gay, for liking such “effeminate” men. They’d tell me to go to North Korea or joke about me stanning Kim Jong Un. I was tired of explaining myself to those who didn’t even try to speak to me before forming an opinion of me. And I found it abhorrent that they would so casually generalize a whole culture before even attempting to understand it. So, I pretty much opted out of trying to be understood. I focused heavily on my studies. I got a part-time job that I went to right after school, and worked until late at night to save up. I had a goal in mind. I wanted to prove everyone wrong, and prove myself right. I was going to go to university in Korea.

Finally, the time came to have our meetings with college advisors. I braced myself. I knew what was coming from them, by that point. I knew so well I could have recited it to them before they even opened their mouths. Most of my peers didn’t even know which school they wanted to attend. But I had already equipped myself with knowledge about the application process and what I had to do to get accepted and brought all of it to my very first meeting. I didn’t expect that my advisor would know the application process, but I just wanted her support. When the school put up their annual world map with pins depicting where every student intended to go for college, she was hesitant to put mine in Korea. Mine was the only pin not in the United States.

But she didn’t try to stop me either. No one could really stop me, anymore. I was seventeen and headstrong. I went to take the TOPIK exam, made sure to score high on my SAT, and sent my applications overseas with bated breath. The Korean schools’ acceptance announcements were set to be after most of my peers applying to colleges in the USA would decide where they’d be attending, so I knew the path forward would be discouraging. I knew I was on my own. But by then, I had come to rely on myself first and foremost anyway. I realized that most people would be naysayers, as they had been my whole life up to that point. I knew by then that if I believed in myself, and knew my intentions, it didn’t matter what anyone else thought about them. As I watched all my peers giddily announce their acceptances and wear merch from their schools, I kept on believing that my dream would come to fruition.

I still remember the day I was accepted. The email came in while I was at a performance of The Color Purple on Broadway. It was such a beautiful show, and the singers’ talent gave me goosebumps. It was the final show for one of the leads, and as she took her final bows, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Thankfully, my happy tears for my acceptance simply came across as an emotional response to her own announcement. I ran home and told my mom and my now step-dad, who were both happy and sad. Happy that my dreams were coming true, but sad that I was leaving. As an immigrant herself, my mom always knew the day could come for me, and she didn’t try to stop me. She even came to Korea with me to help me move into my dorm room.

And when she left, and I was truly on my own, I felt so free for the first time. Free from expectations and the conventions society had been attempting to impose on me since I gained consciousness. Free from prying eyes and disappointing glances and murmurs in the hall. Free to make my own choices and mistakes. There were others, like me. I made some great friendships, some of which I still have to this day. I travelled across Asia and experienced how different life could be. I realized that America, and New York especially, was not the center of the world. I saw how wrong everyone had been about my dream. I felt fulfilled.

But I was changing again. It was 2016, and Trump had just been elected for the first time. As a first generation American to South American immigrant parents, I felt mortified. Many of my peers found it funny. But my professors understood the gravity of the situation, and started to show me the world through a lens that I had never been taught in America. I started to become more radicalized. I took classes on counter-culture, where we read Steal this Book by Abbie Hoffman, and learned how to combat the effects of colonialism, imperialism, and living in a nightmarish panopticon in our own unique and creative ways. I took classes on dreams that taught us how to trust our own intuition and listen to the voices in our heads. I took classes on rock music legends who spoke out against injustices and were criticized until they died and everyone suddenly celebrated them. I took free writing classes, where I was able to hone my writing skills and my creative, emotional mindset was encouraged. All the while, I was living a life so unique to my peers back home, that most could not relate to me at all when we facetimed to catch up. But I didn’t need their understanding. I realized that no one ever came to save me, but myself. And I had gotten myself very far with that belief.

The way society operates in Seoul is very fascinating. While Korean culture itself is very community based and family oriented, the hyper-capitalist and competitive nature of the capital city demanded individualism. You should always stand out from your peers by being the best at your studies or talents. But on the other hand, dress too different or love someone you’re not meant to, and you’re an outcast. Because I was a foreigner, I was always an outsider, even if I spoke Korean well or tried to dress like everyone else. I’d be a part of the community on one hand, but always the foreign girl operating within it. When Korean natives found out where I was from, they could never understand why I would come to Korea. People would point at me in the subway, and take photos of me. They would touch my hair without my permission, and befriend me because I was different. I don’t think any of this was ill intentioned, or coming from a bad place. But Seoul was still very homogenous back then, and it was a genuine shock to people that their culture was becoming mainstream.

But because of the differences I eventually came to perceive, I didn’t feel like I could fully integrate myself there. I found the misogyny, racism, and homophobia that was very normalized to be ostracizing. I dated a Korean man once, who didn’t speak a word of English. So we spoke in Korean always. Though he liked that I was American, he would expect me to conduct myself in the way Korean girls were expected to act. Don’t curse, don’t get tattoos, don’t have too many opinions. Can you cook? Can you clean? Will you submit yourself to me? I laughed at every question.

Living in New York and working in the entertainment industry made me so “woke” that I struggled to mesh with my Korean peers, and found myself forced to keep within the group of foreigners only. As an immigrant child who always struggled with her identity growing up, I felt more American than ever. Meanwhile, I began to go viral on instagram in America because I lived in Korea, which was seen as different. Again, I was in limbo.

So, I took a gap year and moved to Los Angeles. A manager had reached out to me to sign me as an influencer after seeing my growth, and I started to accept brand deals through her guidance. For a girl who loved fashion and taking pictures for fun, it felt like a dream to do this for thousand dollar checks. She said that I could use the attention to build a career in modeling or acting, and be whoever I wanted. It sounded amazing to me, who wouldn’t accept it? So, at nineteen years old, I moved into a house with two other influencers and tried my best to play the part. We spent our days taking pictures on the street and our nights in the mega mansions of the ultra rich, smoking weed and taking shrooms. It was magical, at first. I felt like I had made it.

Until I started to see the cracks. In the dark corners of the parties, abuse happened. If you spoke up, you were ostracized. Excuses were always made for the abusers, who were normally those in positions of power. Many hoped to get those eyes on them to potentially get a chance to climb up the ladder. Rather than focusing on career building, I felt that what was really hammered into young bright-eyed talent was that proximity to the wealthy and connected would get you further. If you traded in your morality and glazed over your eyes, you’d have a contract and 3 million followers in no time. But I couldn’t dampen my voice. It wasn’t in me.

At the same time, the Black Lives Matter protests were ramping up in LA after Breonna Taylor was brutally murdered in her own home. I began to speak up on my platform and asked my peers to. Only a few complied, and we went to the protests together. I witnessed the tear gassing. The sounds of the helicopters circling LA kept me up all night. One tiktoker, who went on to become a now beloved pop darling who performs leftism, unfollowed me after I asked her to use her platform to post to spread awareness. I found out her family were hardcore Trump supporters, and it made sense. My instagram itself became shadow banned and I got dms telling me that I “knew nothing.” They wanted me to show apathy, rather than strength.

One tidbit really stands out to me from my time in LA: I was in the friend group of a very well known nepo-baby rapper/actor. He was dating my roommate at the time, after I introduced them to one another. He would take us on trips to the Bahamas with staff at our beck and call. He’d offer us drugs and alcohol, and tell us about his family who he claimed everyone knew was “like the mafia.” His ultra famous friends would come around as we lazed around the recording studio all day. He used our voices on songs, promised us contracts and opportunities, and they just never came.

By this time, only a few months into living in LA, I began to get suspicious of everyone and their intentions. I had seen how many dangled opportunities in front of you to get something out of you. I had evaded attempts at sexual abuse and had grown men scream “do you know what I could do for your career?” in my face as I shakily called my uber home. And I watched as these people went onto gaslight me, get shielded by their friends, and to this day, remain celebrated in the industry.

I was so disgusted by what I saw and experienced, I stopped dating permanently in 2020. One thing became very apparent to me: no amount of money or accolades could fix a lonely and miserable spirit. It became clear to me that those who had less financially but had community and love were far richer than the wealthy in their big empty mega yachts. Even if they filled them with hot desperate models, most of these girls were there to get something out of them. Not to actually befriend them for who they were—which wasn’t much to write home about anyway.

On the night of my roommate’s birthday, her big shot boyfriend had made a reservation in the party room of Nobu Malibu. We gathered together, eating copious amounts of raw fish and looking out into the Malibu sunset. One of the women sitting near me was a very well known influencer, who had been around for a long time. She was much older than me, and very well connected. She spent hours talking about herself, and all the people she knew. Most notably, she spoke to us about a very infamous tech billionaire owner of AI companies and electric cars. Someone I was, obviously, familiar with. She spoke about him using his first name only, to show her obvious yet casual proximity to him, something that many in LA often did to flex.

She said he was lonely because his girlfriend was pregnant, and he had a really big house with a nice hot tub, and no one to enjoy it with. She was asking us if we would go and hang out with him to keep him company. I immediately found this to be odd. What did this older tech billionaire have in common with two young girls trying to start up their careers? The way she spoke felt like a madam trying to entice naive girls to sell themselves to the highest bidder. My alarm bells immediately went off and I laughed her off instead of taking her up on her offer.

Because of my refusal to comply, I guess I was a party pooper. My roommate’s big shot boyfriend stopped inviting me to his events . Eventually, those that I thought were my friends completely shunned me. And it made it even worse that I “lost” my conventional attractiveness, since my cystic acne was back in full swing. Again, the murmurs were loud. What happened to her? Even my instagram audience seemed to demonize me for something completely out of my control. I became that ostracized and misunderstood seven year old again.

In 2020, with only a few months left on my lease in LA, COVID hit. What was already a lonely time for me became a period of staunch agoraphobia. I left LA and moved to my parents’ house in New Jersey, hoping to finish my studies. Because of COVID, classes were moved online. But since I was on the opposite side of the world, this meant going completely nocturnal for one whole year to get my bachelors’ degree finished. I figured it was of little consequence to me: I was sick and tired of people anyway. LA made me distrust everyone’ s intentions and even made me second guess my own mind. I went through a period of disassociation and derealization. I felt disconnected from my body and walked around feeling like a spirit. I didn’t want to be perceived, and decided I was going to stop posting online for good.

I threw myself into finishing my degree. I got a regular job. I even eventually moved to Amsterdam to pursue a Masters’ degree, after working on getting my mental and physical health back to where it was pre-LA. Things were looking up.

But I didn’t know what to do anymore. I was lost. I lacked ambition. I felt like I kept battling against a system rigged against me. The people I saw coming out on top were the ones who obeyed and made society happy by doing what was expected of them. I knew very well that this would never work for me, but I thought I could try, at least to make my family feel proud of me. At least to just be perceived as normal, for once. I felt tired of fighting back, and I felt like my exhaustion made me disconnected from who I had been all along. I had to relearn to trust my own mind and instincts.

Things began to shift again when Trump was elected a second time. I felt survivors’ guilt being in Europe, watching as Roe V. Wade was overturned and Trump made promises to remove immigrants from the country at whatever cost. I knew that I was at a very important crossroads: find a job to stay in the EU and live a simple life while observing the country I grew up in being destroyed, or return home and use my platform to do some kind of good. I was running into a lot of problems trying to get a visa, even with a masters’ degree and almost ten years of experience in my field. I’d get to the last round and once they realized I wanted a visa, I’d be ghosted.

At a time when Americans were looked down upon by the rest of the world for Trumps’ own actions, no one wanted to invest in keeping an American at their company. Even if I offered to pay the fees myself, they laughed it off and said “that’s not really the issue.” I knew Dutch people really didn’t like expats—they made that abundantly clear to my face while I was living there—but their disdain for Americans, even those who left the country due to its issues and agreed with their views, was glaring. I felt that, even if I did make it work to stay, I’d never be able to fully integrate. I’d always be asked who I voted for before I’d even be asked my age. Which was valid, in a sense.

But then December 4th, 2024 happened. I saw what happened as a major shift in consciousness. Suddenly, we were all talking about the same things. We were all agreeing about what was really wrong, and who was to blame. For once, we weren’t pointing fingers at our neighbors, but at the politicians and billionaires who sought to take advantage of us at the expense of our futures. And suddenly, the apathy that I felt was emblematic of my generation who made jokes about Trumps’ threats instead of taking them at face value started to dissolve. I saw that people were tired and wanted to stand up.

For someone who had been trying to not be American since before I can remember, I yearned for so long for an intellectual change in the hearts of my people. And for the first time, I saw a spark of hope for that. It was the catalyst I needed to, once again, forget what people would say about me and log back online. My account, which sat pretty dormant for years, became something I could wield. This time, for activism. I expected it to be hard—a platform I cultivated while being a capitalist pawn recording myself doing hauls and collabs with influencers would be difficult to shift to a platform used for awareness and to spread class consciousness. But as scared as I was, I knew I had to be ten times more brave.

And so, I moved back to America. I started to speak up for things that could be seen as wildly controversial. While it has been amazing and worth it, I’d be lying if I said it was easy. The misogynistic dismissals I’ve had to experience are akin to what I’ve dealt with my whole entire life. At seven, seventeen, and now twenty-seven: I am always the girl in the principal’s office, being told how to conduct myself and what to support. I didn’t listen then, and I won’t listen now. Everything I was early to—that I was criticized for—became my peers’ very own goals and interests a couple years later. I watched as society became obsessed with Korean culture, and how everyone scrambled to become an influencer, even after calling me stupid for having interest in pursuing both things. They utilized sexism to undermine my passions and then delve into them once the herd has accepted them as cool and safe to embrace.

I was never told that I was right too early, or that I paved a way then. And I don’t expect it now. But to think that I’d ever listen to people who seem so desperate for outward validation, so much so that they don’t listen to their true nature, is almost as absurd as trying to dictate someone else’ s life. I spent my life having to be polite to those who were disrespectful to my dreams, who told me I was a naive little girl. And I’ll be damned if I ever take that to heart, ever again.

Just as capitalism rewards compliance in its citizens, society tells us to reprimand our own neighbors for deviating from the expected norm. Instead of being inspired by someone who chases the uncool before it is cool, people will try everything in their power to dim your spirit and make you one of them. Misery loves company, and if they can’t be themselves happily, boy will they make sure you can’t either. More often than not, misogyny is disguised as valid concerns, helpful guidance, or even shining opportunities.

This is my call to action to let girls and women conduct themselves in a way that doesn’t have to make sense to everyone else. Allow women to be messy and to forge their own path by walking it. Support loud mouthed and stubborn women who do what they do in the face of a society that constantly tells them to become acceptable. While those who told me not to chase my dreams are still doing the same things as they were back then, I’ve lived out every single one of my dreams so far, with zero regrets. I encourage all women to do the same. Listen to your intuition. Seek your own approval. The rest will follow.

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It was a full moon on the morning of the fourth, and when I woke up, she was still shining, a massive glowing orb lighting my path to the courthouse. I’m a little superstitious about full moons—often opting to stay home to protect myself from the unpredictable energy that they can bring. But on the morning of the anniversary of the alleged shooting, I put all of my worries aside, instead opting to consider the moon’s presence as a watchful eye over me. I arrived at 100 Centre street in the wee hours of the morning, and the wind was absolutely brutal. I bought several of the line sitters, who were standing in a doorway to avoid the wind, coffee and donuts when I arrived. Then I joined the others in line, switching out with Kevin, but not before giving him some hand warmers and a big thank you hug. All my friends seemed really tired and relieved to be done with the night. I felt for them; their stress and exhaustion was palpable. The energy was much more restrained. We entered, and I immediately noticed the absence of members of the media in the hallway barricades. The only ones who remained were David (shoutout to him for coming day after day), and one of the Getty photographers. It was a shame too, because lots of supporters wore statement shirts in the days following December 1st, and so many creative ones too! It’s the perfect way to ensure the media reports on your messaging, one way or another. If you want to make a statement in this way, state court is the only time supporters are photographed inside. Federal does not allow this, so it’s better for those who want to attend and still maintain as much anonymity as possible. (Note: It is important to always stay wary of cameras regardless, even outside the courthouse. Many live streamers have attempted to zoom into my lips to catch my personal conversations while on the line. Never say anything you wouldn’t broadcast on TV while waiting in line.)

There was also a noticeable lack of members of the press inside of the courtroom, when we first filed in. Many of them often seem to file in late (or leave early) so the fullness of the media pews waxes and wanes as the day goes on. They are allotted so much room that they can pretty much waltz in at whatever time and guarantee a good spot for themselves, meanwhile we don’t always get the four whole pews we are usually allotted to—even if the rest of the room is basically empty. If the court officers aren’t feeling it that day, they won’t even let the public sit on the left side like they normally do. They know we want to sit there. They know it’s the only area of the room where the view of Luigi’s actual reactions to the proceedings, the witness, and the judge can be observed well. It’s already bad enough that you can’t hear well in the back, but when you sit on the right side, sometimes all you can see is the judge. You can’t usually see the witness or the defense at all. You’re lucky to even see the DA. Or, worst case scenario, you’ll just get to see the backs of peoples’ heads for 5 hours straight. It frustrates me endlessly that more room isn’t made for the public to bear witness to the proceedings (as it is for the press,) even when the space obviously exists. And while the members of the press already seemed over it by day two, us supporters were more spirited and energetic than ever, even as the days went on.

That day was the first time I got to see any BWC footage. Prior to this hearing, I had only heard the cops’ accounts of Luigi allegedly seeming nervous, or allegedly replying that he “clearly shouldn’t have” given them a fake ID. But seeing the footage in person was so different, and I’m grateful to have been given the opportunity to see it for myself and form my own opinions of what happened in that Altoona McDonalds on December 9th. The days’ testimony was led by Officer Frye, a 26 year old and fairly new officer to the APD who was one of the first responders to the scene. Getting over the initial shock that the officer and I were the same age, I noticed Frye seemed visibly nervous during his whole testimony. Maybe it was his inexperience or the amount of eyes on him, but I could see him shifting in his seat and looking around the room anxiously.

Frye’s Testimony & Cross Examination:

(As in my last article, this won’t be an exhaustive account of his testimony, but rather what stood out to me and my impressions on it.)

• When we first see Frye approach Luigi in McDonalds via Detwiler’s BWC, Luigi seems very confident as he gives the Mark Rosario NJ license over as identification.

• The officers question Luigi briefly about what he’s doing in McDonalds, to which he replies that he “just needed wifi.”

• The officers question him about if he lived or had any family in the area (to which Luigi responded that he was homeless at the moment), and asked him if he had been to New York recently (which he shakes his head at.)

• As they stand over his table, Luigi begins unwrapping his breakfast and eating it, not demonstrating nervous qualities in the slightest. He doesn’t fidget with his belongings or try to move his backpack away from the officers. Frye casually tells Luigi that the steak sandwich he was eating was his favorite.

• When the officers tell Luigi that they were called because he overstayed McDonalds time limit–which Frye admits is not actually why they came nor is it a real policy–Luigi answers back that he hadn’t been there long, and his receipt said 8:55 AM (it was only approximately half past nine AM at this point.)

• Luigi then asks the officers what he can do to not be deemed suspicious next time, to which they reply to not stay as long next time. Luigi seems to reply with a knowing smile/chuckle.

• During this brief questioning as the officers wait around for Luigi’s ID to be called in, Detwiler grabs and moves the backpack away from Luigi without notifying him first.

• In the courtroom, I could see Luigi taking avid notes during Frye’s testimony, and handing blue sticky notes over to his team quite often. He watched the BWC intently. I was shocked that he never seems to yawn or disassociate, even when the judge seems to be falling asleep. He always looks extremely attentive.

• As more officers show up to the McDonalds and surround Luigi, it becomes more apparent that there is no possible exit route left for him. No officer tells Luigi he is detained or arrested by this point, however.

• After a brief pat down search, an officer finally asks Luigi if the backpack is his, to which he says yes. The officers then move the bag and Luigi’s laptop to a table to the right of him, several feet away. Officers stand in the aisle between his table and the one with his belongings on it, completely blocking his access to his belongings and obstructing his view to the search that was beginning to take place.

• One officer asks Luigi if he knows “what all this nonsense is about.” Luigi simply replies “I guess we’re going to find out.” He looks mildly perturbed or taken aback but not nervous at all. He isn’t shifty or antsy. He is very still and quiet.

• At this point, the officers have been made aware that the NJ ID is fake. Patrolman Fox approaches and starts questioning Luigi about the fake NJ ID. He inquires about Luigi’s real name. Luigi is told that if he lies again, he will be detained. Luigi immediately complies and provides officers with his full name.

• They ask him twice why he provided a fake ID, to which he responds initially: “I clearly shouldn’t have.” When asked a second time, Luigi states: “that was the ID I had in my wallet.”

• It is only after this moment, when officers suggested he would not be detained if he properly identified himself, that officers read him his Miranda rights. They ask him if he’d like to make any statements, to which he declines. Fox maintains that he is still not in custody at this moment, even as they perform another patdown and remove items (like a jar of peanut butter) from Luigi’s jacket. Luigi also tells them he has a small and completely legal pocket knife on him, which they remove and place at the table with the rest of his belongings.

• After Luigi is cuffed, he remains standing as he is photographed and Officer Wasser continues to search his bag at the table to his right.

• While we hear her claim that she’s searching just in case there’s something like a bomb in the bag, we see officers fail to secure the busy McDonalds, even allowing patrons to walk directly next to the scene of the search.

• As officers keep arriving, Luigi asks: “can I ask why there are so many cops here?” He says he’s “not that big” and just wearing a puffy jacket. An officer simply replies “just trying to figure it out…”

• After he is cuffed, he is searched again, and officers begin to remove everything from his pockets, even loose change. In the background, one can observe Officer Wasser elbows deep in Luigi’s backpack, pulling objects out and chatting to the officers around her.

• Luigi is taken off of the scene into the patrolcar as they continue to search his bag at McDonalds. In later testimony, APD officers claim that, as per their manuals, searches are always to be done in front of the suspect, unless they believe the suspect could potentially reach dangerous contraband in their bag to retaliate in some way. APD officers also continually testified that searches are almost always done in the presence of the suspect, to protect officers against claims of theft. It was clear that while at the McDonalds, Luigi could not reach his bag while cuffed and separated by several officers. It was also quite clear to me that the search should not have continued outside of his presence, and without a warrant (since there was a potential that the evidence would be useful to the NY case.)

• We don’t see this footage, but Frye testifies that once in the car, Luigi allegedly asked for the officers names and apologized for the “inconvenience of the day.”

• The BWC then snaps to another scene, as the officers are bringing Luigi into the intake area at the precinct. While Luigi is made to strip down to one layer (as per policy), the officers begin asking him intake questions.

• He is asked for an emergency contact, which he initially declines.

• The officers then tell him they are going to perform a cavity search. The BWC camera turns off, and when it turns back on Luigi is red in the face and looks, frankly, humiliated and bewildered. This footage was extremely difficult and enraging to watch. It was clear to me that this was upsetting to Luigi, and I felt awful that he had to relive that several times with all of us in the room. Frye testified that cavity searches are not normally performed, especially if someone is only brought in on forgery charges.

• The officers ask him again about the emergency contact, saying that they need someone to alert if “something were to happen to him” while he was at the precinct. He reluctantly gives his mothers’ information. Though said in a casual manner, this comment seemed very odd and mildly threatening. At the least, it was an invasive way of trying to get information out of him that he had already declined to provide.

• When asked about any scars, marks, or tattoos, Luigi says “back scar” and shows it to officers.

• After a few more questions, they take him back to a holding cell while officers search his backpack in a hallway offscreen.

• We are shown several angles of this BWC footage, along with an exhaustive amount of exhibit photos of the belongings allegedly found on Luigi (like receipts, train tickets, and to-do lists.)

• After the break, the cross examination finally begins. Jacob Kaplan takes the stand in front of Frye. He asks Frye if he’s typically allowed to tell lies (like the one about overstaying at McDonalds) to elicit statements from suspects. Frye says he is allowed to and does do it.

• Frye admits that he did not read Luigi his Miranda rights right away, and confirms that he heard some officers on the scene suggest that the bag be searched back at the station, which was ultimately ignored until a magazine was found.

• Frye claims that Luigi was not argumentative, aggressive, or difficult with officers in any way. Kaplan once again asks if cavity searches are usual for a fraudulent identification charge, especially of a cooperative defendant, to which Frye reiterates that they are not normally done.

What stood out to me most about the BWC footage is how giddy some of the officers seemed that day. Rather than the solemnity and trauma they claimed to feel at the alleged crime being committed, the officers’ laughing faces and lit up eyes only demonstrated the opposite. They seemed excited by the promise of what was to come for their careers if they did secure the “NYC shooter.” It was despicable to see Wasser blatantly ignore suggestions from her colleagues to search the bag at the precinct, and other suggestions that a warrant should be procured if they suspected Luigi of the New York crime, not just the fraudulent ID charge. Instead of heeding their warnings, she pressed on, smiling in wide-eyed amazement when she pulled a magazine out of a pair of underwear, as the other officers excitedly chimed in: “it’s fucking him!”

When looked at in tandem with testimony shared in the days following, it appeared as though the officers were not at all in accord on whether a search incident to arrest was appropriate or if a warrant should have been obtained. I’m not sure if this is bad police training or officers trying to cover their asses (or both), but it gave me second hand embarrassment to watch them celebrate over Luigi’s detainment and pretend to be solemn at the loss or even disturbed by him during their testimony. It just simply was not a believable act. In my own experience, the BWC footage of Luigi’s arrest makes him appear incredibly innocent. He was calm, cooperative, and never seemed anxious. In contrast, the officers’ response seemed overblown and extremely messy. The snippet of the BWC that was unsealed to the media was, coincidentally, the only part of the hours of footage that backs up the prosecution’s claims in any way. Only releasing the part where he gives a fake ID and not the rest of it seems very convenient for their narrative. I’m happy for any of the evidence to be suppressed, of course, but I think the BWC is what really makes it clear how badly the cops messed up, and how they were well aware that what they were doing did not follow policy, yet they went ahead regardless. Their actions made it clear that Luigi was profiled, fit the description in their minds, and so all procedure was off the table: they immediately felt inclined to search, question, and detain Luigi before having substantial evidence to link him to any sort of crime. It was clear to me that they made their minds up before arriving at the scene and likely would have made sure to find a way to detain him, even if he hadn’t provided a fake ID and given them reason to charge him with forgery.

After the Hearing:

That night, after the hearing, our group of recurring attendees banded together to brainstorm how we could make sure no one was camping in freezing temperatures anymore. Those who had endured the camping from the night before reported having to fight exhaustion inside of the courtroom and were extremely nervous about the dangerous things they experienced happening again. We knew there had to be another way that would allow us to get rest, stay warm, and most importantly, be safe. And if the officers refused to help us find a better system, it was up to us to do it instead. All of us were in agreement to meet at the courthouse at the exact same time the next morning and try our hand that way. If the same group of a dozen or so people were coming every day, we could work together to make it easier for each other, instead of competing to be on line by being the earliest possible. Any person not in our chat would still have room to try their hand at attending, since we weren’t a full group of 24 at that point. Many of us were also simply sick and tired of paying line sitters upwards of hundreds of dollars for a spot. There are many individuals that camp out on these lines in hopes of selling the spot to a desperate passerby (basing the price off of your desperation,) and if not, they simply take up a spot inside of the courtroom to sleep. Only some of them leave and give up their number if it is not purchased. We found it truly unacceptable that these people were hoarding spots to something they did not actually care about, when we really wanted to ensure that supporters were there instead.

After discussing with some of the line sitters if they would willingly stop taking up spots, we realized the only way to prevent this from happening was to unionize against them. We couldn’t realistically ask them to give up an opportunity to make money–that much was clear. But if we all showed up together and none of us paid, maybe they’d get the message. So, we took a gamble on this plan. We made a group chat with the recurring attendees so that we could alert people to how many people there were when we arrived, and communicate about any supplies we might need to bring. The plan was to gauge interest from the recurring attendees, see how many planned to come, and what time others would show up. Upon arriving, we were in agreement that if anyone from the public (and not in our chat) was there before us, they would be given their spot numbers, fair and square, before we even thought about numbering ourselves. That way, anyone could go warm up at Dunkin for awhile or grab some food and easily come back to their spot. As we showed up, we’d get our number placements in the order we arrived. If someone who said they wanted to come in the chat ended up arriving at 8am when we were already at capacity, they would simply not be able to make it in. But at least we could tell them, through the chat, that it was already full, so they didn’t have to waste their time coming down to the courthouse and finding out for themselves. And conversely, if we were not at capacity or some people wanted to switch out at lunchtime, we could alert other people that there were spots left and to rush down to the courthouse, always ensuring pews full of supporters.

I felt pretty nervous when I woke up on December 5th, because I truly did not know if our method would work or not. But when I arrived at the courthouse that morning, I was astounded that it actually did. And thankfully so, as Luigi was sick on the 5th, so court was immediately adjourned. I felt concern for Luigi’s condition: it had been so much on our bodies and spirits so I couldn’t imagine how exhausted and under the weather he must have felt. But on the other hand, I felt so much relief that no one had camped in freezing temperatures overnight for that hearing.

From that day on, we were able to work together in a way that I am so proud of, because it meant that we could help each other out and rely on each other, rather than trying to beat one another out for a spot. People who weren’t there can say whatever they want about our methods; it’s easy to criticize something you know nothing about from an anonymous account. But the fact of the matter is that no one should have to camp out like that, and we should be working together to find civilized methods to allow everyone to attend. I implore everyone to come and see how the method has improved the line experience for everyone (even officers have thanked us for being so well behaved,) before spreading misinformation. The fact of the matter is that drama and misbehavior on the line (which is often exacerbated by lack of sleep) makes the officers less inclined to let all of us in, and even less so inclined to allow us to sit on the left side of the room. Last February’s disorganized scene proved this: a smaller room was chosen for the hearing so only 20 supporters were let in that day and officers were very clearly disgruntled. Organizing amongst ourselves and working together is the best way to secure our right to spectate while also showing the media that we are not unhinged fangirls, but steady advocates.

Much like the drama surrounding it, Luigi’s case depends on what is seen, what’s hidden, and who is there to bear witness to either one of these. The full moon can only illuminate so much of the path forward; what comes after depends on what we do with what we observe. Just as we must speak up for Luigi, it is also on us to push back against the blatant lies and rumor mongering that have surrounded our collaborative efforts to make the line more tolerable and accessible. As the full moon illuminates every corner of a darkened alley, it is everyone’s responsibility–whether it comes to the case or to supporters—to question every claim made and to remain vigilant. A reminder: it is up to the prosecution to prove alleged crimes with solid evidence. The defense merely must make sure to cast reasonable doubt on the claims presented, especially when those making them have everything to gain from a guilty conviction. This is about Luigi, yes, but also about how we show up—for each other, for the truth, and for the right to bear witness without being mischaracterized, silenced, or pitted against one another. If we can be more like the full moon—steady, observant, and unwilling to dim one another’s light–we can ensure that the injustices in this case won’t disappear quietly into the dark. And that’s what truly matters the most.

(To be continued.)

Camping from November 29th to December 1st was an experience. I had been prepping for months: getting the perfect tent, making wristbands, and testing my sleeping bag. I spent most of Thanksgiving beading bracelets to give to other supporters as gifts on the line. On Saturday, I finally checked into the hotel that my friends and I had booked for just a couple nights. We decided that with the magnitude of stuff we had brought, it was the best way (for now, at least.) Ashley and Lena met me at the hotel, and we started to fill up the tote bags that Humanity Unmuted had made with the goodies, snacks, and supplies provided to us by Luigi’s Bookshop and Stats4Lulu. We also had printouts from The Plot and Death Penalty Action. Other generous supporters who preferred to remain unnamed donated goods or funds for supplies, which was really heartwarming and allowed us to make substantial care packages for everyone. Our ability to support Luigi in person could simply not have been done without the online community rallying behind us.

We hadn’t actually planned to start lining up until Sunday morning, but just for good measure, we booked a hotel close enough that we could run over to check on the line every few hours. We checked 100 Centre Street at 6:30PM and no one was there. So, we went to have dinner and chill at our hotel. Suddenly, at 9PM, a friend called frantically to say that 16 people were already there when she had just shown up. We dropped everything, ran over, and immediately set up our tents. I was number 18, only 6 numbers away from not making it inside. It suddenly dawned on me that I’d be staying out on the line even longer than I had in September, and that we were also expecting heavy rain and wind. Luckily, I felt pretty prepared.

The waiting went by abnormally fast—not because it was easy, but because we were in survival mode. Unlike September, when the weather was nice enough to converse or go for walks, most of us stayed inside of our tents to conserve heat this time. I rarely went back to our hotel, only to shower several times, or when I was feeling so cold that I needed a short break. I barely ate, feeling extremely nauseous every time I even thought about it. Nuts were the only thing I could stomach, and I drank copious amounts of coffee. The anxiety was too much. I always get preemptively nervous for the morning of the hearing, since the media is overwhelming and people often try to cut the line. Dealing with all of that chaos on no sleep can be extremely stressful.

When it started to rain on Sunday morning, the condensation on the top of our tent started to collect and drip back onto us and the layers of blankets we had stacked under us to shield us from the cold concrete. Everything was soggy and cold. The small portable heater I had brought helped immensely—at least to help keep us semi-dry. You could see the steam coming off of my wet socks as soon as I placed my foot nearby. I don’t know how anyone did the wait without a heater. I brought extra gas tanks with me so I could let other people take turns in front of it, but that only provided momentary relief. You’d have to sit in front of it 24/7 to really feel okay.

At midnight, I woke up suddenly. I was alone in the tent, and soaked. While Ashley and Lena were getting ready in the hotel, I was napping. My heater had just used up the last of the propane, and my wet socks were freezing my toes so badly that they were numb. I tried to go back to sleep but I couldn’t, and instead laid there rocking myself for warmth for what I believe was a few hours until they got back.

I took an Uber to the hotel because I did not feel up to the ten minute walk. When I got to the room, I immediately stepped into the hot shower, becoming human again. I got ready in complete silence and put on my crewneck I had custom made to send a message to the public, since I knew the media was likely going to plaster it all over like last time. May as well use their inevitable coverage to my advantage, right? Once I got back to the line, we napped a bit more. I started to feel really dizzy and like I was going to vomit. And I did—three times—between helping people put away their tents and packing up our stuff. Who knew that no sleep, little food, lots of coffee, lots of stress, lots of cold, and taking pain killers on an empty stomach would aggravate my acid reflux issues? I felt fine immediately after, though. That’s how my acid reflux issues have always been: the spell eventually passes. I quickly washed up and came back to speak to the media.

I think I spoke to every outlet that there is, whether we are from the same political faction or not. I want to reach as many people as possible when it comes to Luigi’s case. You never know who will be on the jury. Thankfully, I wasn’t as swarmed as I had been in September, because many other supporters spoke up this time around too. I really loved that many of our diverse perspectives were represented this time around, and I implore more people to keep coming forward to share their stories and thoughts. (I would not recommend this to just anyone. Be warned: these are experts at trying to trip you up for clicks. If you are a beginner, make sure you practice your talking points, stay focused, and don’t let them sidetrack you! And know that even if you think you’re good with the media, they will still do everything they can to sensationalize the story. See below. I get a kick out of it, though. You have to have a sense of humor about it.)

Suddenly, the officers announced we’d be entering, and they passed us our cards. Once inside, there is a certain feeling of relief that washes over you. It could honestly just be the warmth from the heater. We headed up to the 13th floor and I noticed there were a lot of members of the media in the hallway barricades, waiting to photograph us and the team. At this point, we didn’t know Luigi wouldn’t be walking the hallway and I guess the media also did not, because they seemed prepared to photograph him. I was really happy to see that this time a lot more supporters wore statement shirts (or green), had their faces uncovered, and were excited to walk proudly past the cameras. I felt a noticeable shift in how proud people seemed to be there to show their support for Luigi publicly.

Inside the Courtroom:

For brevity, and because many have already done in depth accounts, I will only share what was glaring to me about the 12/1 proceedings.

• After the defense, prosecution, and the judge walk in, Luigi appears in a grey suit from a side door. It took a long time for him to appear. He is shackled in the back until he arrives at the defense table, where the officers unshackle him and he sits down. He has folders (with many stacks of documents he consults) and binders in front of him, as well as a yellow pad to take notes and blue sticky notes to pass to his team. He takes avid notes, hunching considerably toward the table when he is doing so. He never yawns or looks bored like the judge often does. He is very engaged.

• Court pauses for a quick, yet slightly awkward photoshoot at the start with all the Getty photographers shooting directly in front of Luigi and the defense teams’ face. They exit the courtroom after a couple of minutes.

• A new angle of the shooting footage is played. The DA shows exhibits which are examples of what was disseminated to the media about the case, including the smiling Starbucks CCTV image of the suspect.

• We are played overhead blurry CCTV of Luigi allegedly attempting to order at a McDonald’s kiosk on December 9th, moments before his arrest. When he realizes it doesn’t take cash, he goes up to the register instead and seems to talk to the cashier for a while. Once he receives his order, he sits in the back dining area, near the restrooms. He plops his backpack on the floor next to him.

• We hear the 911 call.

  • This was not particularly striking to me. Neither the dispatcher nor the caller sound in distress about the situation and seem to be joking about his eyebrows.

• Side note: Luigi looked back at us supporters quite a lot at this time. He seemed to be taking us in and really analyzing us. He was serious, and almost unblinking. For a moment, he stared so intensely that I felt he was trying to communicate to us telepathically or something. I doubted my eyes, but many others later confirmed the moment (court sketch artists, journalists, other supporters). I am still wondering what was going through his mind at this time, but it was incredibly sobering. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look at supporters more than this day, even in the days following.

• A call for service report is displayed on screen which shows the dispatchers marked the call as “low priority.”

• The first 3 witnesses go by in a flash. The last two were much more in depth and compelling.

Testimony from Rivers

• Rivers began by talking about why Luigi was brought to SCI Huntingdon, and stating that they transferred him there for the time being because it is a level 4 security facility.

• Rivers states that Luigi was housed in D block which also meant he was on constant watch.

• Rivers testifies that he was instructed to take notes on Luigi’s movements 7x (?) an hour because SCI Huntingdon reportedly didn’t want an “Epstein style situation.”

• Since Luigi was not allowed kiosk access, which would be the standard way of receiving mail or email, Rivers claimed that he would bring all of Luigi’s correspondence to him already printed out.

• Luigi had no access to television, news, visitors, or to calling services during his time at SCI Huntingdon. Rivers testified that Luigi was only provided books for entertainment.

• Luigi was housed in a 8x12 cell with a concrete bed, desk, chair, toilet, and a very thin “mattress.”

• The assigned monitor, or Rivers, was always positioned 2 feet opposite the cell which has clear plexiglass walls.

• When Rivers testified that he had never restricted Luigi in his cell and had provided him with toiletries, Luigi reacted with a bewildered facial expression and seemed irritated by Rivers’ statements. He usually makes a lot of facial expressions, but these seemed to say “that’s ridiculous.”

• Rivers further goes on to claim Luigi was allowed one shower everyday or every two days. In order for him to shower, he had to be cuffed and brought to the shower area while the monitor waited for him outside to take him right back to his plexiglass cell.

• Rivers alleges that during his time surveilling Luigi, they spoke pleasantly and at length about things like travelling, global healthcare systems and differing levels of happiness, and even about the perception of Luigi and his case on social media.

• He claims Luigi was disappointed that he was being compared to Ted Kaczynski.

• He claims Luigi wanted to make and issue a public statement.

• He claims that on 12/17/24 they had another conversation about literature and Luigi allegedly recommended him to read The Doors of Perception by Huxley. He claims they spoke about obesity, as well. All in all, he says that Luigi had a “concise and logical way of speaking.”

• Rivers is asked about the constant observation forms which had to be filled out during surveillance. While these forms always seemed to contain thorough notes about what Luigi was doing (“writing, laying on bunk”), strangely none ever seemed to contain notes about any conversations being had.

Testimony from Henry

• When asked by the DA how he felt, he responded that he felt “agitated” to be testifying in court. He seemed very ticked off the whole time.

• Henry claims to have had a one-sided conversation in which Luigi began “blurting out” information to him about having a backpack with foreign currency and a 3D printed gun. Henry alleges that he never responded to Luigi or engaged with him in any way to prompt this interaction. This goes directly against Rivers’ own testimony about Luigi speaking in a “concise and logical way.”

• In the cross, the defense seems to be arguing, again, that with such thorough note taking (ex: 12/12 - “laying on bunk; laying on bunk reading; standing at door; attorney visit,”) it is odd no note was made of Luigi’s statements or that he blurted things out. It seems convenient that the only record of any of these statements Luigi allegedly made were only through Rivers and Henrys’ own testimony.

After Court:

I felt exhausted when we got out. I decided not to go back to the courthouse on December 2nd since I knew I wanted to go for sure on December 4th (and potentially beyond.) Judge Carro always has his calendar days on Wednesday, which means I could have a good two days off. I needed rest, relaxation, and to eat something nutritious. It was sleeting anyway, and my body was making the decision whether my mind was ready to accept it or not. After checking out of our hotel, I headed to my best friends’ house in Brooklyn. I slept the whole day away on her couch, ordered the most indulgent bowl of udon from Raku, and finally, it felt like my life force was restored.

However, I did feel immense FOMO at not being there for the day’s proceedings—they had played the BWC footage for the first time and I had missed it. Little did I know I’d be seeing it from every angle possible in the coming days. Still can’t get “four calling birds, three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree~” out of my head.

I also felt guilty for missing the line that night because I heard from my friends who were there that all hell was breaking loose. The line sitters were fighting with each other and it was getting physical. A random passerby was threatening some of my friends’ safety by following them to bathrooms and stealing stuff from their tents. Mind you, all of this is happening in freezing temperatures. I was so grateful not to be there because I desperately needed that time to recuperate but I also felt like if I had been there, I could have helped to quell the conflicts. Maybe not, but that’s just what my inner voice was telling me anyway.

Due to my poor condition, I ended up deciding to pay a line sitter for the first time ever. He was one that I had become friends with: Kevin. He had been doing this for a long time, and even had sat for some other pretty high profile cases. He was a nice person and made for great conversation both in September and now. He knew the ins and outs, always gave us great advice, and even stood up for us in scary situations. I knew he was currently unhoused, and so I thought that hiring him to save my spot while I wasn’t feeling physically well to do it myself was a win-win for the both of us. Thankfully, he also cut me a great deal. I helped a couple other people (including members of the press who had yet to receive their press passes) secure line sitters and went to bed for my (on average) three or four hours, which would become more of a daily routine in the passing weeks than I even realized at the time.

It’s always hard to sleep after, even if you’re tired. My mind was racing: I was excited to be reunited with my friends in the morning, who told me they missed me on the line that day. I really wanted to make sure I didn’t miss one singular detail. I wanted to observe every shift in the room, see every expression, and feel the energy. The way I feel most confident speaking about Luigi’s case is by being in that room, bearing firsthand witness to the injustices he experienced during the investigation.

Most of all, I was really preoccupied with making sure that everyone, not just Luigi, sees that the support is here to stay. Seeing the shift in his demeanor towards us and eagerness to view us made me realize that the consistent support was making a huge difference. Just as I started to recognize the members of the press, I’m sure he started to realize who we were, and that we kept coming back with our notebooks in hand. And conversely, seeing the news coverage about Luigi’s consistent supporters made me realize just how much the press were watching and tracking us, day after day. I felt just how important it was for me to show up. I felt eager to be back in that room as soon as possible.

The support is not dwindling. We are up against freezing weather, threats, and unpredictable outcomes. Not everyone can—or wants to—deal with that. (And if you are, I implore you to attend. Most days, we weren’t even at capacity for the line.) Outside of the supporter group, I observed people I would have never expected to speak positively about the case saying they thought he might actually go free, and talking about how the officers messed up with the investigation. While the online trollers always seem to be in absolute turmoil and many supporters unfortunately get sucked into that trap, when you put your phone down, get out there, and talk to the normies, they seem to be more tuned-in and in support than ever. Public perception is pivotal in a case like Luigi’s where jury nullification might come into play, and so I’m so proud of all the supporters who put themselves out there positively—with shirts, keychains, videos, social media accounts, interviews—whatever it may be. Every little act of support makes a difference. There’s room for all of us to make a difference in our own unique ways, and we should always encourage that in one another. The more vocal, visible, and palpable support we can amass, the better. Don’t ever let anyone convince you otherwise.

(To be continued.)

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Navigating the dating world as a twenty six year old can be dizzying. I am part of a generation where people seem to be situating themselves in two stark camps: one group completely swears off getting married and having children, citing concerns of the climate, morality, and financial stability; while the other jumps headfirst into engagements and baby showers at such an uncertain and unrelenting time, choosing to prioritize their own goals and respect the balance society expects from them. No matter which camp they may belong to, I’ve noticed a pattern when I speak to my friends about love, validation, and rejection. Everyone seems to feel the same way: being rejected in any way–even just by someone you might not care about or respect–is a big enough fear for some to opt out of looking for real, genuine love at all. Instead, people may, even subconsciously, opt for a steady flow of shallow, carnal experiences. Or simply choose to settle for a partnership that can be deemed beneficial in some way, yet lacks passion, in order to be seen as successful in a society that favors those who strive to achieve the stereotypical heterosexual nuclear family structure.

In my eyes, this is all wrong. Nothing about any of this is interesting or worth chasing. None of these pointless pursuits are for actual love, as some may perceive them to be, but actually just meaningless chases for validation in a patriarchal and capitalist society. Don’t be fooled: validation is very easy to give and get, and doesn’t really mean anything in the long term. One serving of validation isn’t going to quench you, no, you will constantly continue on your search for the next source of it. It even has a cute little name these days: a situationship. This might look like someone bread-crumbing you with little pieces of validation, often in the form of negging or sexual attention, so that you will get on your knees and crawl, licking the ground, desperately looking for the next crumb. They will never give you the full loaf, once they have you down on the floor like that, you know that right? Validation is just like wealth: the more you get, the more you think you need, and the more you will seek it out and allow it to cloud any other goal you might have had in life. So, please go ahead and stand the fuck up. Looking for love is not the same as craving validation, and these two things must be made completely separate. They can, and often do live in different realms.

I’ve thought a lot about what love really is, and I find myself making amendments to what I think I know about it every few years. The most fascinating thing about communication is that it cannot fully encapsulate and define the little differences in how we each perceive things differently. This is, of course, true for things we sense and smell. But how can we define things we feel, things that are intangible and subjective? How can we define what these things mean, other than by sharing our own human experiences with them with one another?

In the search for love, I realized that it comes in many forms: as an action that we actively practice on ourselves and loved ones; as an irrational electric shock feeling that leaves you spellbound, confused, and unable to think of much else; and as a dangerous risk, one that will could leave you battered and bruised, but could also change you completely and fundamentally. No matter which form of love it is that you seek or that finds you, I cannot stress enough how important it is to have a strong foundation of love and respect for yourself, so that you can make choices that align with your most genuine self. I’d like to quote Bell Hooks’ Communion here–this is a great book to read if my piece today sparks something in you. On page 104, Hooks writes:

“The one person who will never leave us, whom we will never lose, is ourself. Learning to love our female selves is where our search for love must begin. We begin this journey to love by examining the ideas and beliefs we have held about the nature of intimacy and true love. Rather than embracing faulty thinking that encourages us to believe that females are inherently loving, we make the choice to become loving. Choosing love, we affirm our agency, our commitment to personal growth, our emotional openness.” (Hooks, 104)

Okay, so you think you love yourself. Great. What now? In the search for love (or even if you simply want to ‘become loving’), vulnerability and openness is paramount. Putting yourself out there fully, with all the cringe and icks on proud display, is the only way you will allow someone (a community, or even yourself) to truly see you, affirm you in a way that is not shallow, and love who you really are, not the facade you created so that people will think you’re cool and mysterious. The inability to distinguish seeking validation for shallow characteristics between the search for deep and real love for your soul is what makes a relationship, or even just a real connection, so difficult to find and establish today. What if we, once and for all, stopped mistaking superficial attention for true intimacy? What if we choose to live lovingly, no matter the consequence, knowing the reward we can reap is far greater?

I’ll tell you a little tidbit about my own personal dating life, if that's okay. I’ve chosen to remain celibate for the past six years after a complicated history with men and some early dating experiences that had left me traumatized. Despite, ironically, being called every version of a slut and whore in my comments and direct messages–so much so that I seldom read them anymore–all throughout this period of my life, I was always very open about my celibacy online. My reply guys really struggle with the concept that someone who’s comfortable posting their body online–a body so easy and electronic to them–can also be celibate. I do not, however, believe that the existence or presentation of the human body is inherently sexual, and we also should not normalize the treatment of it as such. My choice to present my body in any way is not consent for your sexual harrassment, period. You’ve never seen arms and legs before? You don’t have nipples that sometimes poke through your shirt? Why are they sexual on me, but not on you? Can my body simply exist without sexual ideas being imposed onto it?

Long before I willingly posted myself online, back in the early 2000s, I modelled for popular tween brand Claires. I was about twelve years old when I did this particular campaign. A popular YouTuber at the time, Shane Dawson, had uploaded a video titled “Silly Bands Are Racist” (or something along those lines—these videos were all deleted from his channel after his online cancellation and subsequent channel purge a few years back.) This video started out by him recording the poster of someone else and I, whilst he did a voiceover which was supposed to be our conversation. The conversation was, as you might have been expecting, of a very sexually explicit manner. I remember my agency being upset with it, but there was nothing we could do. My friends at school even reassured me that it was “cool,” though I personally found it mortifying. I only went on this tangent to make you aware of just how early girls are socialised to forcibly accept sexualization, though it started much earlier than this for me. But it was constant, unrelenting, and came at me from all angles: even those I could have never even expected. 

Even men I date in person, those of all ages and walks in life, have lots of trouble grappling with the idea of chosen celibacy, even after hearing about my experiences. How could I not want any sort of male romantic or sexual validation in over half a decade–the first years of my twenties especially? There must be something wrong with me, is what everyone thinks. Well, it’s quite the contrary. Actually, I think everything is really right with me. I’ve felt so much peace these past few years. You fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, right? But women, especially, are socialized to receive hurt gracefully and pick yourself back up immediately, or else you might lose out on “the one” and end up childless and alone–gasp! We’re also taught to regurgitate this bullshit ideology to each other, to make sure no one is on the fringe and therefore, focused too much on themselves.

I honestly never really liked playing the dating game. Even in high school, while many were crushing on boys, I much preferred keeping to my own interests, which made me an outcast. However, these interests also gave me a sense of purpose, in their own way, in a time when my home life was tumultuous and uncertain. I found a love for South Korean culture, language, and food which led me on an incredible journey in which I moved to Seoul for three years. But because I was not specifically chasing boys actively, many would question my reasons as to why. See, if you don’t make this shift into prioritizing the chase of companionship once you hit puberty, you will be seen as an outsider, and people will try to put you into different categories to make sense of you, or make your choices look undesirable so others will not try the same. But these cringey interests–the things that bring you true fervor–are what you will return to in your adulthood, as you seek to reclaim your own identity after years of overextending yourself for others. As Hooks points out:

 “As girls we felt we had power. We were strong and fierce and sure of ourselves. Somehow, as we made our entrance into the realm of young womanhood, we began to lose power. Fascinating research on girlhood is happening these days. It confirms that young girls often feel strong, courageous, highly creative, and powerful until they begin to receive undermining sexist messages that encourage them to conform to conventional notions of femininity. To conform they have to give up power. Giving up power has been what aging has traditionally felt like for most women. And with the loss of those feelings of power came the fear that we would be forever abandoned, unloved. Now midlife and thereafter has become not only a time to reclaim power but also a time to know real love at last.” (Hooks, 7)

While Hooks states that women come to this conclusion in their middle ages, I think many of us can and do come to this conclusion earlier. I think we owe this largely to the phones and the current manosphere. Thankfully, due to experience, I learned early in life that I am the loyal-to-a-fault sort of person that puts all my eggs in one basket, and cannot hide my feelings. Once I have them for you, I want you to know, so we can share them and build on them together. Why wouldn’t I? I feel deeply. I am honest and straightforward about my intentions and desires. I communicate my traumas and fears openly. Being myself, so unabashedly, has culminated in many years spent alone. I was not always lonely, because thankfully, I like myself, and I am not afraid to do things on my own. In fact, I often prefer it. But, this can bother other people, and the older I get, the more often I am reminded of my perceived “solitude” by others. As Hooks states of her own journey in her twenties:

“While I had chosen to adopt the persona of the rebellious girl, the crazy one–and it seemed like a small price to pay for being able to be in touch with my longing to create, to know myself and the world—I was not prepared to face that world alone. I simply did not have the necessary survival skills. Despite eating problems (I often ended up at student health), sleepless nights, and bouts of intense depression, I doggedly pursued my own way. I wanted to be self-actualized.” (Hooks, 27)

I, too, long for self actualization above all else. To know, at the end, that I lived my life for myself completely, without giving into others’ doubts. Is that not what life is for? To be fair, it isn’t really much of a choice for me. I always had to choose myself, and provide for myself. I learned very early on that no one was coming to save me, but myself. So, I never knew how to be anyone but myself, no matter how that may have come across to others. It was a hard pill for me to swallow that being so unafraid to be who you are would be considered an unpopular opinion, but most become so afraid to be perceived of as “chalant” that they will completely suppress any interest that may be seen as quirky, instead sucking on a tube chugging a constant flow of mysterious nonchalant boy/girl pretty doe eyed angel archetype pig-slop trends that convince us all to idealize a sanitized, submissive, and most importantly, white cis-het male-gaze oriented standard.

Despite how open I was to loving and devoting myself to the pursuit of love, I noticed how little the beings–all completely different types of men–I showed interest in seemed to care about my wellbeing, and how easy it was for them to dispose of me when a new shiny object came into their view. I saw how they let fear take control when they found out that I cared deeply. I could see it: carrying the responsibility to not hurt another person was too heavy a burden to bear for some, even if it meant passing up the chance of real love.

I became quite used to being seen as a trophy–an object to claim and then put on a shelf to get dusty and brag about for the rest of your life–and noticed that no matter how hard I tried to connect emotionally with the other person, or even appeal to their humanity, they would always likely hurt me in the same exact way. I believe men make more conscious choices than given credit for. They are not simply aloof and dumb–it is weaponized incompetence. He is not listening simply because he does not strive to please you. Rather, men have been proven, through research, to be largely homosocial. In a qualitative study conducted by Michael Flood in 2008, a group of young men aged 18-26 were observed and interviewed in order to study male-male social bonds. The study’s findings pointed to the fact that:

“Masculinity studies argues for powerful links between homosociality and masculinity: men’s lives are said to be highly organized by relations between men. Men’s practice of gender has been theorized as a homosocial enactment, in which the performance of manhood is in front of, and granted by, other men. Males seek the approval of other males, both identifying with and competing against them. They attempt to improve their position in masculine social hierarchies, using such “markers of manhood” as occupational achievement, wealth, power and status, physical prowess, and sexual achievement.” (Flood, 341)

Thus, through my own research by experience, I learned that most men do not have much respect or empathy for me, and this is not necessarily a personal thing or a unique experience. I, and many other women, are vessels to be used in the dance that men perform for their bros–even when they are not even physically present. The patriarchal male gaze is omnipresent, thus this performance is one that men are expected to impose on themselves, lest ye be deemed a homosexual. When I finally understood that men have a self-imposed inner panopticon of patriarchy, I also learned not to be so naive or trusting and not to give myself away too much or too quickly. Make no mistake: men do have a choice in enforcing this on themselves and others–participation is not mandatory. They can benefit immensely from relying on women to take on all the emotional labor and the burdens of parental responsibilities, so why would they not choose to rely on and even weaponize their incompetence as much as possible? I’m not saying everyone is like this, or that everyone who does this is a man. But in my experience, I learned that people, men, will very consciously tell you anything they think you want to hear to get what they want from you. 

I learned that–separately from putting in an actual, concerted effort into someone, of course–you won’t have to go on a one-sided marathon chase for a person who truly wants you, and games likely mean he’s just not that into you. I learned that it is safer to assume that all heterosexual men are–despite my desires and efforts to prove that it wouldn’t be so–guilty by association until proven innocent. This does not mean that they literally are, of course, but just that it is wise to conduct oneself as such. It would have been just plain stupid to not fortify myself after being mentally (and in turn, physically) destroyed by heartbreak every one to three years. So, I started to prioritize my life first and foremost, exactly as men do. Those that stuck around are those that are truly about me, and those people are… drumroll please: my friends and family!

Make a man wait a few dates for any sort of physical validation and you’ll see how they throw a tantrum. Shocking: men that only want me for my body don’t have the interest in spending time getting to know me as a person?! They don’t really care about my lore? No way, you don’t say? While this could be hard to put into practice, it’s really the little things that can be life changing and life saving. Despite how it may feel, there is really no rush, or time limit to find love. I will continue to opt out until I find someone who makes me feel the sort of transreverberation that Teresa of Avila spoke about, in The Ecstasy of St. Teresa. As I’m not religious, I chose to replace every mention of “god” with “the universe,” but regardless I think the feelings captured in this story still resonate. Here it is: 

Love doesn’t always feel like divine intervention: it can also just be found in the feeling of being known. I am a yearner. I adore writing love letters, carrying my lovers’ picture in my locket, and reading about their horoscope/personality type/Chinese zodiac. I am the sort of person who falls into maddening, sickening love with someone once every few years and wants to know everything about you, and this love often fundamentally changes me, in turn. When I read The Ecstasy of St. Teresa, I felt as though she was describing this same very feeling I know all too well. It can absolutely be toxic to believe that there must be pain in the dedication of the self to another being, but I believe one must expect the pain should come not from the other person, but that it could come from putting yourself, vulnerably, at the foot of another, and asking to be loved. There is always the risk of terrible, awful pain that rips out your insides and leaves your reality permanently altered when you bare your soul to another. But for some people, those that seem truly worth it and make me want to better myself, it is a sacrifice well worth making to experience this feeling, even if it is impermanent. The last sentence (“I pray the universe to grant him some experience of it…”) especially resonates with me, as many of my friends critique the way I allow myself to fall. But I would not trade it for anything, to live a life devoid of this feeling is just simply not worth it to me.

Connecting through intellectual pursuits and displays of emotional intelligence is the new physical intimacy. The mind tends to outlast the appearance, after all. I have never felt more attracted to anyone than when they show care, empathy, and ambition. I have never felt less interested in anyone than when they display ambivalence, apathy, and disinterest. It is in men’s best interest to learn, sooner rather than later, that adopting these characteristics, just because you’re scared to be laughed at or made a mockery of at your most vulnerable, might supply you with an endless flow of meaningless sex, but it is holding you back from cultivating deep connections and finding a community that loves you and cares for you.

There is no such thing as the male loneliness epidemic. The problem is not the women who are becoming too woke. It is your inaction: your fear has rendered you useless. And so you will be cursed to a life of not caring at all, watching your life play out in front of you, never being a full active participant. Or if you do participate, you are living out someone else’s fantasy, the life you think you are supposed to be living, while the life you want haunts you in your dreams. But fear not! It is still well within reach. You are capable and equipped to get it. Will you jump across the cavern of fear, even if it means possibly falling into the abyss for a while, if everything you dreamed of was on the other side? Absolutely nothing lasts forever. So there’s no time to wait: choose to live passionately and stop being afraid. You’re letting the cavern get bigger–so big that you might never make the jump. All you can do is stare, as your dreams get further and further from your reach. If you dream of love–not mere validation–you must take the leap.

Rather than choosing to participate in this vicious cycle that patriarchy and capitalism benefit from me believing is my divine purpose in life, I realized instead that I was already whole, and there was no search necessary for “the one” to complete me, because that isn’t even a real thing. We are not incomplete without romantic companionship. Paris Mwendwa writes in her substack piece titled “True love is sexist propaganda”: 

“When you’ve found the one, being kept within the home is not a prison sentence, it’s true love. Believing in “the one” makes it so that no matter what you’re doing in life, you’re ready to drop it to be with a man. You’re not seeing it as you disrupting your life to serve a man, you see it as you choosing your true love. “The one” reinforces the idea that women are made for men.”

There was never anything to search for out there. In fact, everything that I yearned for already existed within and around me. Years spent alone dedicated to learning, cultivating trust in myself, and trying out new things did not make me a failure–in fact, that time was crucial in finding a path to my own self actualization. I was able to try my hand at a great deal of things that I wanted to do in life–and at a very young age–due to my ability to prioritize myself in this manner.

I’ve already spoken in my previous substack pieces about how little I crave validation–seeking a career in entertainment means enduring a constant gauntlet of validation and rejection. I became quite good at receiving either without making it about my own self worth. Being rejected was less about how good or bad I was, but more about the production teams’ desired outcome. Not everyone is able to navigate space in this way, and I’m really glad I was given this tool early on in life. It’s one of my defining personality traits, and is the reason I am able to be the person I want to be, without fear. I’ve had naysayers try to convince me that every decision I wanted to make in my life was a bad idea–but while those people might be still stuck on their first idea, I’ve already been through ten. 

When I stopped seeking validation, dating felt forced, and I opted for choosing myself. Many of my friends say they understand my shift to self prioritization, yet will still say things like: “oh, you know I wouldn’t want you to settle for something that’s going to make you unhappy, but I just would like to see you happy in that way.” I can understand, and even appreciate, my friends wanting me to be loved by someone, but to make that a me problem is extremely vexing. I resent the fact that my happiness doesn’t seem worthy of deeming existent, let alone celebrating, as long as it is generated from and for myself, and not in service of a man.

Or even if I do generate happiness from a man, someone who I might be a fan of or admire from afar, it is not a man who has a direct, interpersonal connection to me, and thus it’s still perceived as being generated by me. So it’s never enough. The only way to chase down and prioritize your own happiness in this life and not be a problem you’re reminded of by everyone–even those who support you–is to be a man. In a patriarchal, capitalist society, when even my most “woke” friends are being socialized to desire the trad wife lifestyle, my “rash” thinking process and the way I act quickly to fulfill my own desires is a liability. It is a direct attack on their future plans, the soft life they willingly choose to stomp out their fire and passion for. 

This past November, I had a falling out with a friend who I was very close with, and was always empathetic to my dating plight, as she, too, had experienced similar things. Our friendship also connected me to a few other young women, and this became a safe space where we would come together, to commune about even the most vulnerable topics. I felt that I was being seen and heard by those who held similar world views and opinions to my own. Though I may have been the only one in the group who swore off dating completely, I did not attempt to stop them. I watched as every one of them struggled with the dating world in their own way. I respected their plight and supported them, as long as they respected my choice. Often, I was even asked for advice. It became a natural flow, in which we came to rely on each other for this type of support. That was, until my friend found a man that changed everything for her, I suppose. Plans I was invited to would become changed without a mention from anyone in the group and he would be in attendance in my place. When I inquired about this, noticing a huge change in the way they were treating me out of, seemingly, nowhere, I was told that I expected too much out of the friendship. Despite the allegation, my expectations, in fact, had not ever changed. But in lieu of putting in energy into a friendship while also chasing a man, my friend chose to cut me off and completely throw herself into this new relationship.

Seeing a grown woman, one I had once perceived as independent and strong-willed—allow her mind to become so dominated, so much so that she looked dead behind the eyes when I spoke of my hurt at her treatment of me, I was insanely disappointed. It was just another reminder:

“The relationship between male bonding and gendered power is exemplified in early feminist definitions of patriarchy in terms of relations between men, which have a material base, and which, though hierarchical, establish or create interdependence and solidarity among men that enable them to dominate women.” (Hooks, 341)

But, men are not the only ones upholding these hierarchies to protect patriarchy. So are women who wanted to be a part of the picked, enough to cast aside the friends they once loved, and who loved them fiercely enough to tell them the truth. I encourage everyone to lose themselves in love if they feel the need to. But be warned: cutting off those that speak sense into you only is not only a disservice to you but is also contributing to a larger cycle that perpetuates violent treatment of women in general.

As explained by Flood, men often operate in bonds of other groups of men which rely on the exclusion of women, often by emphasizing their perceived differences or superiority to them. Women’s submission to and encouragement of male homosociality (see the rising “womanosphere” for example) allows for the interpersonal violence that maintains the hierarchies of power between genders to be constantly enforced, even from within. Hooks echoes the same sentiment here:

“If younger women simply see romantic friendships as a substitute for the "real" relationships they hope to find along the way, these bonds will be fraught with emotional risk and the ongoing likelihood of betrayal. Most women in patriarchal culture have experienced the heartache of losing closeness with a female buddy when she finds her man. Since female allegiance to males upholds heterosexism, most men demand of their partners that they be the sole primary bond she holds dear. Ideally, when females and males have feminist consciousness that enables them to break with patriarchal thinking about romance and the notion that there should be a dominant party and a submissive party, then they can honor the bonds of love that they hold with one another and with anyone else.” (Hooks, 215)

The idea of “the one” encourages women (and men, though more often than the onus falls on women) to seek out a sole primary bond in their partner, rather than finding love and care through community, keeping us isolated from one another. The coldness of isolation does not just deny you the ability to form connections, but it is denying you of your own human nature. So why do we continue to echo these ideas to each other? When I speak to my friends about this, I can tell that some think I am too difficult for refusing to normalize carrying out all the labor necessary to maintain a relationship with a man and should not only continue my search, but maybe even lower my expectations. When I remind them that it’s probably better for me this way—to not get my emotions entwined with something that will make me regret giving out my trust and instead pour that love into my own cup—they reluctantly agree, but they continue to press, time and time again.

While they agree momentarily for my sake, to quell and satiate what they think I want to hear, others brashly call me mentally ill or simply a closeted lesbian, since a sane, heterosexual woman could never possibly operate out of her own volition and refuse to become a doormat for a man for… what exactly? Having real, enforced standards and refusing to be used does not define my sanity or sexuality, nor does it change the fact that I am just a little depressed and anxious and, unfortunately, still attracted to men despite it all. I understand that it is easier to write me off as overly difficult. But I am only expecting the basic level of care, passion, and love that I know exists, as I am capable of giving it—not just in my romantic relationships, but also in my platonic ones. It can even be more fulfilling to perform emotional labor in platonic relationships, as there is something to be received back; a give and take. With heterosexual relationships, I gave a lot, but never got much. When I asked for something in return, the man would often scoff and say, “you expect too much.” Should women always give unconditionally, even when they know they will get burned from it?

“Celibacy is often a liberating self-loving choice among women for whom the search for sexual pleasure has consistently led them down a self-sabotaging path. Writing about the reasons many contemporary heterosexual women choose celibacy in The Coming of the Cosmic Christ, Matthew Fox explains, "As women increasingly develop their awareness and consciousness and to the extent that a sociological situation will prevail where many women will in fact not be able to find men of their calibre and consciousness with whom to share their lives. ... Many women are finding celibacy a better alternative than being victimized in abusive relationships." Joyless sexuality is not life-affirming. Within patriarchal intimacy, many women have sex against their will and desire. Their partners may or may not be coercive.” (Hooks, 226)

While I do believe love and care can and should be given without stipulations, I believe that if you care abundantly about someone, nurture should come naturally and be mutual. However, when the scales continue to tip unevenly to one-side, and rather than stop, you keep pouring onto your side, instead of asking the other to balance the scales, you are enforcing these ideas onto yourself and perpetuating patriarchy. I wish heterosexual women acted as takers more often, rather than defeatedly accepting their role as givers. When did it become cool again to romanticize becoming someone’s mother, barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen all day? I get that it seems like it could just be easier that way: you can simply opt to turn your brain off, and let someone else make the big decisions and bring home the bacon. I think many underestimate how soul crushing the reality of this experience will prove to be for them. So what if choosing oneself wasn’t seen as giving up, but respected for what it really was–finally showing up for myself?

Opting out was something I started doing naturally when I became confident in my worth and stopped prioritizing validation over self respect. Society says that girls mature quicker and thus should know better than to trust men, but then when we do know better and choose ourselves, we are frivolous emotional girls or crazed cat ladies? When they want us, we grow up quick enough, but when we seek to reclaim our agency, we are irrational?

Opting out does not mean I’ve completely given up hope in the potential for partnership in my life, or closed myself off to this. I’ve opted out of the dating game, yes. But if love hits me in the face suddenly while I’m out and about, who am I to refuse it? The point is, I know now that love is not just about my participation in dating. Love is in the very way I choose to live, always allowing myself the freedom to be me. 

“I looked for love, but I found freedom. And the freedom I found changed my way of thinking about the place of love in a woman's life. I began to see that the proper place for love in a woman's life was not relational love as the source but love generated in the quest for self-realization. By claiming that quest as essential, as the journey that would determine my fate, I realized that the proper place for love was as the solid foundation on which I would invent myself and create a life. Uniting the search for love with the quest to be free was the crucial step. Searching for love, I found the path to freedom. Learning how to be free was the first step in learning to know love.” (Hooks, 32)

Opting out doesn’t mean rejecting the possibility of love, or experiencing a life completely devoid of it. In fact, my life is full of love. The love I pour into my relationship with myself and my community is just as, if not more, important than the love I pour into romantic relationships.

Thus, I have given myself the infinite freedom to opt out of sacrificing myself to a cycle that does not reward me, nor try to understand or even include me in its ebbs and flows. I opt out of a cycle that sells the mere illusion of the freedom of choice, while silently forcing me to conform to someone else's expectations. Instead, I opt into the understanding that love is all around us. Love is something we choose to do. Choosing to relate to the world and our own selves in this loving frequency is what allows us to connect with others, and what makes life worth living. In a time where empathy is heavily devalued, refusing to be apathetic and instead caring about everything a great deal is the most radical stance you can take. I choose the freedom to love, and to love as loudly as possible. Will you take the leap too, no matter the outcome?

Flood, Michael. “Men, Sex, and Homosociality: How Bonds between Men Shape Their Sexual Relations with Women.” Men and Masculinities, vol. 10, no. 3, 2007, pp. 339–359. SAGE Journals, https://doi.org/10.1177/1097184X06287761. (Original work published 2008)

Harris, Beth, and Steven Zucker. “Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.” Smarthistory, 19 July 2015, https://smarthistory.org/bernini-ecstasy-of-st-teresa/. Accessed 30 Apr. 2025.

hooks, bell. Communion: The Female Search for Love. Perennial, 2002.

Link to video version can be found here.

2020 was an illuminating year for all of us. Personally, I experienced many tumultuous mental and physical health crises that shifted my mentality about almost everything that I had previously crafted my identity on. In turn, I started to share personal anecdotes surrounding my health struggles with my followers in a series called ‘my skin diary’. After the return of my cystic acne, and an awful bout of gastro-intestinal issues caused by a medication I was prescribed for my skin, I began to post about how awful I felt daily. I shared with my, then much larger, audience about how I had struggled with cystic acne since the age of 13, when I had first been prescribed Accutane. Also known as Isotretinoin, this is a very harsh medication prescribed to those with different skin conditions, like cystic acne. From the age of 13 to 20, I was prescribed Accutane on eight different occasions, each time for a year. While taking it, you must get blood work done every month (as there can be horrible side effects), always be on birth control and able to pass a negative pregnancy test, and also pass a multiple choice exam where you’re asked questions about sex, and you have to solve every single one by saying you’ll stay celibate. That’s the only right answer for every question.

Not only was this like a monthly humiliation and torture ritual for me, but something more sinister was happening. Without my noticing, even the common yet painful side effects of skin peeling and nosebleeds became my casual daily sacrifices to escape people’s gasps of horror at my acne covered skin. After doing this every single month for 8 years to get my medication and have clear skin, I was gutted. I had tried mostly everything else on the market. I had tried every diet, every plan, every topical medication. After every year round of Accutane, when my acne came back like clockwork, the dermatologists would just put me back on it without another thought, reassuring me that maybe I just needed one more round. They reassured me that when I became an adult, the hormones would regulate and the ‘problem’ would fix itself. But when it didn't, and in fact came back in full swing despite my adulthood, I faced an important challenge. I had to realise that these constant ups and downs—of feeling so powerful with clear skin and like a monster without it—had consumed me for too long. The high school girl that would wake up at six o’clock sharp to cake foundation and powder on before class was beginning to believe that being reliant on this medication to feel beautiful, acceptable, and palatable enough in society was absolutely obliterating my mental health.

When I turned 21, and the dermatologist wanted to prescribe me Accutane again, I decided to give a last shot to another medication instead, doxycycline. I didn’t know it would leave me bedridden and 50 pounds lighter than usual. I became a shell of the person I was in just a few months: I was always shaky and lethargic, yet pent up with anxiety. I had to smoke weed every morning just to muster up the strength to get out of bed. Anything I ate or drank would end up vomited back up seconds later. They tried to tell me that these things could be normal, and I just had to wait it out. I knew that there was nothing normal about what was happening to me; I was not functioning in my everyday life at all anymore. So I ghosted them, and got off the medication immediately. After doing my research, I found tretinoin, a topical retinoid that I had never once been offered before. Upon my move back to my hometown to heal and regain healthy weight, I went to my primary care physician and asked if I could have a prescription for it. Immediately, it cleared my skin. And after an endoscopy and colonoscopy, my gastroenterologist gave me strong acid reflux pills and told me to stay away from doxycycline forever. My weight was thankfully regained and my acne has subsided since then, but I’m not really sure how those 8 long years on Accutane will come back to harm me, and how being on birth control since the age of 13 has affected me mentally and physically.

Every American has a story like this, or knows someone who does. My experience is a very tame, and non-lethal example compared to others’ stories. No matter who you are, most of us are closer to being one bad week away from being unhoused, than we are to becoming billionaires. And that one bad week could even be one bad day, if you have a particularly expensive hospital trip. As an American who has lived in Europe and Asia, healthcare is often one of the most glaring differences between our society and the others that I have experienced. In Seoul, I was always blown away by how streamlined and easy it was to get medical attention. Whether you are seeking life saving care or help for something considered to be cosmetic, it was always made accessible, and not just for Korean citizens. Even when I didn’t have insurance, and I got sick or needed an endoscopy, it was so affordable. Perhaps it’s all a matter of perspective, as they would wince when about to read me the total and say, “it’s a bit expensive…” I’m sure times have changed slightly, but it would be something like 20,000 won (~$14) for a month's worth of pills, or 200,000 won (~$141) for an endoscopy at Yonsei’s award winning hospital–anesthesia included. I never felt like I could not afford to get the help I needed, even if I was not covered by insurance. The doctors there were caring, efficient, and extremely professional. On the other hand, public health systems are not always the best. The UK’s NHS for example, has its issues, with extreme staff shortages and immense wait times for even life saving care. Regardless of issues–which could be fixed with some more funding or infrastructure to train doctors to meet the overwhelming amount of people needing care–I do believe that healthcare is a human right, and should be provided to us as such. The American healthcare system is a laughing stock to everyone but us. We cannot allow for profit to be prioritised over health in the way that we currently do. Without our health, what do we have?

The idea of universal healthcare might seem obvious and easy to get onboard with for many of us. But when I shared my health struggles online, I received a lot of mixed reactions from my audience. I could tell that many of the negative comments I received were projections from those unhealed, who still bear the trauma endured through their own acne struggles, or weight fluctuations. On one hand, I had never been more celebrated for how skinny I was by my peers and online yet I felt like I was going to fall over and die at any moment. On the other hand, I was called cursed and disgusting for refusing to cover up my cystic acne anymore, but also was somehow receiving the most clicks, opportunities, and attention of my whole online career. People could either relate and were excited for the representation, or tried to repress me and do mental acrobatics to find a way to make my struggles my own fault. I see these two camps of thought in many of our current platitudes, healthcare aside. There’s people who will say hey, this isn’t right! I want to yell about this, and get it out there in the open, and then maybe do something to change it and make it fairer for everyone. And then there’s people that say, well hey now, it’s been this way forever! I’ve had to do this for decades! And now you want to change it, just because you’re over doing what I’ve been forced to do forever? That’s not fair; that’s not how things worked for me, so they won’t work like that for you!

Societal pressure and indoctrination often make us perpetrators of our own trauma. The everyday violence that these systems normalise keeps us so pained, so fearful, that we want to inflict the same pain on others. No one came to help you when you were struggling to pay your health insurance premium, so why would you help them, or allow them to get off scot free? I believe that punishing younger generations–those who will feel the effects of allowing healthcare, education, and energy to prioritise profit over the people and the climate–is a form of masochistic self-harm. I think many are angry that they let themselves be fucked over by systems for so long. But it’s not too late to fight for something right. Maybe it’s not outrightly going to help you, but the impact your choices have will go on to help many.

You cannot go back to the past. Change will always be synonymous with humankind, and trying to delay this process is futile. When Elvis came out shaking his hips on the Ed Sullivan show, the elder and more conservative generations were mortified by his dancing. He was signed on for three special performances, two of which were filmed from head to toe, and met with an uproar of outrage (or delight, from his fans.) An infamous democratic senator and well known segregationist, James Eastland, even publicly called for him to be suppressed. Though the last performance may have been broadcasted from the hips up, Senator Eastland could not stop progress, no matter how hard he tried. I think if you brought a City Girls CD to the Ed Sullivan show, they would have had you tried as a witch and burned immediately. But things go on, and I am blessed to be able to listen to Megan Thee Stallion. I thought everyone learned that the past is better left in the past when they read The Great Gatsby in middle school. History repeats itself; the lesson will be relearned. The past cannot be resurrected, no matter how hard you try. I do believe we will, one day, make progress in the right direction with healthcare and the climate. I have to hope and believe.

Last December, something shifted slightly within the public discourse surrounding healthcare. Someone was caught on CCTV in midtown Manhattan after having allegedly shot Brian Thompson, CEO of UnitedHealthcare. Most of us did not know of Brian Thompson before this day. But soon enough, it was revealed that UHC was under investigation for implementing AI to reject 90% of claims, making UHC the top denier of claims, and the DOJ had also named him in a lawsuit for insider trading. Due to these cases, the police initially had reported that it looked like the work of a professional, perhaps alluding to it being an inside job or that of a highly skilled or even paid, assassin. For a week after, the NYPD mobilised like we had never seen before, bringing out all the resources they could to track down the person many online began to call “The Adjuster.” On December 9th, LM was arrested in a McDonalds in Altoona, Pennsylvania. The media circus that ensued was like nothing I had ever seen in my life before, as people picked apart LM’s social media accounts for any crumb of information that could put together the pieces. To many, it didn’t seem likely that someone like him who seemed to have it all on paper (valedictorian, rich, good-looking), would have allegedly been able to commit this crime. Attempting to fit him into the image of someone who could be the perpetrator of this crime sent many people into a spiral. Apparently, the police and UHC were also concerned about the reaction that ensued: UHC has allegedly issued DMCA’s to people using the alleged shooter’s CCTV image for stickers—without any mention of the company or alleged crime. In a memo, police instructed media outlets to stop posting his image–instead opting for one that pictured him with—what one can only assume is—soiled pants in a police interrogation room. I began really following the case the day he had an outburst outside of the Pennsylvania courthouse. According to a court filing by LM’s Pennsylvania attorney Thomas Dickey, after the police allegedly failed to read LM his Miranda rights at McDonalds, he did not know if he would even have representation in court. Exasperated, he yelled to anyone that could hear: “Your coverage of this event has been completely out of touch and an insult to the intelligence of the American people and their lived experience.” 

I talked passionately about due process in my last piece. What ensued in the past four months has been the most insane disregard for due process and the right to the presumption of innocence I can attest to seeing play out in real time. Many of you will remember the perp walk that happened on December 19th. Perp walks have been around forever, and are utilized by the police to parade around the individual they have captured to make them appear guilty to the general public. They also function as a way to pat themselves on the back and say, “yeah, we did it everyone", which is exactly what Eric Adams and Jessica Tisch proceeded to do in their subsequent press conference.

What stood out most to me about the perp walk was seeing a person, born in the same year as me, being paraded around like a trophy in the dead of winter, without a bulletproof vest or, even, just a jacket. As if the perp walk wasn’t enough, Adams and Tisch have gone on countless shows and filmed documentaries about the case, sharing privileged evidence before a federal indictment has been filed. This is extremely problematic for the defense. Though being given a strict deadline to file motions (April 23rd), “roughly 130 pages of Grand Jury testimony are being withheld, roughly one-fourth of the Grand Jury testimony” as of March 26th, 2025. However, the prosecutors’ willingness to act outside the boundaries of set codes of conduct and instead focus on things like LM’s court attire or notes of support may come back to bite them, as they continue to make extrajudicial statements in attempts to influence the potential jury pool. The perceived “woke” nature of the alleged crime has thrust LM into becoming a symbol for the fight surrounding healthcare—with his consent or not. He has become the vessel upon which the Trump admin will demonstrate how they intend on claiming, conquering, and quelling anything perceived as dissent or the incitement of it.

I attended one of LM’s first state hearings, the one that occurred on December 23rd, 2024. That morning, armed with my heat tech and hand warmers, I was shocked by how few people had come to line up to spectate. However, it had been extremely cold, information on location/timing extremely scarce, and awareness still spreading. I realized after that day that many do not know they have a right to spectate any court hearing they choose to. Media presence around 100 Centre Street was already strong when I arrived, and many reporters came up to intimidate us into speaking with them, shoving images of LM in our faces and asking if “this” is why we’ve come. But not everyone was there to support LM or his right to a fair trial, exactly. Many were there because of their experiences as healthcare workers, as people with healthcare, or people simply interested in politics or law. Chelsea Manning spoke publicly about why she attended LM’s most recent hearing here. No matter who it was that I spoke to or where they came from, we all stood together in a quiet solidarity that day. I found it to be a very meaningful day for me. Seeing LM with shackles around his waist keeping his hands in place in front of him at all times was a sobering experience. The redness around his eyes and paleness of his skin were a glaring reminder that he is still a human being, and one with indelible rights. Despite the blinding eruption of camera flashes as he walked out of the courtroom, he held his head up with unwavering strength. Since then, the control he faces at his hearings has been heightened: he is not allowed to be unshackled unless he is to sign something, and cannot even grab a glass to have a drink of water. When asked to remove his cuffs in court, the Judge maintained that “for security reasons and for the security people here, they would prefer him to remain cuffed.” Mass murderers, those who often make very explicit their intentions to harm oppressed communities, are hardly ever given this type of treatment in court. Even if you believe him to be guilty, surely his treatment–as though he has already been found guilty–should still come off as alarming to you. 

I keep thinking about the Manson family case, especially since that’s what headlines seemed to enjoy calling those of us who attended any of LM’s hearings. I am purposely not linking these inflammatory articles, but you can find them easily if you go looking. I actually was interested in the Manson case years ago, and read everything I could find on it. Manson was good at speaking to the runaway of the 60’s– children born in a time when communes, open door policies, and free love were the mainstays of society. He was a man of his times, beckoning the lost soul into his community with music and psychedelics. He was also a perpetual criminal, a narcissist, and a master manipulator. As Dianne Lake put it in her book Member of the Family:

“As I discovered that first day in his magic bus, when he focused his attention on you, he made you believe there was no one else in the world. He also had the uncanny sensibility bestowed upon mystics, yet misused by sociopaths and con men, to know exactly what you needed. Charlie knew what you were afraid of, and could paint a scenario that would use all those insights to his advantage—traits that I would see in equal parts over time. Of course, at this moment, as I walked up the bus steps I saw none of these things. Instead, all I saw was acceptance.”

Manson was incredibly racist, and believed that The Beatles song Helter Skelter was a subtle nod of confirmation to his theory that a race war was the only way to heal the world. So, using his ‘charms,’ Manson indoctrinated a cult of young people to kill at his whim, and attempted to blame it on black people to incite a race war. Manson’s trial is an infamous one; his attempts to make a mockery of the courtroom and his crimes in general are extensive. On one occasion, Manson came out with a bloody X etched into his forehead during one of his hearings. On another occasion, The New York Times reported that he “leaped at the judge in the Sharon Tate murder trial today and said after being subdued that “someone should cut your head off.” Despite the horrific nature of his crimes and what he was actively trying to incite, Manson was not labeled a terrorist, nor was he tried as such. He was found guilty on seven counts of first degree murder, one count of conspiracy to commit murder, and sentenced to death. However, the very next year, the death penalty was abolished in the state of California. Many of his family members, who committed the crimes directly, even eventually made parole and now live freely. Manson lived out his whole life in prison, having been denied parole twelve times despite having “accrued 108 serious disciplinary violations in prison since 1971”, until his death in 2017.

I believe the death penalty should be done away with completely, and the prison system completely annihilated and replaced with something that encourages positive change, rather than perpetual punishment. But to think Manson wasn’t deemed influential or dangerous enough to be tried as a terrorist, and LM allegedly is? When I saw LM, I saw a man being respectful and polite, even to those who paraded him around and yelled out to him like a caged animal. I saw someone who held his tongue, knowing the severity of his situation, despite the fact that his rights were actively being stripped away. And I see someone who, despite having what I assume to be massive amounts of discovery to review, takes time to make logs of letters he receives and tries his best to respond to many. This sort of pressure, on any one human, would be immense to carry. I’m actually grateful the media even made the comparison between LM and Manson’s cases—while both are highly publicized, their cases actually highlight a glaring difference between the two: just how politicized LM’s case has become. I think that if LM had allegedly targeted minorities, Trump would have called him a nice guy and invited him to hang in his luxury football suite once he was acquitted. Maybe you don’t. But for Daniel Penny and Kyle Rittenhouse, two alleged ‘vigilante’ murderers who committed racially charged attacks, it went pretty much like that. Patrick Crusius, a man who killed 23 people in a white supremacist filled rage against hispanic immigrants, was even recently offered a plea deal to avoid the death penalty.

For people of color, lack of due process is unsurprising and commonplace. Those at the BLM protests I attended were tear gassed and shot at with rubber bullets, but those at 50501 last week were not. I don’t want to knock the 50501 protests—and do correct me if I am wrong—but I saw many express that the crowd seemed to be mostly older and white. I saw a video of a Gen-Z individual who spoke about the lack of our generation’s presence1 in the crowd, which is not that shocking if you consider that many of the younger people in this age bracket would consider themselves to be more right-wing or a-political. Perhaps I am wrong, and this was not the case, but I, unfortunately, was not there to see for myself.

I would also like to mention that 50501’s stance on Palestine seems shaky—and the absence of support for Palestine on their platforms is glaring. As of three days ago, they have posted a video calling for “justice, liberation, and dignity for all people everywhere,” however I hope that as the movement grows, so too, will their courage. Making sure the existence of Palestine and its people is explicitly visible and loudly spoken about is incredibly important for an organisation like theirs to do, especially when the current administration attempts to label the mere representation of Palestine as anti-semitism, or even terrorism. While I want to appreciate people like Cory Booker for his ‘filibuster’, or other Democrats who went to the protests to speak, their stance on Palestine is always awful, and it’s a big reason why many leftist people, me included, were hesitant to cast a vote for Kamala. It’s just simply not enough to fight for freedom–in any way shape or form–here but not everywhere else. We are not free until we are all free. I want to mention that I was really proud of Hasan Piker’s speech, I think he kept it short and sweet enough. I am glad he continues to use his voice so fearlessly for Palestine.

50501 was just as peaceful as the BLM protests I attended were. When it’s people of color peacefully protesting in the streets and demanding justice for George Floyd or Breonna Taylor, they are tear gassed and shot at with rubber bullets; but whether it’s the peaceful white folks with colorful signs or the violent white folks wielding guns but wearing MAGA hats, they’re labelled “good” people and left to their protest, whether it is peaceful or not? When one amasses a cult with intent to kill on your behalf to incite a race war, it’s life without parole and or even release; but allegedly killing one rich white healthcare CEO and the AG immediately calls for the death penalty without allowing for any sort of due process to take place? When ideas can become illegal and the government maintains their right to deport or detain people based on their views, dissent and terrorism is fully in the eye of the beholder. Punishing those who allegedly attempt to threaten the rich, white ruling class is encouraged. However, any sort of justice for those who kill the innocent people in Gaza is swiftly swept under the rug.

If the death served to benefit the big money making machine that America depends on, then it wasn’t murder, it was simply business as usual. The government says: “Congrats, you get a pass to kill! Collect your get out of jail free card; it’s good for an unlimited amount of uses, as long as you kiss the ring.” Rules are mere suggestions to those with enough money and influence to fight or intimidate their way into evading consequences. The Trump admin has made it extremely clear that those that are for a free Palestine, those that want to see change in America at the alleged risk of their freedom, and those that believe in free speech, all things they are trying to claim are ‘illegal ideas,’ are all to be considered dissenters and terrorists, whether they are citizens, residents, students, or immigrants. Mahmoud Khalil is just one example, but since his detainment, there have been many more instances. In fact, just this week, Sam Beard, Stop Cop-City activist and spokesperson for LM’s official legal fund, was visited by the FBI’s Joint Terrorism Task Force. It is clear that the government is utilizing this task force—and whatever other resources it can mobilize—to intimidate those who they deem dissenters–even just those that dissent with their use of free speech or protest. They have even blatantly stated they are looking for ways to legally deport citizens. I can’t help but wonder: how will they operate when the fine-line between dissenting and exercising one’s constitutional rights becomes more and more blurred? Will those that believe in the constitution–even those who may have voted for the current admin–be labeled terrorists for even attempting to uphold our fundamental rights? The Trump admin’s fight to dismantle due process is a grotesque attack on our democracy, and a danger to us all. Which pillar of democracy will they attempt to dismantle next? And which will it take to finally mobilize us?

If you would like to donate to LM’s official legal fundraiser, I’ve linked it here.

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Link to video version can be found here.

Hello everyone,

This is going to be a little different than normal. It’s a complete change of pace for me, in fact. Unless you follow me more closely or in person, you may not know that politics, especially what has been happening in the United States currently, has had me extremely concerned. So, this is not only a call to action, to you, the viewers that have been following along, but to myself, to use my platform as education and resistance. I believe that if we do not come together quickly, we may lose our collective voices completely. This might feel uncomfortable and painful. The everyday comforts of privilege are hard to let go of. Discomfort is the start of growth.

As Kwame Nkrumah has said: 

“Freedom is not a commodity which is ‘given’ to the enslaved upon demand. It is a precious reward, the shining trophy of struggle and sacrifice.” 

In efforts to express myself and disseminate useful information (like protest materials, for example), my posts and stories posted on a platform by Meta see a viewership decline in the thousands immediately. I noticed this back in 2020, when I was living in Los Angeles and attempting to post about the Black Lives Matter protests. I was trying to tell everyone how the LAPD were tear gassing and shooting rubber bullets at completely innocent and peacefully protesting people. I witnessed these things with my own eyes; this is my lived experience. You might remember how Trump said, in reaction, “when the looting starts, the shooting starts”? I remember how, for weeks, the helicopters roamed the skyline, their deafening roar a reminder of the current panopticon we find ourselves living in and how the ruling class will do anything to keep us, the people, from uniting under a shared cause.

I’ve been online forever. Growing up, it was the biggest source of freedom of expression for me. My nerdy interests that got me shunned at school were accepted in small online communities. In fact, in times when I often lacked a real, concrete community, I found it easily online, and it was life changing. I don’t think I would be who I am today, and for that I am endlessly grateful for the journey that coming of age during the inception of these apps that now rule our life has given me. That doesn’t change the fact that I also now believe that they are not being used to their capabilities, and in fact, are deterring us in so many ways. Especially at the hands of the most powerful, who own all the media outlets and social media platforms and use them in furtherance of their selfish agendas. 

Brain rot is fun – my internet footprint is plain to see and dates back to the early 2000s. I can’t deny that I have participated in it and encouraged it. But how many scrolls is it going to take to satiate us? When you put the phone down, do you feel satisfied? I didn’t. Never once. I don’t. The internet has made us all nihilists: keeping us afraid and feeling powerless. I became a self proclaimed nihilist at the ripe age of 17, when I first started my Bachelor’s degree program. Now, 26, and in need of putting this Masters degree to good use, I thought: what better way than through my original loves, literature, film, and finding community? I moved out of New York City in 2016 – during Trump’s first run. Pursuing my dreams and passions–albeit a bit naively–I moved to my home away from home in Seoul and got a Bachelor’s degree in Comparative Literature and Culture at Yonsei University. Though I was happy, my studies began to radicalise me. Growing up in NYC, some would already call me radical–I attended a performing arts school after all. Most, if not all of my friends would consider themselves to be queer. Race was always seen and respected–I’m shocked that some Europeans tell me they didn’t know it was bad to say the N-word until they were older. In New York, you just know. And if you don’t, someone will make you aware. At Yonsei, I began to delve deep into literature and film that would finally shake me and make me start thinking about things other than K-Pop and my parents divorce. Other than myself. The Trump administrations’ attacks on students and Universities is very purposeful. They know that educated people question authority and policy. Thankfully, I was lucky that some of my favourite Professors, who taught us about counter culture in times of censorship, began to show me the importance of having my own backbone and caring about things deeply. Being sensitive was always my superpower, but I became unafraid of expressing it. A person who began an entertainment career at 6 years old like me, you see, no longer has the energy to care about what other people might say or think. I’d like to believe there’s more for me to do than to please others' expectations. So, I chose to please mine, first and foremost. Reading Satanic literature influenced me deeply here–and before you gasp in horror, just know it’s not what you’re imagining. 

My fierce self expression and independence is what I attribute my ability to amass a platform to above all else, and for that I am grateful. It’s the reason I now feel called to a responsibility to act, use my voice, and find community again. For almost a decade now, while doomscrolling alone in bed, I’ve watched everything get worse in 4k through the all new super retina XDR screen. We are bombarded with content from all sides: an absolutely disturbing video of the genocide in Gaza will be followed by snack-fluencers trying to freeze wax candy to get the most satisfying crunch which is followed by a red-pilled manosphere “chad” listing reasons why they’re better the younger you get them. You like it? You want more? Perfect; it's endless. Come and have a scroll. How many hours a day do you spend on your phone? It’s a lot for me. I started to think that believing that nothing matters and there was nothing little old me could do to change anything was ruining my own reality. How could I complain about what I was observing, when I sat there, watching it happen, hating myself and life? Wishing I had never been born into these predicaments? But I learned that there were actually things I could do to reclaim my power. Though small, these things matter. It started with questioning the world and gaining knowledge through reading; then talking to friends and family about lived experiences; then joining online communities and attending protests. Change happens at the grassroots level. Isolating myself was not the answer.

Naturally, the sort of content I started to post shifted from its previous tone. I started to have a voice, to have passion, to demand more of life. People didn’t like it, and still don’t. And sure, I fall victim to imposter syndrome. I do not have a background in history or politics. I am very aware of how under qualified I am to speak about this. But that is the whole point. I am coming to you, out of necessity, to see if you share the same desires as me. I have a desire to learn, and a passion to bring about change. I am a z-illennial who remembers a time before social media was everything. Before what you had and who you could be was all we aspired to. I lived in Hollywood in 2019/2020 and was amongst many of the most fortunate. Those born with a silver spoon in their mouths. They had everything – big empty houses and all the psychedelics they could hoard. They lazed all day, forced restaurant workers making minimum wage to stay open late so they could binge, and filled their houses with libations and the freshest gaggle of new young influencers on the scene. Don’t you see, it’s not just Diddy. It’s not Epstein. Well, yes it is them. But it’s actually money. It’s capitalism. It’s patriarchy. All of these things protect those with the most capital and their possessions and keep the oppressed, oppressed. The legal system and the cops are simply enforcers of this system. It was never about protecting and empowering the people. 

I’m sure you can see it happening now: due process being revoked; legal residents being deported and it being reported as an oopsie; Bondi recommending the Feds seek the death penalty for Luigi before an indictment has even been filed. Project 2025 was a declaration of war. We aren’t on the brink of oligarchy and fascism. We are currently in it. I need everyone to listen carefully to that. All of our rights are at stake. It does not affect you now, but it will. No matter what political ideology you label yourself as, everything is under attack. I believe in the rights laid out in the Constitution. The rights to freedom of speech, press, and religion. I believe in due process. And though I have always been staunchly for gun reform, I do believe that it is imperative we educate ourselves on arms and the use of them, should we be in contact with them. Can I read you a quote? It’s by Abraham Lincoln. These are his words, not mine. I am obligated to say that I am recommending this for the purposes of education. I found it in the Anarchist Cookbook, which is my recommended reading for the week, as I believe it is important to cultivate civic awareness and educate ourselves on self defence. I cannot link it, but there are countless free PDF copies online, should you go looking. It reads:

“This country, with its institutions, belongs to the people who inhabit it. Whether they shall grow weary of the existing government, they can exercise their constitutional right of amending it, or their revolutionary right to dismember or overthrow it.”

Remember that revolution is intellectual. It is cultural. And it is collective. Knowledge is power, and your voice has value. So, on that note: I am coming to you today to ask if you will join me in this pursuit of knowledge. Knowledge is powerful during times like these. Though my platforms have admittedly, and very purposefully, not been a safe space for men, especially cis-gender white men who weaponise their privilege and self-harm by indoctrinating themselves with patriarchal ideas, perhaps you have potential to listen and learn. If you have come for this purpose, I welcome you. Perhaps you, too, are scared and tired of not being enough in this life. Perhaps you, too, are willing to take the burden off of your shoulders, and embrace community over capital. To embrace empathy and compassion, over individualism and power. I know many young women, queer people, and people of color who want to speak up and are passionate but are scared. I want to amplify you. I want you to feel confidence. I will protect, defend, and fight for you. We, the people, are the powerful ones. Especially when we come together. I want to help you, us, find that power. I want to use my platform here to disseminate information I deem potentially useful during these times, and to open up a space in which you guys can interject and share your own experiences. I want to read you passages and show you diagrams. I want to talk through the news, no matter how stupid I sound or how much I want to crawl in a hole and die over it. Will you support me? Will you do something, other than doom scroll, with me? 

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