My research led me to a framework by the name of Cultivation Theory: a theory that assumes “when people are exposed to media content or other socialization agents, they gradually come to cultivate or adopt beliefs about the world that coincide with the images they have been viewing or messages they have been hearing” (Gavin and Kruis). In “The Influence of Media Violence on Intimate Partner Violence Perpetration: An Examination of Inmates’ Domestic Violence Convictions and Self‑Reported Perpetration,” authors Samantha Gavin and Nathan Kruis boil the theory down to a difference between what they call one’s “world reality” and one’s “media reality.” Cultivation theory suggests that one’s perception of the world is influenced by what they see in the media. It feels like the right praxis for this conversation based on how entertainment is often a microcosm of the world at large.

If we apply this theory to The Ultimatum, we can make the conclusion that the socialization of domestic violence in the show can negatively impact how people view domestic violence in the material world. When an individual bases their view of the world on media, they can in turn start to believe that “the violence demonstrated in the media is acceptable in life as well” (Gavin and Kruis). I’ve seen many recent shows (i.e., Furious and Maid) include title sequences that offer resources for victims of domestic violence. Oftentimes, these title sequences appear at the end of an episode, creating an invisible line of demarcation between what’s fabricated for entertainment and resources that ground the viewer in reality. The title sequences serve as a bare minimum act to address the severity of the content being shown. The Ultimatum does not employ the use of any of these title sequences, and in the reunion episode, the severity of domestic violence was not explicitly addressed.

For quick context on how the show works, each couple comes in with one partner delivering an ultimatum for marriage. The couples have the opportunity to meet other people to choose their “trial marriage” partner. The couples then regroup with their trial partners before returning to each other to test the strength of their relationship after experiencing time with someone else. The show ends with the final presentation of The Ultimatum: Will they or won’t they get married?

Two of the relationships that informed much of the “drama” on the show were between the following couples: Hayley Hendrich (23) and Blake Robertson (26); Ashley Wilson (26) and Killian Grondin (29). After the initial recoupling of partners, Hayley ends up with Killian, and Ashley ends up with Blake.

Within the first 48 hours of the new trial marriage, Killian is seen bombarding Ashley’s phone with messages that accuse her of cheating and becoming too attached to her new trial husband based on her social media presence. The back-and-forth conversations result in a five-hour discussion between each couple. Words are spewed back and forth, with both Hayley and Blake acting as pseudo-therapists before viewers witness Killian telling Ashley to “shut the fuck up.” Each partner is equally horrified and quickly reins in the conversation before deciding to block each other and continue to “enjoy” the experiment.

In “Contribution of Media to the Normalization and Perpetuation of Domestic Violence,” researchers determined that in using and prioritizing social media, young adults develop “different expectations of privacy from their partners, termed ‘boundary lessens’.” Killian and Ashley are a perfect example of this term. In avoiding boundaries set by the show, Killian uses social media as a tool to emotionally abuse Ashley. His use of the phrase “shut the fuck up” serves as a mask reveal for who he really is. The phrase also becomes a precursor to the later admission that Killian previously got into an argument with Ashley that resulted in him destroying her phone (so she couldn’t contact anyone), and Ashley calling her parents down from their shared living space to help her. Neither instance is handled with the caution and care that they should be on behalf of the show’s producers and executives. No resources are ever presented on screen, and the reunion episode avoids the opportunity to have a very necessary conversation on the normalization and socialization of domestic violence in entertainment.

As the show progressed, viewers were exposed to a conversation on partnership violence in direct connection to the film “It Ends with Us.” The film is described as follows according to IMDb: “When a woman’s first love suddenly reenters her life, her relationship with a charming, but abusive neurosurgeon is upended, and she realizes she must learn to rely on her own strength to make an impossible choice for her future.” The film’s context is applied to a conversation between Blake and Ashley in which he asks her how she would feel about a hypothetical daughter having a father like Killian. Viewers watch as Ashley quickly responds: “I would remind her that there is so much more good than there is bad, and not to focus just on the bad.” In real time, we watch Cultivation Theory in action: Hollywood’s portrayal of domestic violence serving as a parallel for material reality.

Clare Giuliano’s piece titled “Framing Harm: How Media Shapes Our Understanding of Domestic and Sexual Violence” takes this truth further by posing the following question: Is it spreading awareness and educating viewers, or is it creating harmful false narratives and allowing the sensationalism of domestic and sexual violence? In many cases, the media leans towards the latter. In describing a very serious display of domestic abuse, we see a victim who seemingly views the film as an opportunity to focus on the good versus the bad, even if the bad directly harms the victim or hypothetical children.

In the United States, more than 12 million men and women become victims of domestic violence each year (Gavin and Kruis). Shows like The Ultimatum have a responsibility to shine a light on domestic violence and open up the discussion on how we address abuse as bystanders. There is a scene in this season that also questions groupthink around domestic violence. Specifically, a text thread that surfaces between Killian and his friends in which he discusses gang-raping Hayley, his temporary marriage partner.

The show misses another opportunity to address domestic violence and abuse culture head-on, and instead fails to adequately address it or properly question Killian at both the recoupling dinner and the reunion. Viewers also see Killian fumble over his words to suggest that he is “95% sure” he didn’t text his friends what Ashley “thought she saw,” despite her having screenshots of the thread. Viewers are now not only exposed to domestic violence, but they are also now exposed to manipulation tactics used by abusers to present a certain way publicly; again, with no intervention from the show’s producers or executive team.

Research suggests that “the media’s portrayal of women as sex objects and victims tends to influence societal attitudes that are accepting of domestic violence, particularly violence against women” (Gavin and Kruis). When programs like The Ultimatum fail to have serious conversations on how men harm women, and what abuse looks like in practice, they reinforce the cultivation-theory effect that abuse without consequence is normal. Because the premise of this show is also grounded in marriage, the show takes the theory further by suggesting a healthy marriage will include aspects of abuse, and that abuse is “OK.”

In wrapping up this piece, I turn to two final points of thought that will stay with me: firstly, what boundaries does one set between awareness and educational malpractice? Secondly, outside of cue cards, how can media and programs like The Ultimatum “develop strategies to avert, disrupt, or reverse the internalization of such beliefs?” (Gavin and Kruis). If you know the answer, I’m all ears. It seems that the producers and execs could use a written report.

Source(s):

Gavin SM, Kruis NE. The Influence of Media Violence on Intimate Partner Violence Perpetration: An Examination of Inmates’ Domestic Violence Convictions and Self-Reported Perpetration. Gender Issues. 2022;39(2):177-197. doi: 10.1007/s12147-021-09284-5. Epub 2021 Jun 20. PMID: 34177251; PMCID: PMC8214916.

Giuliano, C. (2025, October 6). Framing Harm: How Media Shapes Our Understanding of Domestic and Sexual Violence. HAVEN. Retrieved August 17, 2026, from https://havennh.org/about-us/posts/media

Kohlman S, Baig A, Balice G, DiRubbo C, Placencia L, et al. Contribution of Media to the Normalization and Perpetuation of Domestic Violence. Austin J Psychiatry Behav Sci. 2014;1(4): 1018. ISSN: 2381-9006.

So, why is this relevant to the story I’m currently writing? I’m so happy you asked! I’ve been running a series titled “Substack Reads for Bad Bitches,” where I discuss some of my favorite pieces on Substack. As I prepared to write my next edition, I selected a piece on what makes something go viral. As I began reading, something about the text felt off.

So, I decided to do my first Pangram analysis by copying and pasting a portion of the text into the app (as this piece was posted prior to July 21). To my horror, the results indicated that the piece was 100% AI. I was shocked, particularly because the piece has over 2,000 likes, over 90 comments, and has been “re-stacked” over 160 times. The realization that people can go viral on AI-generated text prompted me to do research on some of the other writers I enjoy on Substack. To my continued surprise, as I checked more and more content, each post produced the same results from Pangram: “100% of this text is AI.”

So I started to wonder: Who gone be the real thinkers? As artificial intelligence continues to stretch its reach across all facets of everyday life, I began to examine my own work and started to pull together a list of commonalities that signal AI was used.

“I haven’t been able to stop thinking about”

The use of the word “quieter” to describe something

Corny animisms: “The bench that watches. The rock that remembers.”

“The data point worth listening to”

Some of these commonalities showed up in scripts Claude generated from my full-length essays (which are not AI-assisted) to create short-form video content. You can even find a few of the sound bites in past videos I’ve done. But as I’ve produced more scripts and started to condense my own words, that AI-generated style is something I’ve become overly conscious of because I don’t want my audience to consume content that isn’t fully from me. I was happy to put my articles through Pangram and see “100% of this text is Human Written.” It was validating to know that even with another AI-generated service like Pangram, the software was able to detect that my writing is my own. It made it that much more fulfilling when others let me know how much they enjoy my writing.

And as I began to research the issue more, I came across two examples that continued to shine a light on AI-assisted writing. One example is based on Hank Green’s use of AI in his work. Hank Green is a popular educational content creator, with series like “Crash Course” that continue to be used in school systems to visually explain complex topics. I even remember using the series in my AP World History class in 12th grade. Green was suspected of AI use after a video for his nonprofit Complexly used the following phrase: “I appreciate the pushback.” Many audience members immediately recognized the text as a “common output of chatbots or other generative artificial intelligence engines.” The backlash reflected frustration that his career has long depended on rigorous research. One user noted the following: “Finding out Hank Green, the guy responsible for teaching me so much science and history and research whose whole thing was using credible sources, is now using ChatGPT for ‘research’ is so deeply saddening.” Green published an in-depth apology on July 31st, but for many, the damage had already been done.

Crash Course has over 17.2 million subscribers on YouTube. As we think about the profit generated by content creation, I also urge us to think about how much of that process is based on stolen work. The second example of AI-assisted writing comes from a piece titled “Writing Like A Human Being Is The Most Radical Act You Can Make Today” by The Mercer Edition.

In the piece, The Mercer Edition makes the case for supporting indie magazines that use real writing from authors and don’t rely on AI assistance. The piece takes a direct hit at media companies relying on AI journalism, noting that “media companies should take notes and make sure that writers are actually writing, and not co-signing AI words.” The piece goes on to make a comparison between record deal interpretations in the 90s and the same practice that has evolved today, in which one has to “look between the lines when possible” to determine what writing is likely AI. For The Mercer Edition, the “AI-assisted” label has become the biggest telltale sign of an entity that doesn’t really care about its audience, and isn’t producing anything for the sake of “trying to advance culture and society in general.” And I have to agree. In co-signing AI-assisted work, we lose the ability to appreciate true critical thought and academic research. When AI slop continues to produce viral hits and rake in revenue for influencers, we have to wonder what writing is still sacred.

If you’re using AI for written work on Substack, I highly recommend the use of the “How I make this” option to let your readers know where “your” work came from.

In the past, I’ve used Claude to generate video scripts based on my non-AI-assisted longer essays. For my written work, I strictly use AI to check for grammar and poke holes in any portions of my argument that don’t make sense. All the thoughts, prose, and conclusions are based on my own ideas and my own research. I don’t currently profit from any of my content, but when I do, it will be based on my own words, and not the use of artificial intelligence. If I’m your favorite writer, you can have confidence in knowing that my work and my words are my own.

This past weekend, I celebrated a delayed birthday trip to New York City with two out of three of my aunts, my mom, and my cousin. Five women, all descendants of my late grandmother. The trip involved months of preparation and as I reflect on how well it was executed, I’m reminded of a past piece I wrote about Toni Morrison’s Tar Baby. The piece was a reflection on my first read of Morrison’s work, and something that stood out to me was the book’s approach to how we care for our elders:

[excerpt from Tar Baby review] I can’t help but savour the conversation explored at the end of the novel that discusses the role of a caregiver, particularly caregivers in Black families. It reminded me of my own experiences with my late grandparents, and the role that the adults around me played in caring for their former guardians, who did the same. One quote struck me most on page 283: “I can’t explain nothing no more. It didn’t use to be this way. Seem like folks used to take care of folks once upon a time. Old black people must be a worrisome thing to the young ones these days.” The quote left me with the following question: as we (Black people) grow older, how do we continue to center the concept of care and community with our elders?

Five months later, I found the answer. We continue to center the concept of care and community for our elders by showing them they are loved. That love looks like an investment in making memories, sharing stories from the past, and honoring those who have since moved on

My family is very matriarchal. My grandma, Evelyn Julia Davis, was the connective tissue. After her passing in 2019, my cousin Avis held a meeting with the women of the family, instructing us to ensure that we remained glued together, even without the person who once spearheaded all of our family gatherings. And seven years later, that promise has remained intact.

My grandma’s favorite time of the year was Thanksgiving. We would cram together in her small single-story home, with photo walls painting family memories, and a static heat from an oven that stood the test of time and produced items from a consistent holiday menu. One of the things I loved most about my grandma was her open-door policy. Anyone and everyone was invited to these celebrations (even family members I didn’t want to see). Today, we don’t cram into that same kitchen, but we do host Thanksgiving at my cousin Christina’s house. For four days, we all come together to celebrate, honoring the opportunity to make sure Evelyn smiles down on us – each member of the lineage represented. This past weekend was a great precursor to November’s big event.

I’ve always thought that the relationship my aunt Chris has with her daughter Christina mirrors the relationship I have with my mother. We tell each other everything, laugh at the same things, reach out to each other for assurance, and find joy in sharing our newest hobbies (e.g., pilates and coloring books from Coco Wyo). So what started as a small chat between my mom, Christina, and me as we prepared to surprise my aunt with one of her bucket list items soon ballooned into a four-day excursion that would also include my Aunt Gwen. My fourth aunt, Aunt Merilyn, wasn’t able to attend, but we made sure we sent pictures and hosted a FaceTime call for the sisters to connect.

My favorite moment was the initial surprise. My mom, my cousin, and I held a conference call two days prior to discuss our plan of action. On Thursday, the plan was set in motion. My aunt and cousin would start by coming to my house, where they would be surprised by my mother. We would then go to a local vegan spot to enjoy lunch before checking into our hotel. Once we got to the hotel, my Aunt Gwen arrived soon after. Before we headed to dinner, we invited my cousin and aunt to see our room setup. As we got ready to show the bathroom, my Aunt Gwen appeared from behind the door. With each new surprise, my aunt laughed and squealed with excitement, commenting that she was surprised my brother allowed my mom to get away (mind you, he’s 14). The weekend gaggle was complete, and the full trip was officially in motion.

Each day, we traveled around the city, hitting the spots on a well-curated itinerary by yours truly. And as we experienced parts of the city together- a ferry ride, walking the Brooklyn Bridge, a trip to the MoMA, and more- I continued to reflect on the women who remain pillars of the family. How Christina uses her home as the meeting spot each year for Thanksgiving, how my Aunt Chris’s facial expressions have been passed on to me, how my mom will always be the baby of the sisters, and how my Aunt Gwen carries her maternal nature everywhere she goes. These pillars are what made me, but they are also what have stabilized me as I’ve grown with age.

I know that I’m lucky to have a family that doesn’t judge, and if they do, they at least do it out loud (lol). They’ve created a safe space for me to express myself, and continue to be the example I choose when thinking about the type of family I want to curate down the line. Caring for our elders and giving them their flowers while they are here is the best way to remind them of their value to a village. I knew it had been a job well done when my Aunt Chris said the following on night two, “I know that I am loved.”

If I were to instruct other Black families on how to sustain care across generations, I would recommend uncovering the milestones your elders have yet to reach and thinking about how you can help them get there. For my aunt, it was a trip to a city she had never been to. I also recommend visiting elders who frequently ask when they’ll get the chance to see you again. For my aunt who couldn’t make this trip, I prioritized a secret trip a few years ago to spend time with her alongside my cousin and mom. And for my Aunt Gwen, I planned a trip a few months ago to visit her and my uncle in Chicago. We must celebrate our elders while they’re here, in hopes that we won’t regret stolen moments when they’re gone.

To be loved by family is one of the greatest gifts. No amount of money can quantify the feeling, and I will forever be blessed to have memories that will carry me through the rest of my life. In my final reflection on Morrison’s piece, my goal is to ensure my elders are never an afterthought. It is my pleasure to spend time with them, hear stories I haven’t heard, and create new ones I get to be part of. Maybe today is the day you learn how to do the same.

For me, the movie theater has long been a place where I can be unbound by time and fall in love with a story that exists outside of my own. It’s the same feeling I get from immersing myself in a book, with less strain on my eyes (unless I’m in the row nearest the screen). When I went to see The Odyssey last week in 70mm, the theater was filled. Not one seat was left open, and as I marveled at Odysseus’ journey, I looked around to see if others wore the same awe-filled expressions. Spoiler alert: they did. The sound quality, feeling like I was at sea, and the shared excitement when Odysseus strung his bow made the group watching experience that much more enjoyable. The collective excitement compelled me to do more research on what attracts moviegoers to the theater.

In a conversation with Nathan Roberts, filmmaker, professor, and head instructor at Harvard Extension School, Sarah Lamodi questioned Roberts on why people enjoy going to the theater. Roberts starts the interview by explaining the ritualistic practice that is visiting the theater, noting that the reason people enjoy the “event-ness” of the theater is that they get the chance to “delight in collective experience.” That group experience is also marked by cult-following milestones like Nicole Kidman’s AMC Theatres intro, which still gets applause every time she appears on screen. Roberts goes on to provide two concrete examples for further research. The first is the 2026 horror comedy, Send Help, which follows the story of two colleagues who become “stranded on a deserted island, the only survivors of a plane crash”. Roberts comments on the psychological element of the group watching dynamic, noting that an original film “can actually do quite well and maintain longevity because of how fun it is to watch with an audience.” Audiences like to have fun, and seeing movies with an engaged audience differs from the solitary in-home watching event.

Roberts’ second example discusses re-releases in IMAX, citing Black Swan as an example. While the film was initially shot on 16mm, it was altered for the IMAX 65mm size. While viewers could easily watch the film on demand, seeing it in IMAX provides a “sensory experience for a viewer that they simply can’t have at home.” The cinema journey is instantly enhanced, physically transporting you to a different viewing practice. And for the filmmaker who cares about connecting with the audience, the immersive audience journey echoes what “made them love and want to make films in the first place.” In building upon this shared audience, I also did research on who accounts for box office numbers.

In Kyndall Cunningham’s piece titled “Are movie theaters cool again?” she does intricate research on the audiences that continue to keep theaters in business. To no surprise, these individuals are members of Gen Z and Gen Alpha. In citing the annual Strength of Theatrical Exhibition, Cunningham notes a “25 percent increase in theater attendance for members of Gen Z.” She continues this thought by commenting on the percentage increase in Gen Zers who have visited the theater at least six times a year - 31% in 2024 and 41% in 2025. It’s clear that young people enjoy going to the movies, and in a quote from film writer Will Tavlin, he explains the reason as follows: “As we’re subjected to more streaming slop, people realize that, ‘Oh, it’s actually nice to go out and be part of the world.’” The movies offer a chance for people to leave their homes and witness both a collective audience and an intellectual exercise that promotes limited screen time and active listening. Perhaps the reason we love it is that we have been conditioned to rely on vertical content more heavily. The theater forces us to resist the digital modes we’ve become so used to.

As Roberts notes, viewing a movie in the theater is a ritual experience. The theater functions as one of the remaining third spaces audiences have to convene and be together. In response to Ted Sarandos, I don’t think the consumer is looking for more films to watch at home as much as they are looking for an immersive film journey that forces them to socially engage with a larger audience. Good cinema does that. And even with a decline in ticket sales post-COVID, there is still an audience that craves the theatrical experience. As many of us have learned, the world shifted after COVID, and the expectations set by Hollywood must shift as a result. Cinema is back because of films that push originality and force us to expand our minds regarding the realm of possibility around us. Films like Obsession, Leviticus, The Drama, The Invite, and more provide us with a new slate of original content that evokes deep thought. For Obsession, viewers question the “nice guy” trope; Leviticus forces us to question who gets to be pure; The Drama pushes audiences to consider the worst thing they’ve done, while simultaneously introducing a larger conversation on gun violence; and The Invite forces us to consider awkward conversations between partners. To quote Harry Nilsson’s song “One,” if one is the loneliest number, maybe two isn’t much better; perhaps we’re all tired of a singular audience experience.

I recently had a conversation with two friends about the gender norms we ascribe to bisexual men, and more specifically, about the taboo that surrounds bisexuality in general. When discussing a willingness to be with someone who identifies as bisexual, the conversation made me think of two specific scenarios: the breakup between Carlton Morton and Diamond Jack on Love is Blind Season One, and the conversation on Black bisexual men in Insecure. As usual with any subject I can’t stop thinking about, I turned to research to explore more about the topic.

My first stop was literature on the discrimination Bisexual individuals face. As someone who identifies as queer, I’m no stranger to narratives that shun bisexual people for wanting to “have their cake and eat it too.” In “Bisexual Men’s Experiences with Discrimination, Internalized Binegativity, and Identity Affirmation: Differences by Partner Gender,” authors Elissa Sarno, Michael Newcomb, Brian Feinstein, and Brian Mustanski explore how bisexual individuals experience stigma based on their gender. Results from the study indicate that bisexual men experience distinctive forms of prejudice based on their gender and sexual identity. In the study, the authors used a sample of 180 bisexual cisgender men. Of those interviewed, 64 were Black or African American, 56 were Hispanic or Latino, 34 were Non-Hispanic White, 19 were Multiracial, 4 were Asian, 1 was Native Hawaiian or Other Pacific Islander, and 2 identified as a race not listed. One of the findings I found most interesting in the study was the relationship between anti-bisexual prejudice and heterosexual people. Results from the study showed that “bisexual men who had more comfort and pride in their bisexual identity also had more frequent experiences of anti-bisexual prejudice with heterosexual people.” Being more prideful in one’s sexuality led to more frequent prejudice from heterosexual people.

This further connects to research from Anderson and McCormack that states the 11 burdens and stigmas of bisexuality as follows:

1. Neurotic

2. Unable to love

3. Sex crazed

4. Less capable of monogamy

5. Suffering from negative identity stereotypes

6. Confused about sexual orientation

7. Seen as being in a transitional phase

8. Attention-seeking

9. Not being brave enough to come out

10. Accused of holding on to heterosexual privilege

11. Perceived as gay

The burdens, mixed with negative outward perception, lay the foundation for the ways we see bisexuality socialized in everyday life.

This same burden is vividly depicted in season one of Love is Blind and Insecure. In season one of Love is Blind, we meet Carlton Morton and Diamond Jack. We don’t see them fight over Carlton’s history with men and women until after they leave the pods. Diamond’s response to Carlton’s history is to suggest that he “led her on” and was “dishonest.” The conversation perfectly presents the realities many bisexual men are faced with when sharing more intimate details about their sexuality. The dynamic also reminds me of one of the conversations I had with an ex-boyfriend, who shared his sexuality with me, before mentioning the following: “I haven’t told many friends or family. You’re one of the few that know.” And I’d be wrong to not admit that I believed part of the reason we broke up was that he needed to further explore his sexuality and what type of partner he wanted to be with.

This conversation becomes especially heated when discussed in the Black community. Episode 6 of Season 1 of Insecure is called “Guilty as Fuck.” Part of the episode’s synopsis is described as follows: “Jared and Molly take turns sharing stories from their past, and he admits that he has been with a man in the past. Molly informs her friends about her concerns about Jared’s past, and Issa tries to ease Molly’s worries. However, Molly is unable to cope with Jared’s past and breaks up with him.” I remember the episode prompting a series of threads on Twitter in which members of the Black community discussed the topic further. Biko Mandela Gray skillfully approaches the topic in his piece titled, “No Homo; or, why Jared in Insecure is one of my Heroes.” Gray notes that “Men — and particularly black men — are often judged by where they put their penises, even if it only happens once.” For Molly, hearing that a male partner was with another man once was enough for her to decide that the love Jared could potentially offer was not one she was willing to receive. And in this rejection, she essentially says that men are “blind to the attractiveness of other people, men or women,” which we know is definitely not true. The topic is further explored in Angelica Jade Bastién’s recap of the episode in which she discusses Molly’s thoughts on Jared’s lack of manhood because of his sexual experience with another man. In response, Bastien says the following: “It’s that same sort of thinking that I’ve seen imprison black men in an identity that calls for them to be hard and emotionally distant, to dampen any aspect of themselves that can be coded as “feminine.””

Black men deserve to showcase femininity without it being a question of their character or ability to be a “man” in relationships (for those who do ascribe to gender roles). The conversation led me to have a chat with one of my friends who identifies as a Black bisexual man. I asked him the following question: Do you feel like there are gendered norms ascribed to you based on your sexuality?

The answer was profound. “The answer is yes, on both sides. I think from the perspective of women, I’ve gotten that since high school. At first it was being friends with girls, like “oh something is off.”” For Black men who depict any hint of femininity, the immediate outward response is that something is off, or this one “has a little sugar in his tank.” I’ve been guilty of saying the same.

We continued to discuss his experience with bisexuality in college: “I think the conversations around gender were more of me being seen as gay and the femininity that people ascribe to gay people. The insults were inflated. In college, girls were more open about it. It always felt like a double standard, where there’s one view where men are saying they love seeing women hook up, and in another view, everything that you do otherwise is seen as gay.” I found the double standard interesting because I’ve seen it in practice. It’s not a problem when two girls engage in intimacy, but it’s the opposite when the gender is reversed. A specific story I found interesting was tied to a conclusion from the aforementioned research that suggests being more prideful in one’s sexuality led to increased hate from those who identify as bisexual. This friend described an experience with a girl who felt comfortable sharing her status as a bisexual woman. When my friend did the same, her response was as follows: “‘Oh, I would never do that.” This response again poses a double standard - it’s ok for a woman, but it’s not ok for a man.

We ended our conversation with anecdotes on how bisexuality has painted his adult life: “What’s been interesting now as an adult, because I think there’s mass appeal for a queer man that you see in conversation and media. But whether women want that is another question. I think for a queer man to be in a relationship with some of these women, it requires that they go back to norms that they were running from, or it puts them into a new category that they might not feel aligned to. You might have a bi man that’s over-feminized and is now looked at as a “lesbian girlfriend” based on fetishization. Or, you have the other example of a bi-guy that is pushed to be more masculine because a certain woman realizes she wants a man to represent a certain archetype.” The stereotypes applied to queer men in surface-level heterosexual relationships run the risk of applying traditional gender roles to the “man” of the relationship. In opting to ascribe to the gender role, a man’s bisexuality or queerness becomes erased.

So, I end this piece with a few questions that I’d love to learn more about from bisexual men:

• Have you ever considered bisexuality as the answer to a woman who decides to open up the relationship?

• What gender norms do you feel you’re burdened by?

• Have you encountered bisexual women who are averse to being with a bisexual man?

• How do you wish the world viewed bisexuality?

In a world that presents insecurity around sexuality, I hope that in sharing the stories of others, conversations find ways to evolve and focus on inclusivity versus a fearful mindset. Bisexuality isn’t a disease, and you can still experience love with a bisexual partner.

Make your bed three times so your day will be good.

Hit the corner of your bed six times so your parents don’t die in a car crash.

Say sorry to the light when you accidentally hit it, so that nothing bad happens to your brother.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was showing signs of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD): a mental health condition that involves a cycle of unwanted, intrusive thoughts, images, urges, feelings, or sensations (obsessions) and repetitive physical or mental acts (compulsions). By the time I reached college, the voices stopped, and a new onslaught of diagnoses would convince me that my “OCD tendencies” had dissipated. This was until I entered a more recent spiral that forced me to reckon with the reality that those OCD tendencies didn’t leave and continued quietly. This fade-out was because my other diagnoses (anxiety, depression, bipolar 2) kept center stage.

I spent the last few weeks spiraling, attempting to understand my surroundings, and wondering why, internally, nothing felt right. It’s fascinating how the body knows something is off before you do. The spiral came to a head this past week. I got a last-minute project that would require a substantial amount of capacity that I didn’t have, and my boyfriend broke up with me. Each of these were back to back events that happened in a span of three hours. I spent the next few hours sobbing, in between phone calls with loved ones, before dissociating and returning to the work that lay ahead. And in this work, I questioned my character.

My boyfriend assured me that although nothing was wrong with me, he needed more intimacy, romance, and “softness.” As a Black woman, I wondered what that meant, and in his monologue, he presented the answer: I traveled too much, spent too much time with friends, didn’t call and text enough during the day, and had a brash sense of humor. When he asked if there was anything I wanted to say, I asked if I was being broken up with. The answer was just as confusing as the timing: “I initially thought this was a conversation, but now that I’ve talked through it and reflected, yes, I think that’s what’s best for us.” The answer had been decided, and I won’t fight for a mind that’s already been made up. I noted I had nothing else to contribute and that I wished I had been informed sooner – if only for the opportunity to course-correct and equally continue to commit to a partnership that grows. This specific scene continued to haunt me as I attempted to focus on the work task at hand.

By 7 pm, the project was complete. I found myself in an extreme state of exhaustion and began to reflect on why my body felt so tired. I spent the next hour attempting to put together the pieces.

1. Got broken up with

2. Was told, essentially, that you’re “not soft enough to love”

3. Struggled with daily food noise and growing disgust with your body

4. Had a falling out with someone that could have been prevented

5. Received rejections for two new potential opportunities

6. Struggled to find your foundation after a taxing round of travel

7. Impulsively spent and ignored your “budget”

I had spent the past three weeks putting my body through the rigorous bootcamp that is intrusive thoughts, imposter syndrome, impulsivity, and an inability to find a baseline. I spiraled, and I didn’t notice it. Many of the factors were mental or emotional, but I also had spent that time wondering if the romantic relationship I was fostering was really for me. I asked my best friend for assurance daily: “Was I being too harsh?” “Was I a bad person for wanting my partner to be equally as ambitious?” and “Is this what I see for myself forever?” Those voices from high school returned, with a new accent, changing their form for the version of me that currently exists.

My body told me the answer, but I chose to ignore it. The signs came in endless fatigue and a visit with a familiar friend – my self-diagnosed OCD. I have two friends with OCD, and when they describe their present symptoms, it doesn’t feel like the experience resonates with me. But in this last spiral, I was quickly reminded that just because your situation looks different, it doesn’t mean that your compulsions don’t exist. Perhaps I was just ignoring them, hoping that they would fade soon, and convinced that my constant need for reassurance was more a personality trait than a compulsion.

When I was younger, my need for validation always came from my mom. If something triggered me, stressed me out, or was the negative result of my own actions, I always shared it with my mom, so the burden would be shared. Now the weight of the situation wasn’t only on me but was shared with someone else. My mom’s response was always part punishment, part opportunity for redemption. Today, my mom still takes the number one spot, but she’s started to tie with my best friend, Brandon. In my moments of most extreme self-doubt, Brandon is the one I turn to. I always come with a list of questions that bother me and a bin of loose threads that will require Brandon to sew together the pieces. I asked him recently if this cycle bothered him – Was I actually maybe a bad person? He assured me (again) that I wasn’t. When I told him I realized my OCD may have never left me, he laughed, “Well, I could’ve told you that!” We laughed together, and my body felt another form of release, doubling as relief.

In the days since, I’m respecting my body and making a vow to myself to pay attention when my soul and physical body are at odds. Many experiences would not bestow themselves upon us if we learned to craft a better listening and in-tune ear. In that listening, I’m returning to weekly therapy sessions (as opposed to every other week), accepting that I am capable of being loved, that my strong personality is a gift, and that perhaps I need to revisit my relationship to OCD and how I relate clinically. I can only hope that I’m better prepared for the next spiral.

My first exposure to horror films came when I was 10 years old. My parents introduced me to Jeepers Creepers and the original Nightmare on Elm Street. Each left me with crippling fear for the next few months; Freddy was going to plunge his claws through my bed, the Jeepers Creepers anthem would constantly play in my head, and I couldn’t use the bathroom with the door closed for months. But I was left wanting more. The layered storytelling, the jumpscares, the misunderstood villains, the reality of the worst thing you could imagine, all of it kept me coming back. And 16 years later, that hunger persists.

So, I’ve thoroughly enjoyed the resurgence of box office horror films, championed by the likes of Jordan Peele, Ari Aster, James Wan, and more. However, as I’ve had more time to dissect the films I’ve come to love, one question has followed me with each film: “Why would the men do that?” Each time, the question has come after one of the most idiotic film sequences I’ve ever seen: Bear refusing to tell Nikki the truth about his feelings for her, Naim failing to tell Ryan he saw him kiss another man, and Joseph avoiding killing his father even after his father’s murder attempt on his girlfriend’s life (Thya). With each scene, I wondered, why do men allow insecurity and loyalty to stop them from doing the right thing?

The thought made me consider the connections horror has to everyday society. In Obsession, Bear plays the ‘nice guy,’ a foil to the cheerful, obsessive Nikki. In Leviticus, Naim is the quiet, shy foil to Ryan, who is more extroverted and naturally has a jock-like personality. In Evil Dead Burn, Joseph is the meek, scared foil to Alice, who is portrayed as a strong-willed woman, unwilling to allow her ex-husband Will to destroy her life. With the exception of Leviticus, each film puts the onus on the women characters to drive the plot. The resulting formula that is displayed is as follows:

For Leviticus, you could say that the mother’s indifference to Naim’s experiences is the attempt at this formula, but in the end, she doesn’t do the right thing. OR maybe she does do the right thing, just not the one we’d hope for: she proves she won’t accept her son as he truly is, and that’s what sends him fleeing the quiet town; more on my application of the formula to Leviticus later.

So, as per usual, I turned to academic research to learn more about misogynistic tropes found in horror movies. I was turned specifically to the term hegemonic masculinity, which is a form of masculinity that prioritizes traits such as emotional suppression, aggression, competitiveness, and power. A term coined by R.W. Connell, the theory provides several themes that present a culturally idealized form of manhood. In Sam Jackson’s thesis titled “‘Try getting a reservation at Dorsia now, you fucking stupid bastard!’ Hegemonic Masculinity in Slasher Films,” she describes these themes as sexist ideology, sexual behavior, and physical and emotional violence. In Jackson’s sample size, emotional violence “occurred at the highest rate among the sample of slasher films, at 44.3% of all four themes at 729 total counted instances.” It’s a fair conclusion to say that emotional violence is one of the most sinister themes embedded in hegemonic masculinity.

Jackson continues her research by mentioning the work of Carol Clover, who is an American professor of Medieval Studies and American Film at the University of California, Berkeley. Clover is also the author of Men, Women, and Chain Saws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, and the creator of the “final girl” theory. Jackson relies on Clover’s research to break down the six main elements of a slasher film – a psychologically disturbed male killer, a beautiful victim, a boyish survivor, a location apart from the main character’s home, a weapon other than a gun, and an attack that is registered from the victim’s point of view.

These elements can be directly applied to the aforementioned films.

• Obsession: Bear desires Nikki and believes that their emotional attachment equates to her perceived attraction to Bear. Nikki is seen as a tomboy, and it’s unclear where the story actually takes place. In the end, the weapon is the weeping willow curse, and the attack is seen from Nikki’s possessed body – as her soul fights to overcome the demonic presence and Bear’s control.

• Leviticus: While Leviticus as a film focuses on purity, elements of the slasher film category remain. We learn that Naim has recently moved and is no longer in his “home” location; the beautiful victim is Ryan, a regular man, the weapon is a demonic presence, and the attack is initially viewed from the perspective of Ryan and Hunter.

• Evil Dead Burn: Will attempts to kill his wife and drives the plot of the film; Joseph fails to protect the family from Will’s threats; Alice is the boyish girl who saves the day; they are all located in a town away from their presumed home, and the weapon is an inanimate evil from hell.

Each film combines the themes and formulas for a good slasher film with the formula I’ve presented. The men have been built to relish in emotional violence, and another core aspect of hegemonic masculinity that suggests domination is a tool to “achieve elite status” alongside the “brutalization of women” to maintain power. Bear’s dominance over Nikki, Naim’s dominance over Ryan, and Will’s dominance over Alice allow them to be the elite character in their personal stories, regardless of who it hurts in the process.

And in terms of the gender roles at play in Leviticus, Jackson has an answer for that as well. She cites a specific article from Pugh 2007 that looks at Ash Williams from the Evil Dead franchise. Ash is seen as a “gentler and more feminine man” in comparison to the other men in the franchise. In discussing male victims, Jackson notes that these characters “displayed more instances of negative male-coded behaviors like dictatorship or being egotistical.” For Naim, his ego convinced him that Ryan was only interested in him and their subsequent rendezvous were the equivalent of a monogamous relationship. Because Naim becomes the vehicle to introduce the killer, Ryan occupies the non-traditional feminine victim role.

For the men in Obsession, Leviticus, and Evil Dead Burn, there is a desire for dominance and the ability to stay in control of a situation, even as that situation becomes wildly worse by the second. The current setup of horror films continues to rest in male-dominated stories that give space for the patriarchy to “live to fight another day.” Clover’s formula, in tandem with my own simplified version, relies on males competing to prove whose dick is the largest and whose ability to inflict emotional and physical pain is strongest. If you’re wondering why the men continue to suck in today’s horror films, the answer lies in the foundations that mix gender studies and the analysis of horror movies. Every theme can be tied to a theory, and in this case, hegemonic masculinity continues to rule the day.

we’re gathered on the streets again

bent kneed in the churches

we’re voices high

singing lift every voice and sing

i’m not sure who we’re singing to anymore

but if we keep losing members of our choir

it won’t matter much

-“They killed another one of us today” by Ewurakua Dawson-Amoah

July 4th marked the 250th anniversary of America’s Independence. This year, the July 4th weekend also became the weekend Taylor Swift would wed Travis Kelce at MSG Stadium in New York. July 4th, 2026, also represents the day that Nolan Wells, a Black 18-year-old, went missing on Horn Island, an island off Mississippi. Wells would later be confirmed deceased. As I think through these three events, occurring on the same day, I can’t help but question: who really gets to be free, and how has America changed in the past 250 years? This essay is my attempt to make sense of the questions in the context of today’s racial and social politics.

To ground us, I think it’s important to note when Black people in America received “independence.” On January 1, 1863, Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation, which declared all enslaved people in Confederate states free. On June 19, 1865, better known as Juneteenth, Major General Gordon Granger led soldiers to Galveston, Texas, to declare that the war was over and that the Union now had the manpower necessary to forcibly end slavery. On December 6, 1865, the 13th Amendment was officially ratified, thus abolishing slavery and involuntary servitude in the United States. White America became free 250 years ago. Black America didn’t legally become free until nearly 161 years ago. Some (including myself) may even argue that we still aren’t free. And now that we’ve covered the brief history, I want to discuss the reality Black Americans face when we discuss freedom.

I started this piece with an excerpt from poet and writer Ewurakua Dawson-Amoah. The poem does the best job of succinctly describing this piece. When we mention freedom, we must be cautious about whom we ascribe freedom to. Whether it is George, Breonna, Sandra, Emmett, or now Nolan, the Black plight for freedom continues to be a dream chasing a reality. While a family searched and waited for answers concerning the whereabouts of their Black boy, a familiar couple began to prepare for the nuptials on the biggest stage possible.

Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce wed on the weekend of July 4, 2026, at Madison Square Garden (MSG) in New York City. The rumor mill has run through the likes of TMZ and more, but I want to focus on a piece from Kase Wickman that is featured in Vanity Fair. The piece titled “Maybe Taylor Swift Should Get Married at Madison Square Garden” already suggests that a public arena like MSG is fitting for a star like Swift. And the concluding line in the piece states Wickman’s POV: “Despite how unsexy it may first sound, the world’s most famous arena is perhaps the perfect space for the world’s preeminent entertainer to enter her Wife Era.” The piece does a lot in explaining how we interpret celebrities in the public eye. The grandeur that follows them is the same grandeur that places them in a hierarchy above your everyday person.

To dive deeper into celebrity hierarchies and reputation, I turn to the work of Ronald Althouse and his journal titled “The Modern Celebrity as a Unique Form of Stratification.” In this piece, Althouse breaks down celebrity groups by social strata – examining different groups of celebrities across profession, industry, and socioeconomic factors. The quote that stuck with me from his piece is the engineered public image that is ascribed to celebrities: “The professional celebrity approaches the pure case of an engineered public image supported by a manufactured reputation. Whatever the celebrity does or plans to do has news value.” Regardless of what she does or what happens to her, Swift’s every move automatically becomes news value. And while outlets like Vanity Fair, The Hollywood Reporter, and E! News rush to report on celebrity news, they miss the news that matters; the not-so-glamorous realities for many who don’t get the chance to dream. Celebrity logic engineers what is newsworthy, displacing attention to Black bodies.

Nolan Wells has now been added to the list of Black boys who entered the news cycle not for a celebration of freedom, but for the mourning of freedom that was yet to be realized. 161 years later, and Black bodies still do not get the chance to experience the “American Dream,” because oftentimes, even your bootstraps aren’t enough. My brother is 14 years old – a young Black male who attends private school, is involved in extracurricular activities, and continues to grow into his teenage identity. However, as many Black kids know, our growth looks different. There are hard truths we have to learn through trial and error. One of which is the inherent struggle attached to Black skin. A few months ago, I got into a disagreement with my dad over the “right” way to parent my brother (that’s a story for another day). Part of the conversation surrounded tone and a desire for my brother to live his teenage life with less restriction. My father, a cop of over 30 years, brings a different perspective to parenting that is grounded in the legal strife given to Black boys daily. And each time a Black boy no longer gets the chance to dream, I reflect on our earlier disagreement. Is it a life of leniency that leads to Black turmoil, or is it a world that never truly granted us that leniency in the first place?

For Nolan, Breonna, George, Emmett, and more, it was the latter. And while white America jointly celebrated 250 years and Swift’s nuptials, I consider the stories that don’t become news value because they don’t occupy the celebrity strata. The stories that tear down the idea that America has truly had 250 years of freedom. The stories that are grounded in Black maternity morality rates, Black boys followed in corner stores, Black women losing their jobs in record numbers, DEI pushback, and more.

Today, Black people are gathered on the streets again. Still singing Lift Every Voice and Sing, and still attempting to let our voices echo, even as America continues to take them away. 250 years free? Perhaps another name is 250 years of still trying to be seen.

Rest in freedom and love to all the Black bodies that no longer get to dream.

So, what makes a good apology? As usual, I turn to academic research to find the answer. In “The Power of Apologies,” Harvard Medical School provides a breakdown of what makes an effective apology and why apologies are important. According to the piece, apologies show three things: you share the same values about right behavior, you feel regret when you go against them, and you prove it by following through on those values afterward.

In my opinion, a good apology always results in changed behavior. And the behavior is often the telltale on if the apology is genuine. As we use the aforementioned definition from Harvard, I want to apply it to KC and Aniya, Kenzie, and the girls in the show (a blend of “OGs” and Casa girls).

KC and Aniya

Much can be said about the relationship between KC and Aniya. I even wrote a Substack piece about them – mainly KC’s behavior towards her. So, I did enjoy seeing the two have a conversation in which each person was heard, and they could properly squash the issues between each other. The conversation was vastly different from how the two spoke to each other during movie night.

KC physically stood up to defend his point of view, and Aniya did the same, before KC sat back down and she finished saying her piece in his face. While Aniya did later apologize for her behavior, audience reactions were mixed, and this piece isn’t meant to discuss those reactions as much as it’s meant to discuss the aftermath of their heated exchange. So let’s break down how they followed Harvard’s apology framework:

• Definition: KC started by noting he said a lot of “bullshit in there,” followed by an explanation of how his behavior and comments were something he was embarrassed by

• Acknowledgement/Responsibility: KC takes responsibility by tying his comments to his own resentment and frustration with repeated arguing.

• Recognition: Both KC and Aniya agree that they had some “bullshit,” but they also had great moments that, for KC, are “dear to his heart.”

• Regret: KC repeats that he understands why Aniya felt the way she felt and may still feel because of his initial behavior.

• Promise/Explanation: KC confirms that his feelings weren’t fake and he didn’t want Aniya to feel like his connection with her was because she was a “safe option.”

What’s important is how Aniya reacted to this framework. She heard KC, accepted his apology, and confirmed that she wants the best for him, noting that he “deserves to be happy.” KC confirms that he’s equally happy for Aniya, complimenting the connection she has with Carl. The conversation ends with Aniya telling KC to treat TiTi well before they both agree that they’re now “good.”

KC and Aniya perfectly display the cycle of an apology. And the cycle serves as a teaching point for giving and extending grace. In the apology sequence, we also learn the value of accountability through Kenzie’s redemption.

Kenzie

It’s fair to say that Kenzie got her lashings during movie night. Her back-and-forth exploration between Corbin and Caleb came to a head when video footage showed her doing and saying one thing only to do the exact opposite moments later. A pattern she repeated in her exploration with Dylan and Gal. And while she explained her viewpoint, the islanders doubled down on how her behavior felt versus her initial intent: “I feel like I’m just being me and trying to grow a connection. My intentions are never to hurt anyone”

Let’s first be clear: a kiss is not a handshake, as Kenzie has said multiple times. It’s also important to make the caveat here that intent versus impact is important when we talk about what makes a good apology. While it may not have been your intent to do something, recognizing and apologizing for the impact it had on someone else is imperative for forgiveness to occur.

Later, in a heart-to-heart held by the girls, Aniya held Kenzie accountable for her actions, noting, “It looks really bad. I feel like you were really misleading with Caleb. And you know I love you, but it’s so fucked up on him.” Aniya proceeds by congratulating Kenzie on her ability to step up and take responsibility for her actions. Kayda also did the same later in a one-on-one in which she instructed Kenzie to lead with open honesty in her romantic explorations. These interactions depict the power of accountability and a wider character analysis in which rights and wrongs are grounded in the same moral behavior – honesty. The breakdown of this accountability circle was as follows:

• Definition - Aniya defines what Kenzie did wrong and makes a clear case for why Caleb and/or Dylan would feel the way they feel.

• Acknowledgment/Responsibility - Aniya also congratulates Kenzie for standing up and “owning up” to what she did. She also doubles down by recognizing that Kenzie fully acknowledged what she did.

• Recognition/Regret - Kenzie’s immediate response to Aniya is to state her own personal regrets: “I know it definitely sucks and I do feel bad about that.” This is followed by a confessional in which Kenzie apologizes for leading people on and her own difficulties in dating multiple people.

• Promise/Explanation: The conversation ends with the girls hugging Kenzie and Jen commenting that “moving forward, you know what you have to do.”

The girls provide the perfect example of what it looks like to graciously hold someone accountable while still saving room to recognize that the action wasn’t the intent. The way in which they enveloped Kenzie with love was a heartwarming depiction of what girlhood can be and how it appears in reality. That same foundation is exhibited in the ways the girls also embrace each other.

OGs x Casa Amor

Prior to holding Kenzie accountable, the girls turn to each other to discuss how they’ve treated each other. The group’s apologies, in my opinion, were some of the best examples of what it means to forgive and move on. And a crucial part of that process is making space to hear one another.

The conversation starts with Aniya explaining why she apologized to KC - noting specifically that she wouldn’t want someone to be in her face the way she was to KC. This is followed by a candid conversation in which the girls begin to dissect the issues between one another. Titi starts by apologizing for potentially coming off as aggressive. Aniya comments on her respect for Titi. The group hugs it out, turning the moment into a beautiful moment to address any of the tension the girls still hold towards one another.

Ultimately, a good apology states what was done, recognizes impact over intent, and mirrors grace between one another. The aftermath depends, but the apology structure provides a foundation for understanding, clarity, and growth. For all the critiques I’ve done, I will always give credit where it’s due. I’m proud of the islanders for how they approached conflict resolution, and I hope it serves as a baseline for those still learning how to do the same.

Carl Gustav Jung, a Swiss psychiatrist, psychologist, and psychotherapist, is known for popularizing the idea of archetypes, or “universal images that have existed since the remotest times.” His research produced 12 archetypes that he saw as a list of potential personalities that any one person can possess. That research has served as a foundation for revisions through time on these archetypes in comparison to the social climate of the present. Today, I’m using the jester archetype to further break down how Zach’s use of comedy is a tool to hide insecurity. Historically, jesters are the “comedians and tricksters in the story.” While their job is to make light of serious things, their weaknesses include changing the subject when a conversation gets too serious, cracking jokes (even in inappropriate situations), irritating others with their behavior, and using humor as a shield to hide their pain. Zach is the culprit in all four. His inability to handle serious conversation and conflict results in a deflated ego and a need to joke further in hopes of amending abrasive situations.

The example that proves this most clearly is Zach’s repetition of the phrase “I love you” to Kayda, followed by his quick rebuttal of the confession the next day. When Kayda prompts a conversation on their relationship status, Zach reiterates that they are not currently girlfriend and boyfriend. Kayda continues the conversation by questioning what Zach said the previous night, to which Zach responds, “I don’t remember,” followed by a pregnant pause and a switch to his confessional. In the confessional, he admits that he “may have said the L word to her, but I was…I promise you I was just joking.” The conversation comes on the heels of a recoupling post Casa Amor in which both Kayda and Zach mutually agree to stay with each other. One could argue that the use of the phrase was a manipulation tactic to provide Kayda with a false sense of security. The manipulation is disguised as a comedic shield. Zach makes light of a difficult situation (exploration in Casa Amor) and uses humor to disarm Kayda and avoid a serious situation – all characteristics of the weakness embedded in the jester archetype.

Another example of the jester archetype lies in Zach’s tendency to make jokes, even in inappropriate situations. When islanders are first introduced to the movie night event, Zach attempts to provide a catch-all apology to warn Kayda against any of the actions she may witness at the event. When Kayda expresses her frustration and annoyance, Zach quickly uses what has become his favorite catchphrase, “I’m joking.” Whenever he finds himself in a situation that challenges his character and his intentions, he’s quick to attach his questionable behavior to playful action. Through time, we again see that his humor is a shield to hide personal insecurities.

One of the best examples that displays this trait is when Kayda is approached by Caleb for a “chat.” In discussing the possibility of further exploration, Zach begins to openly question Kayda’s interest in someone else, using accusatory statements to seemingly make her reconsider pursuing other people. He goes as far as suggesting that Caleb’s actions towards Kayda mirrored what Zach planned to also do to her, discussing minute details that Kayda admits she didn’t notice. After the two discuss more, Zach quickly uses the following rebuttal to make Kayda feel small: “I’ll just pull Melanie for chats.” When Kayda questions his intentions, Zach again turns to his favorite phrase, “It’s a joke,” followed by a request for Kayda to calm down. Zach ultimately uses reverse psychology and humor to mask personal insecurity. His fear is attached to Kayda’s desire to explore, and his jealousy is the result of an intimate moment she shared with Caleb instead of him. A pattern that he consistently shows throughout the series.

And while Zach finds joy in using Kayda’s emotions as the brunt of his jokes, he is also tactless in how he discusses other girls in the house. Each time Zach is pictured speaking with Bryce (the bromance of the season), he makes disparaging comments about Trinity. With each comment suggesting that Trinity doesn’t really like Bryce and perhaps Trinity isn’t the best match for him. After arriving back at the main villa after Casa Amor and walking into the drama regarding couples who remained together and who didn’t, Zach is quick to forgo empathy for the girls and suggest that their energy is destroying the vibe previously set in Casa Amor. Finally, when Gabe and Sol are initially sent home, and Jen asks for breakfast the following day because her partner is gone, Zach suggests that the girls may collectively need to “make their own breakfast.” The comment was made in reaction to his questioning why the girls sent Gabe home, and I want to connect it to the premise of my previous piece on KC. Many of the qualms that exist with Zach are in his disrespect for women on the show. At face value, missing a friend is understandable, but making disparaging comments as a result is not. His trickster ways seem to be a reflection of his attachment style in relationships.

In “Humor and Attachment: Exploring the Relationships between Insecure Attachment and the Comic Styles,” authors Alberto Dionigi, Mirko Duradoni, and Laura Vagnoli explore the relationship between attachment and comic styles. The introduction of the piece provides a clear description of the anxious attachment style that characterizes Zach’s use of comedy as a masking tool, noting that “the anxious attachment style is characterized by a negative view of the self, searching for closeness with others based on an evaluation of personal worth, and increased negative affect.” Zach displays this style in the way he self-sabotages in conversations with Kayda by avoiding deep conversation with comedic relief due to his fear of rejection and abandonment if the partnership is not successful. Which also explains his affect towards being in a closed relationship with Kayda and entertaining the possibility of future bombshells who may catch his eye.

In the results of the aforementioned study, the researchers found that anxiety attachment was positively related to irony, noting: “These individuals may use irony to create a self-bond with people who value them and to distance others.” The show’s editing uses dramatic irony to shape how we understand Zach’s relationships with other islanders. We know information that the rest of the islanders do not. And for Zach as a contestant, the same is true. In keeping his true feelings towards Kayda hidden behind his sarcasm and ill-fitting jokes, he helps to paint a narrative in which Kayda could be his number one option, but it’s also possible that someone else is always worth exploring, which we see come to a head in his relationship with Alannah. As we know, Alannah is sent home, but that information is kept secret from Kayda until the infamous movie night. Zach seemingly wants to have his cake and eat it too.

The jester’s weaknesses lie in their tendencies to make ill-timed jokes, irritate those around them, use humor as a shield for pain, and change the subject when conversations get too serious. Ultimately, Zach proves to be the modern-day jester through his use of sarcasm and humor to disarm women in difficult conversations. His humor in tandem with his model physique provides a mask for deep insecurities that suggest this show might not be for him, and perhaps it’s time to speak with a therapist. He’s gone under the radar due to the egregiousness displayed by other male contestants, but his actions still welcome critique. His reverse psychology, manipulation, and avoidant attachment style have characterized him as a secret villain, the snake you never want to approach, and the joke that is never really just a joke.

I first want to discuss the response from Black men in support of KC. I turn to the writing of Randall Barnes and his piece titled “How the KC discourse ruined my Love Island USA experience.” In the piece, Barnes compares himself to KC, noting that “As a Black man, it’s difficult to watch KC’s experience without seeing pieces of myself in it.” He continues the piece by questioning why viewers don’t provide the same amount of scrutiny to Corbin or Sincere, suggesting that “the imbalance in the conversation” has been impossible for Barnes to ignore. The piece continues to question what audiences reward and why KC is not allowed to experience new connections, without it being deemed an attack on Aniya. Barnes also cites Aniya’s insecurity as an added factor in the demise of the relationship the two once had together.

After reading Barnes’ piece, I want to acknowledge a few points in his argument that I think many have clung to as reasons for KC’s redemption. The first is Aniya’s insecurity in the relationship. I’ll admit that Aniya’s inability to understand Love Island’s larger premise in building a show that allows individuals to explore a series of connections before finding the “right” one is an issue.

Separately, I also think that the class differences that exist between the two are another reason they didn’t work out. Some of KC’s praise of Aniya was grounded in the belief that she “comes from a good family,” a direct indicator that, for KC, her lived experience differs vastly from his own. And the conversation on class dynamics within the Black community is a fair one to have. However, these are only a few of the reasons the relationship doesn’t ultimately work out. The underlying issue presents itself in misogynoir and the relationship between Black women and Black men.

I believe where Barnes’ argument falls short is his assertion that the dogpiling on KC suggests he shouldn’t also be able to receive love. And the problem doesn’t lie in KC exploring as much as it does in how he talks about Aniya in the process. We only really witness “locker room talk” when KC and Corbin chat with one another. KC frequently recalls his experience on the first night in the villa and the initial challenge when he saw no one choose him upon initial coupling opportunities. His next sentence to Corbin literally states the following: “Aniya give off energy, but it don’t feel real because at the beginning, it wasn’t.” I would say that it’s not fair to minimize Aniya’s loyalty because she didn’t pick KC on the first day, which is the same day she also wasn’t chosen.

Finally, KC’s comments on Aniya mostly focus on her lack of physical affection. His initial comments regarding Sydney and Tierra focus on their willingness to pursue him physically versus Aniya’s “grandma” tendencies. In its simplest form, KC is unable to explore his new love interests without putting Aniya down. KC also explicitly tells other islanders that he has “nothing in common with Aniya,” despite previously saying that “Aniya has it all.” Not once were those words spoken to Aniya. And in his exploration, as is his right, he does not have to break down Aniya’s character in the process.

Coming back to Barnes’ argument, he notes that KC’s self-proclaimed aura is not corny or lame, but a direct reflection of his humanity. Humans indeed desire adoration, but it is also true that Black men in particular tend to disrespect Black women. And in KC finding himself, he takes liberties in breaking down another Black woman, despite initially claiming that same woman was the blueprint of Black beauty. Barnes sees the critique of KC as a dogpile moment, when it’s actually an opportunity to examine misogynoir in its realest context - the dating scene within Black communities.

Which brings me to the conversation on what is an “incel” and incel culture. In the literal context, an incel is “someone, usually a male, who is frustrated by their lack of sexual experiences.” For those who hold on to the literal meaning and not the larger conversation on red pill and incel culture, my use of the word is jarring. However, the term carries a larger meaning. If you look into the term and the culture that surrounds it, particularly the red pill versus blue pill conversation, Brette Steele, senior director for Preventing Targeted Violence at the McCain Institute, says it best, “For incels, the reality presented to them by the red pill is that love and sexual satisfaction are commodities that women deny them,” and “Under this assumption, sex and relationships become almost like a game with specific challenges to overcome.” In this context, Love Island is the game, and the female brain and access to sexual satisfaction are a challenge to overcome – not just for KC, but for all of the men on the show.

It’s important to note that my critique is inclusive of both Corbin and KC. And Sincere is not off the hook either, but the breakdown for him is worth another conversation entirely. In many respects, I would go so far as to say Sincere is the biggest villain in this year’s season. And I don’t think the attack on KC is personal, as much as it is a disappointment for Black women at large who seek to be desired by Black men.

To further break down the historical relationships between Black women and Black men, I turn to Jesse Bernard’s piece titled “Black Men Need To Support Black Feminism.” The piece breaks down how Black women have long been supporters of Black men in the fight for racial justice, but oftentimes, that same support is not given to Black women and the personal struggles they face. When discussing Ferguson and Ray Rice’s abuse of Janay Palmer, Bernard says the following: “The harsh realities which many black men don’t understand is that whilst being black is hard, being a black woman is much harder. That is why it’s important to listen then understand. Don’t derail or make it about you.” And in the conversation on KC, what I see is a larger cry from Black women that is directed towards all Black men - hear us and see us when we address the widespread disrespect that is often attributed to us within the dating environment. More acutely, don’t pour into us as a means of gaining access to physical intimacy.

I turn to the Black manosphere when further dissecting the relationship between Black women and Black men. In Nene Mokonchu’s “This is a Man’s World: Misogynoir, The Black Manosphere, and the Making of Black Femicide,” Mokonchu examines how Black femicide is strongly correlated to the Black manosphere, gender dynamics, and societal expectations. Mokonchu does a great job of tying the Black manosphere to the double standard that is then applied to Black women, noting that Black men “tirelessly emasculate Black women by sensationalizing dating experiences, imposing harsh double standards, misrepresenting the messages of female artists, and framing their entitlement to respect as attacks on Black “traditional” manhood.” And while this is not a critique of all Black men, it is a critique of the narrative that this season of Love Island capitalizes on. KC frames his entitlement to love as an attack on what he hasn’t received from Aniya. And despite his uplifting Tierra and Sydney, he does not, in the end, do the same for Aniya. It’s possible to accept the love you feel you deserve without breaking down a Black woman in the process. Unfortunately, that’s not what KC does, which is why he has received widespread online hate. It’s a cry from other Black women who have experienced the same. And in Black men rushing to KC’s defense, Black women have done the same for Aniya. Only a few have taken the time to see the throughline: when Black women hurt, they’re often forced to reckon with being unwanted – alone. The same feeling that KC has been so desperate to avoid is one that he unknowingly imparted to Aniya.

Finally, I want to address the comments that claim this argument and others surrounding the show are “never that deep.” Reality television provides source material for examining how these shows serve as microcosms. Love Island is a microcosm of the larger dating world and how people view what makes a healthy, lasting relationship. In Julia Joy’s piece titled “It’s Time to Start Taking Reality TV More Seriously,” Joy discusses how reality television is a reflection of larger social and cultural norms with Danielle J. Lindemann ’10GSAS, a sociology professor at Lehigh University. When asked why she takes reality television seriously, Lindemann responds with the perfect answer to sum up this essay: “The genre reveals some of the worst things about society — sexism, racism, classism, materialism — and dials them up to eleven.” Joy continues the piece by discussing the positive implications of reality television, but here I want to focus on the idea that it dials up the “worst things about society” to eleven.

The takes presented here are that serious because Love Island sets a stage in which hyper-analysis is common. Each person is stripped down to the most bare version of themselves, in ways that the viewers will never be. And I acknowledge that. At the end of the day, each contestant is human. At the same time, if we exist in a society that says two things can be true at once, we can also recognize that the show dials up the antics to an extreme level - forcing us to see ourselves in the contestants and reflect on how we would approach the same scenarios. While you may subconsciously do this, it’s worth a deeper analysis to discover where that feeling or that idea of an approach comes from. That analysis and that thought are what lead to more profound ways of thinking about how you choose to engage with the world. If it’s not that deep for you, perhaps you aren’t thinking critically enough. And maybe before you engage in conversations about any of the contestants, you should consider your own unwillingness to learn as a result.

Well, yes!

In 2016, I entered my freshman year at Duke University. Tuition at the time was $49,575. My financial load was covered partially by scholarships and loans ranging in name and size, with the rest covered by my parents, both middle-class Black Americans. One week before classes started, freshmen arrived on campus to participate in a series of orientation activities dubbed “O-Week.” Two activities from this week stand out most to me. The first was an activity in which students anonymously answered a series of questions on a piece of paper, passed the pieces of paper around, and formed a circle in which students would step into the middle based on the answers they held. One of the questions asked if anyone was on financial aid. Only about three of us stepped into the circle, and I watched as the eyes around me, still standing outside of it, seemingly undressed me, my financial situation now explained clearly.

It was my first experience with explicit wealth. I couldn’t imagine a college education not funded with the help of scholarships and loans. And that isolating experience would be compounded by the second activity that cemented my knowledge of just how affluent my peers were. On the weekend leading up to the first day of class, financial aid students were invited to a welcome event between the freshman and upperclass campuses. Each student received a bright blue Duke sweatshirt, then had time to mingle and eat hors d’oeuvres. As I reflect on how happy each of us was to receive our first pieces of free merch, I can’t help but realize the labels we carried as a result. If you had that specific bright Blue sweatshirt, you were a financial aid kid, something I didn’t think about in the moment. We were actively wearing our financial situations and, in turn, were seen as puppets for the university.

With these experiences in my mind, the third thing that cemented the wealth around me was where people chose to go for our first break. I overheard conversations about a trip to Paris and all the accompanying groups who would be traveling together. I was planning to go on a local trip with my Acapella group. I didn’t realize just how big international travel was for my peers. I didn’t even experience my first international trip until I turned 21, nearly three years later.

And the last major event of my freshman year that still haunts me to this day is the way I made a Black peer feel othered financially. In preparation for the school’s annual party on the last day of class, I questioned whether a peer planned on changing their outfit to something more appropriate for the festivities. My peer instantly got silent and ran back into our dorm. When I asked her what I had done wrong, she explained that my assumption was both harmful and hurtful. She didn’t have the funds to get a new outfit, and what she had on was what she was planning to wear. I had undressed her, the same way my peers had during O-Week. I became aware of the affluence that surrounded me without also realizing the financial privilege I had as a middle-class Black American. Both truths that would come up for me during the wedding weekend.

As we pulled up to the welcome party, I was greeted by a sea of white. The space was gorgeous, and the libations were flowing. Not to mention the two food trucks the bride and groom had arranged for the wedding party. I found myself taking notes on what I wanted to mimic at my own wedding one day, anticipating whatever surprise the bride and groom had for us next. And as more people arrived, I traveled in a group with the more eclectic gaggle of folks who had been invited—my prophyte, a Black gay man, and a white nonbinary lesbian: the Rainbow Coalition. However, with each person that we spoke to, I felt hidden and not acknowledged. As this pattern continued throughout the weekend, I wondered if it was me and if I wasn’t doing enough to get to know people. In finding great difficulty to overcome this obstacle, a few truths were revealed to me: my adjacency to white affluent culture didn’t follow me after I graduated from Duke, and my own financial standing was nothing compared to those who surrounded me at the wedding.

Suddenly, I felt like I did at orientation week. Othered and questioning what I had in common with the guest list outside of our alma mater. In that same moment, I was reminded how my peer, whom I othered, felt; being in a space where you share a common thread, but your access to it differs. It wasn’t long before another mutual friend arrived with her husband. I found myself expressing an instant sigh of relief as her husband greeted me and promptly told me “Happy Juneteenth,” the first and only white man to do so at the party (this is what Martin dreamed of). And that acknowledgement made me realize that I had been holding my breath in anticipation for someone to slip up and say a microaggression or something more explicit. While that didn’t happen, the fear didn’t subside until it was time for me to return to my life post-wedding.

After day one, I had the opportunity to debrief with my peers (the Rainbow Coalition). Each of us expressed shock at the amount of wealth in the room. But while I watched my peers thrive in conversation despite the realization, I wasn’t able to have the same success. There were many times I went off to spend time alone and decompress before returning to the larger environment, constantly attempting to remind myself of the bigger picture and who I was here to support. Things came to a head on day two when the wedding finished, and we were whisked away to a bar for a night of drinking. I promptly said my goodbyes and called an Uber home while the rest of the coalition rallied through the night.

In the car, I breathed another sigh of relief. I had made it. I could go back to the Airbnb to decompress how I felt, while continuing to make room for how happy I was for my best friend. I packed up my things and quickly went to sleep, attempting to think of anything other than the guilt I felt for not fully making it through every moment. The next morning, the coalition held one more debrief before I drove home three hours to spend time with my dad for Father’s Day. The drive left a lot of room for thought, and in peeling back the layers, I realized a written piece would be the best way for me to analyze how I felt and move on, albeit cautiously.

What I learned is grounded in three truths: my family’s middle-class standing is the result of hard work and humble beginnings; old money is never something that will come naturally to me, if at all; and I’m happy that the spaces I’ve built for myself post-college don’t allow me to feel othered financially.

I grew up middle-class, and I never wanted for anything. My parents provided it all. But neither of them grew up wealthy, so their understanding of finances and access is grounded in humility. A trait that has been passed on to me and oftentimes makes me extremely frugal. That frugality, and what it means to wear wealth, is best depicted in The Great Gatsby, a fictional account of old money versus new money until it isn’t. Jay Gatsby’s standing in society was based on his proximity to wealth. And in the charade he built on the acquisition of new money, his seams always remain slightly unraveled. During the wedding weekend, I realized I felt the same. As I’ve grown in my career and nearly doubled my salary since my first job post-college, it only takes subtle reminders of old-money wealth for my seams to unravel. I quickly find myself unable to relate and self-conscious that everything I say and do will reveal my true financial status. Finally, the world I’ve built for myself since graduation ranges greatly in historical background, racial identity, and proximity to wealth, with none of my immediate friends occupying the same ranks that were on display this past weekend. This world I’ve built is intentional in bridging gaps for hardships I haven’t experienced, and a collective desire to build towards a more rewarding future for generations to come, none of which are grounded in the kind of affluence I was reminded is possible this weekend.

So as I reflect on the world my alma mater introduced me to, I can still scoff at Duke’s newest tuition cost $73,740, while also recognizing that those who can afford the price tag without assistance are not really my peers at all, but a reminder of a state of wealth I’ve never been given access to. I’ve always been an observer of these archetypes, and I think this weekend was a reminder of how far I’ve come in trying to build a community for myself that doesn’t exclude me by race and class.

And while the microaggressions I braced for didn’t follow me this weekend, I can’t help but be reminded of how the introductory orientation activities, the financial aid sweatshirt, and my own middle-class privilege continue to be triggers for me when I’m reminded of who my university peers actually are. I had the chance to wear affluence this weekend, and it felt like wearing a burlap sack, unfurling at the seams, and begging for a new set of comfortable clothes to finally wear.

And as TLC announced the newest cast, I found myself drawn to Ashia, a 38-year-old Black woman from Alabaster, Alabama. As described by Deadline, Ashia is “a Pentecostal Prophetess‑in‑training with big faith and an even bigger personality, who is convinced that God brought her King, Maxwell into her life.” If you’ve not already caught on to the red flags based on this description and the title of this piece, let me make it more clear - Ashia is a perfect case study in how faith gets weaponized in the Black community. I want to dig into how religion can become a tool for crafting testimonies grounded in delusion and false messages dressed up as “signs” from God.

In TLC’s introduction to Ashia, she’s seen in the church, providing her testimony on how her religious beliefs led her to her prospective fiancé, “I’ve been waiting ever since I was 16 for God to answer this prayer. Lord, when are you going to bring my husband? … It just finally happened. He told me I would have a marriage.” Ashia continues in a confessional style interview to state that a notification on her phone that read “here comes the bride” was a sign from God letting her know her husband was on the way.

The comments look exactly how you might expect, a slew of individuals questioning Ashia’s choices and God’s “message.” My favorite comes from kinky_coily_z, “God ain’t gave not one of them common sense.”

As I tried to trace how Ashia got here, I started thinking about how her southern roots, a town of just 33,917, combined with the structure and weight of the Black church, convinced her that God’s word was the catalyst for finding her Nigerian king. To unpack further, I turned to the research of Aderonke Bamgbose Pederson and Nathan Pederson in their article titled, “Black People, Spirituality, and Mental Health.” Both authors describe the historical significance of the Black church and, more specifically, how the Black church has long “provided social and political relief” while also fostering “spiritual beliefs that taught coping strategies through faith and prayer.” In my experience, this thought has rung especially true. The political turmoil playing out worldwide, alongside local politics and community gatherings, are steady pillars in my home church, strong enough that the congregation rarely questions what matters and what doesn’t. However, in the same way I experience relief that feels intentional and well-informed, I also wonder how group thought can fundamentally change the words of the Bible and tune the collective ear to manifest messages not grounded in truth, but in desirability.

This desirability is demonstrated in group prayer between Ashia and her (presumed) mother. Both women are seen at what appears to be a park dock, surrounded by geese. As her mother begins to speak in tongues, the episode cuts to a confessional interview where her mother discusses the presence of the geese. In the interview, Ashia’s mother notes that the birds are giving her a sign, stating, “that means God was here with us, I believe that.” Her mother’s reaction presents a minimized version of the broader issue. The come-to-Jesus moment Ashia and her mother refuse to have is the one where you admit that a sign with no root in scripture isn’t God talking, it’s a false prophet. In this scenario, the false prophet is found in both Ashia and her mother.

In asking myself the question of how one gets to this line of thought, I turned to Reddit to see how individuals interpret the connection between religion and mental health. I was met by a host of comments that confirmed assumptions I already knew to be true - “During the worst of my anxiety and depression, I remember my mom telling me to pray it away or I’m not living right. Or telling me that my faith should be strong enough to pull me out of depression, when it crippled me as an adult,” said one user. And to speak candidly, I’ve had that experience. When I first experienced signs of OCD over 10 years ago, my dad didn’t believe I could be experiencing mental health issues. And the initial solution he recommended was more time in the Bible.

Thankfully, I can say 10 years later that that is no longer his view, but for a lot of Black people and Black churches, it is. This example of group thought is especially harmful when attempting to have conversations about clear displays of mental health issues. While 90 Day Fiancé continues to be a source of humor, it’s also an anthropological study into how the human brain works and how we use situations to assign meaning to relationships.

Sometimes, that meaning is a result of delusions attached to self-worth, religious upbringing, and the idea that everything is a “sign.” In reflecting on this analysis of Ashia’s story, I’m left still wondering, “At what point will she recognize that her ‘signs’ are actually the result of her ability to manipulate the word to match her version of the truth?”

Sources

Pederson, Aderonke Bamgbose, and Nathan Pederson. “Black People, Spirituality, and Mental Health.” Psychiatric Annals, vol. 53, no. 12, Dec. 2023, pp. 540+. Gale OneFile: Health and Medicine, dx.doi.org/10.3928/00485713-20231108-02. Accessed 12 June 2026.

I grew up in a traditional Southern Baptist Church. It’s the church I was baptized in and one that remains my established church home. My relationship with religion has changed over time, particularly as I’ve entered adulthood and begun to consider how the practice of religion exists in my present versus how it showed up in my youth. When I was younger, it was normal to attend weekly Sunday service, participate in the youth choir, and attend special services like Watch Night and Communion. Each became integral experiences for how I viewed religion. It was and has always been communal: aunties who don’t actually share any blood connections, church grants that helped fund my college education, and church conferences featuring the newest up-and-coming gospel artist at the time were all characteristics of my religious experience.

Another aspect of this experience was parental pressure to further engage and be present in “the word”. My godsisters and I were forced to take notes during sermons to avoid falling asleep, and staying for multiple services on Sundays, ranging from two to three hours, was normal. However, that “normalcy” became a pattern that I couldn’t wait to break with time. I didn’t enjoy going to service every Sunday, and when friends wanted to host events for the New Year, I always found myself regretting my obligation to attend Watch Night service - a service that Black Christians typically celebrate on New Year’s Eve. This disinterest was one my parents noticed early on. I distinctly remember my dad letting me know that my journey with God was one I would have to figure out for myself. That journey could not solely be based on the disciplinary practices my parents put into place to ensure my bible knowledge was strong. And with a heavily religious grandmother and extended family, there was no escaping this relationship to God, even as I figured out what the relationship meant to me on a deeper level.

So, when I got to college, I was excited to have my Sundays back. And with time, I realized something was missing. The thing that I had been so ready to leave was the same thing that called me back when the ebbs and flows of college became too much to handle by myself. Soon, my friends and I would take weekly trips to attend church in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. We weren’t always consistent, but when we did go, each of us always left better than before.

And when I graduated from college in the face of a pandemic, the communal aspect of religion called my name again. A close group of friends and I began to engage in weekly bible study sessions. The structure included an opening prayer, a reading of the verse of the week, a loose discussion, a call for prayer requests, and a closing prayer. With each weekly session, my dad’s words stayed at the back of my mind. As I entered further into adulthood, I continued to establish what religion meant to me. And that meaning was grounded in a relationship in which it’s OK to question God, my bible reading is closely tied to my personal experiences and how the world has changed, and my reflections combine my understanding of human nature with what is “biblically accurate.”

I’ve found that what I love most is the realization that two things can be true at once. I can ground myself in the word, while still realizing the “Godly thing to do” isn’t always one I agree with.

God is still working on me.

And in that work, I began to wonder how religion is experienced among Gen Z. I turned to my friends to ask for their responses to the following: “Can I get 1-2 sentences from people on what religion/spirituality means to you in today’s day and age?” It’s important to note that my friends are not all Christian. Many of them are, but others use labels like Spiritual, Muslim, Agnostic, Jewish, and more.

One friend, raised Catholic, described her quiet departure from organized religion, “I grew up catholic and have my own issues with organized religion, but I do believe in something bigger than myself. I’ve simply started referring to the greater being at large as the universe, and it’s felt right so far. I consider religion and spirituality to be an ongoing journey for me.”

I resonated with her questions concerning organized religion, thinking back to Druski’s megachurch skit and the interconnectedness between religion and capitalism. In Michael Novak’s “How Christianity Created Capitalism,” Novak explores the church as a foundation for capitalism. He states more specifically that the “Catholic Church of the Middle Ages was the main locus for the first flowerings of capitalism” (Novak). According to Novak, the church’s access to nearly a third of all land in Europe and access to governance over multiple jurisdictions led to a “highly motivated, literate, specialized, and mobile labor force” that would ultimately redefine the traditional tie between family and property. This suggests that the church’s access to the masses helped develop a well-oiled machine for the distribution of goods, services, and financial literacy; all fundamental practices that still remain true today. Additionally, these are all practices grounded in community.

As these thoughts remained at the forefront of my mind, I began to think more critically about my individual relationship to God. Another friend who is preparing for a Master’s in Divinity explored the same in her response to my initial question, “My spirituality is paramount in today’s age where human indecency seemingly trumps the innate divinity in each one of us. Because the God in me is possible, I have a reason to perpetually seek out the miracles, signs, and wonders of life; and I count it betrayal to think of myself devoid of spirit or to receive my relationship with God with frivolity.” For this friend, a life without spirituality is an act of betrayal, and the grace that lives within her is the equivalent of a mirror displaying God’s miracles.

As I reflected on her words, I realized the same is true for me. It’s often why I find difficulty imagining a world without my belief in spiritual grounding. For me, a life without spiritual connection feels like a life devoid of higher purpose. It reminds me of my past difficulty in continuing to have faith after a series of bad events. How do you remain faithful when nothing around you provides hope? It’s the same question that initially brought me to the idea of a piece like this. Because even in my moments of doubt, I still continued to believe in something bigger than myself. It couldn’t be possible for my struggles not to amount in a triumphant testimony.

In 2024, a study of more than 20,000 Gen Z adults found that two-thirds of Gen Z are religious, with 56% identifying under the umbrella of Christianity, and 8% identifying as non-Christian (PRRI Generation Z Fact Sheet). In writing this piece, it was important for me to speak to friends who didn’t identify as Christian. One friend who identifies as Jewish had the following to say, “I’ve prayed since I was a child, long past when I stopped believing in God. Religion continues to be a grounding force for me, mostly as part of my cultural and ethical identity.” This friend has been a large advocate for the liberation of the Palestinian people. In asking her about her religious affiliation, I knew that she would discuss her internal conflict between religious labels and cultural critique. She continued, by addressing the state of Judaism today, “I think that’s why it’s been so hard to see my faith conflated with the state of Israel and weaponized to justify the genocide of Palestinians. I hate seeing this practice that has been so meaningful to me destroyed by its association with violence, and I don’t want to lose it altogether! So I guess it’s about finding a way to practice that defies that evil. Still working on it!!!”

And just like her, I’m still working on it. As my Gen Z friends become older, I find community in redefining religion through the lens of the 21st Century, political turmoil, and social unrest. I’ve even seen many Black Americans justify the atrocities against Palestine based on the dated narratives around the Israelites throughout the Bible. And in these realizations, it becomes clear that for many, theological studies remain as relics of the past; unchanged for the climate of the present, which, in my opinion, halts growth and an evolving relationship with religion. I turned to another friend who identifies as Muslim, to get her thoughts on using religion as a tool to reckon with worldly tragedies, “My faith as a Muslim gives me purpose in an era of purposelessness. I often feel that we are adrift in an endless sea of terrible things, terrible people, billionaires who want to ruin the planet and hoard wealth and resources. It’s easy to feel nihilistic in the midst of all of this. I turn to faith to make sense of what is senseless, to re-energize my own commitment to doing good, to remind myself that the “point” is to help and love others and leave this world better than I found it. I don’t think these values are necessarily bound to faith, but I do feel that faith carries me forward, keeps me afloat, and helps me love and live even when I don’t want to.”

And just like her, faith keeps me afloat when I need it most. As I mentioned earlier, something I’ve struggled with in my adult life is my ability to hold on to faith when life feels helpless. And in the moments where I feel my faith is fleeting, I’ve learned to double down on scripture, devotion, and prayer. Not because I expect an answer upon command, but because I need something that helps me to keep going. God is still working on me, and in that work, community continues to draw me in, inviting me to explore my religion more thoroughly, while redefining what it means to be a Christian, on my terms. Based on my conversations with friends, it’s clear that even across religions, they’re realizing how to do the same. And the connective tissue remains grounded in community. Our experiences differ to an extent, but the throughline for each individual story is the desire to find spiritual grounding in something bigger than us. Something that requires us to use faith as an anchor for communal healing and real-world connection as the world around us evolves. So, even if traditional labels don’t taste right to you, what I hope rings true is the power of communal faith, spiritual healing, and the idea that better days are coming.

Sources

(2024, March 29). PRRI Generation Z Fact Sheet. PRRI. Retrieved May 12, 2026, from https://prri.org/spotlight/prri-generation-z-fact-sheet/

Novak, M. (2010, July 20). How Christianity Created Capitalism. Acton Institute. Retrieved May 11, 2026, from https://www.acton.org/pub/religion-liberty/volume-10-number-3/how-christianity-created-capitalism

“What keeps certain events in history and assigns the rest to oblivion?” (pg. 200) These are the words that remain in the background of my mind as I reflect on finishing this piece of literature. Throughout this novel, there were several points when I stopped to reflect on history’s tendency to repeat itself. We are continually learning the same lessons through the fabric of repeated trauma.

This is how I categorize Iris Chang’s work. The Rape of Nanking is a historical account that does heavy-lifting for those who have never heard of the atrocities in Nanking, the capital of Jiangsu province in eastern China. Chang draws a direct comparison to the Holocaust, citing estimates that Japanese atrocities in China killed nearly 19 million Chinese (pg. 217).

Diving into this novel, I was embarrassed at how much I didn’t know. My upbringing in American and Western history failed to mention in detail the stories of politics in Asia and just how far colonization has reached. Chang argues that unchecked power, repeated across regimes and borders, has consistently enabled bloodshed under reckless leadership.

Chang starts the novel with a historical context. Setting the scene for how relations between Japan and China soured. Japan would be forced/encouraged to modernize its military after US intervention in July 1853, when Matthew Perry led a flotilla of ships to surround Japan and force a meeting that would open its ports for commerce. This display of power marked a shift in how Japan would rebuild its own military fleet and establish power, starting with the study of Western powers and the foundations for colonial power. The lessons that proved most helpful were those employed by the German military system, which were a direct result of time spent studying the legislative architecture of Jim Crow.

Through the early 1920s, Japan was experiencing a period of expansion, capturing places like Pyongyang and (initially) the Liaodong Peninsula (pg. 24). However, the 1929 US stock crash would usher in darker days for the Japanese, including a race for regional supremacy. And by 1930, an undeclared war with China had begun (pg. 29). This war led to the first of many contorted attacks to intimidate China, including the Manchurian railroad incident on September 18, 1931, in which the Japanese army blew up the tracks of a Japanese-owned railway and forced blame on mythical Chinese saboteurs. This would lead to bloodshed between both sides in 1932, and Japan’s subsequent departure from the League of Nations in 1933 (pg. 29). By December 1937, the massacre that would come to be known as the Rape of Nanking had begun.

After this much-needed history lesson, Chang splits the book into three sections: what led to the rape of Nanking, the rape itself, and the aftermath. Together they form a harrowing account of how unchecked power and media isolation gave way to what Chang calls the ‘forgotten Holocaust.’”

As I began to learn more about the violence committed in Nanking, I found myself stopping mid-page, struggling to move forward. As a Black woman with a background in African American studies, I couldn’t help but situate the horrors in a parallel to the transatlantic slave trade. How scenarios like individuals being buried alive and attacked by dogs were structurally similar to stories of dogs chasing and mangling Black bodies. Or how the victims of rape killed their babies so that they would not endure the shame of being a product of the violence, similar to Black mothers who committed infanticide to save their children from a life of enslavement. Or how Ei 1644 (pg. 164) was used as a center to conduct experiments on the Nanking people, similar to the experimentation on Black people done in the Tuskegee Syphilis Study. With each example, I continued to question how history allows such vivid trauma to repeat itself, taking different forms but maintaining the same structure across time.

As I paged through my notes, many relayed the same messages, “wow” and “omfg”. Many also included notes that dissect communal care and how one treats the victims of war. Namely, the soldiers of war. I was reminded of Vietnam when I read about the Chinese soldiers “who lost arms or legs, those crippled beyond hope, were simply turned loose with two-dollar compensations and instructions to go home” (pg. 124). Similar to the Black veterans in Vietnam who left the war with PTSD, injuries, and returned home to homelessness after fighting for their country. So much is lost to war, and when one enters for the sake of dignity and leaves without a trace of the same nobility, it makes me question whether victory means anything to those who survive it.

A theme that stayed with me throughout the novel is how quickly people fail to assume responsibility for acts of injustice. A large portion of the latter half of the novel speaks to a collective amnesia in Japan. One in which people prefer to refer to The Rape of Nanking as a hoax and feed off of narratives that those who were raped, “were not slaves at all but willingly engaged in prostitution” (pg. 204). It’s absurd to me that the act of rape could be boiled down to the suggestion that the victim desired acts of sexual violence. It also reminds me of folks who claim that slavery was a choice. Systems of violence that take away agency are never a choice for the victim.

Finally, the end of the novel felt like Chang saw into the future. Particularly her notes on unchecked power, and what we see today with President Trump. This quote stuck with me most as Chang cited the work of R.J. Rummel, “The less restraint on power within a government, Rummel found, the more likely the government will act on the whims or psychologically generated darker impulses of its leaders to wage war on foreign governments” (pg. 221). The US-Iran relations and wars in Sudan, Congo, and Palestine all come to mind here. As governments fail to check reckless power, everyone suffers. That Chang wrote this in the 1990s, and it reads as a dispatch from the present, says everything about how little the underlying structures have changed.

It’s incredible how the ideologies and history throughout the novel compare to historical events that we are still experiencing almost 30 years after the book’s initial publication. I started this piece reflecting on what keeps certain events in history and what assigns the rest to oblivion. I end the piece with this answer: we preserve history’s relevance through a commitment to naming and remembering events long after they’ve occurred. That collective memory, sharpened by the willingness to find parallels across time, is what keeps history alive and keeps us accountable to it.

As someone who has attempted suicide numerous times, I also found the 2011 epilogue (created by Chang’s Husband) to be especially heartbreaking. Sometimes the work of liberation becomes too much to bear, when our own souls can not obtain the same freedom we seek. Rest in heavenly peace, Ms. Chang.

In 2017, I was officially diagnosed with anxiety and depression. By 2020, I had been diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, reassured by my therapist at the time because “at least it wasn’t Bipolar I.”

And yet, comfort escaped me then and still escapes me now.

Six years later, the fight continues. My ammunition is dwindling, my armor worn thin — and yet, I’m rising from a period of silence, stepping into a new season of battle.

A season that somehow, without fail, always comes with the turn of spring, or the first day that the weather remains above 60º and the sun comes out to play. A cruel joke that catches me off guard each time. The warm weather presented a break in a series of blizzards and historic cold fronts, but it seemed that the shift outside hadn’t caught up with what was happening in my mind. I desperately wanted to be ready to enjoy it, but the warfare forbade me from joining the sun in a familiar warm dance.

It’s the fourth day of my newest manic episode. I haven’t eaten anything today (it’s 5:18 PM). And the only calories I consumed were in liquid form - a banana pudding cold foam latte from Dunkin. The same thoughts cycle endlessly, clouding my judgment and making it hard to focus on anything. Questions from friends asking if I’m ok, and depression’s shadow joining me in my work meetings, have made it difficult for me to grasp reality.

Today, I turned my camera off ten minutes into a meeting. I felt the tears coming, and I didn’t want my armor to face any more wounds in front of my colleagues. Unfortunately, it was too late, as they asked if I was sick, and my voice broke when I explained: “It’s a bad mental health day for me.”

And how many bad days before the good ones? I never know, and that’s what makes the uncertainty worse. Each year, I wonder if I’ve finally conquered this feeling. If my resources are strong enough, I will one day forget the shadow altogether. And then it hits. Like always. Waiting for me to crumble, certain I won’t get back up.

So, I did what I’ve been trained to do. I forced myself out of bed. I asked friends if they would join me on walks (no one was available). I spent time in the sun, even as the tears flowed. Turned my camera off when it was too much, and took several beats before I attempted to address the list of to-do items that would wait for me.

I’m going to the Dominican Republic in 2 days. How could I be so sad, and why can’t I let my mind rest on something positive? Not on the moments I’ve lacked better judgment, not on the milestones I wished I hit, and definitely not on the interpersonal conflicts that have followed me over the past few months - sabotaging myself repeatedly and hoping my community remains.

Today was bad, and I’m coming to terms with that. While also giving myself space to fantasize about what the good days feel like. How they taste. How they linger on my eyelashes in the quiet before my alarm.

This piece is my attempt to allow the weight in my head to exist on the page. Hopefully, tomorrow will be better. And even if it’s not, at least the fantasy of when it will be continues to carry me.

The originators and never the imitators. Somehow, Black people are always the butt of the joke. I started musing over this piece after another recent debacle with Ritz Crackers in which they hopped on the “young ho” trend to create a viral social media post. Young ho language is akin to young negro discourse, funny terms started by Black people to categorize specific groups of people.

“Young hos cook everything on high.”

“Yns wear Nike tech and drink matcha.”

So, seeing brands like Ritz Crackers capitalize on the language feels weird to say the least. A friend of mine had a differing opinion that I found valuable and an added element to an already difficult conversation. Her insight was based on social media managers who are Black and are championing the use of AAVE in brand materials because they are the creators, creating. And while I understand this perspective, it still feels odious to have brands profit off of Black people – again. Do the White executives of these companies know the history of African American Vernacular English? Do they know that the origins of the term Ebonics were grounded in comedic vitriol? And is there a deep sense of appreciation for the creator that has never been given proper due credit? In this instance, a brand relying on the cultural awareness championed by Black employees becomes another form of exploitation that questions who owns the IP of Black culture and how Black employees are still cogs in a larger system meant to profit White executives.

Take the viral savage dance created by Keke Janajah or the Spotify Wrapped creator, Jewel Ham, both creators who weren’t given proper credit for pieces that would go on to be enjoyed and popularized by non-Black artists. Black people are consistently moving the needle forward for all things capitalism, and in my opinion, it’s not fair for others to profit off our community over and over again. It presents a larger question: Can brands amass the same virality without stealing from Black people?

And to me, the answer is no. As new terms are added to the Black toolkit, they are also borrowed, stolen, and misused not for the purpose of better understanding consumer markets, but for the purpose of exploiting said markets for further financial gain. The same terms and language that are coined “ghetto” or “unprofessional” are now “quirky” and profitable for brands, resulting in the flattening of the language and a transfer of ownership. Similar to a familiar transfer of ownership, and perhaps championing a new form of slavery in itself.

Whether or not Ritz intended to do harm, the impact outweighs the intent. As scholar Geoffrey Pullum puts it, “The majority of English speakers think that AAVE is just English with two added factors: some special slang terms and a lot of grammatical mistakes. They are simply wrong about this.” AAVE is cultural. A reclamation of language and a shared tool to describe the Black experience - by Black people. In a perfect world, this remains true. In the present America, it continues to morph into a tool to manipulate capitalistic markets. And I won’t stand for it during my Black History Month.

My recommendation for brands is to take a step back and really evaluate the impact of producing posts laced with copy that relies on AAVE. If brands want to continue to profit off of Black creators, those same creators should be credited for their copy. I’d love to see these posts signed by the relevant social media managers. Perhaps even investing in content series done by these managers themselves to both show their faces and highlight their voices would be a great first step. Ultimately, AAVE is not a trend, not a tone, and definitely not a shortcut to relevance. It is authorship. And authorship demands consent.

I invite Black social media managers to weigh in and provide their commentary.

Sources:

Pullum, Geoffrey K. 1999. African American Vernacular English is not Standard English with mistakes. In R. Wheeler (ed.) The Workings of Language, 39-58. Wesport, CT: Praeger.

Saturday Night Live. “Weekend Update: Marcello Hernández Translates Gen Z Terms - SNL.” YouTube, 24 Jan. 2026, www.youtube.com/watch?v=dw0ifECyfPI. Accessed 3 Feb. 2026.

Williams, R. L. (1997). The Ebonics Controversy. Journal of Black Psychology, 23(3), 208-214. https://doi.org/10.1177/00957984970233002 (Original work published 1997)

“Guess my ethnicity ;)”

“I want someone who doesn’t take themselves seriously.”

“I want someone with an active lifestyle.”

“We’ll get along if your ex is dead.”

“The best way to ask me out is by cooking for me.”

The following are all quotes taken directly from profiles I’ve seen on Hinge and a myriad of other dating apps. None of them have captivated my interest, and all of them have made me continue to question why I even bother with dating apps anymore. My experience feels more and more like a tragic love story, except in this version, I’ll be taking the poison by myself (take that, Romeo!).

Maybe my lover will find me in death.

On an even more abysmal note, in a report from Tinder and summarized by Forbes, “91% of men and 94% of women—say they think the current dating environment is more difficult than ever” (Phares, 2025). To contextualize this statistic with words from a professional, Kathryn Ford, M.D., a psychiatrist and couples therapist based in San Francisco, notes that “the general state of the world is sensed as less predictable and less secure [than in the past]” (Phares, 2025). While a lack of security might lead one to seek companionship, the actual experiences recorded on dating apps suggest otherwise.

With a profile set to “long term relationship,” I’ve found myself dismissing a host of potential partners looking for “short term fun” or unsure of their dating goals, despite pushing 35+. And with the increase in the male loneliness epidemic, and growing uncertainty as it relates to whether people even want a partner, I find myself continuing to build imaginary love chambers that only F. Scott Fitzgerald could so elegantly describe.

This story is one that’s become common amongst my friends. Whether their pronouns are she, he, they, or them, we’ve all found ourselves swiping through an endless pool of people who are fundamentally misaligned with our desires. My favorite was a 40+ year old man, recently divorced and looking to be in an ENM partnership despite being single. The cherry on top was a series of pictures of him dressed in a fox costume — I (generously) assumed this was a character from one of his favorite shows. Needless to say, I quickly pressed “X”.

I can also admit that I’ve gone to lengths I’m not proud of to try and find my person. My fondest story is when I found the email of a person I was interested in and sent a very unhinged email.

To my defense, this was 2022, and I was caught up in the thrill of “shooting my shot” even if it often resulted in rejection — somewhat of a humiliation ritual, one might say. I’m no longer this delusional (though my friends might say otherwise). I’m also no longer forcing a connection where a warm invite wasn’t already extended.

And while I may have grown since 2022, searching for love in this day and age still feels fundamentally delusional. Recently, I’ve found myself wondering whether I should adjust my standards to give more and more people a chance while coming to terms with the fact that maybe there are some items I may have to settle on. My dad often likens my situation to that of a Tyler Perry movie. I may be looking for a successful businessman like Charles (minus the DV), when I need to be looking for a postal office worker like Orlando (no pun intended that my dad’s name is literally Orlando). Negroes

And while I’m certain my love story isn’t one Tyler Perry would want to write about, I’m also clear about what I’m unwilling to tolerate:

• If you request a partner who’s “active”, I’m assuming you’re fatphobic

• If you ask me to guess your ethnicity ;), I assume you’re into race play and enjoy being perceived as “exotic.”

• If you’re 40+ and “unsure of your dating goals,” I assume you are committed to being a lifelong bachelor.

The list goes on. And if you’re someone who regularly uses the quotes above…please do some self-reflection and try again, maybe not anytime soon. Nonetheless, something that does give me hope is the number of lasting partnerships (some marriages) that have come as a result of swiping on dating apps. Partnerships that are further highlighted in Hinge’s newest approach to storytelling in their series titled ‘It’s Funny We Met on Hinge’ and ‘No Ordinary Love’. Both series encourage people to date with an open mind—softening the false binary between meeting “organically” and meeting online. I remember feeling guilty about my use of the apps because of the stereotypes that you must be “desperate” to use technology to find a partner. My ex-boyfriend used to always comment on how he didn’t “really” know me because we met on an app — yes, even after six months and post a prompt “woohoo” (for my Sims fans).

It’s taken time to accept that it’s ok to want partnership and it’s ok to use technology as a means to do so. I’m reminded of this each time I enter a subway car and see a Hinge ad that showcases the success stories. My favorite stories are those that I’ve seen in the ads during shows on Hulu (yes, I have ads). Each of which showcases couples “who unknowingly crossed paths in person” before meeting each other and connecting on Hinge (Hinge, 2025).

And although these stories live rent-free in my mind, I also found myself initially ending this written piece with a nihilistic approach to dating. Particularly that the idea of partnership and partnership for me could be unattainable. It took a round of editing from my friends to get to the heart of what I actually want to say.

I’m deserving of partnership, and as cliché as it is, I know that it will come when the timing is right. In the meantime, it’s OK to learn who I am outside of the pursuit of a long-term relationship. And it’s important to set boundaries when I feel I lose sight of that. Particularly when I feel my self-esteem falter because of a lack of matches, when I find myself scrolling senselessly for hours, and when I feel that faint sense of delusion start to creep up. It’s in these moments that I know it’s time to step away and remind myself of who I am. To allow myself to remember that there are forms of love that, while not romantic, can serve as a placeholder when I feel like I’m losing myself (i.e., time with friends, reading a book, coloring in my coloring book, etc.) I’m also simultaneously trying to teach myself that dating can be used as a tool to learn more about what I like and don’t like. And that each match is not necessarily going to be a long-term partner, but a learning experience that is still worth cherishing and investing time into.

All that to say, if you DO have a cute friend you think I’d be cute with, PLEASE let me know. And if not, I’ll still be adjusting my approach to dating and romance all of 2026, while simultaneously unlearning the guilt and shame that can be ascribed to people on dating apps. Amen. Mashallah. Ameen.

Sources

Hinge. (2025, May 12). “no ordinary love”: New Hinge campaign explores emotional plot twists of early dating. Hinge. https://hinge.co/newsroom/No-Ordinary-Love-2025

Phares, E. (2025, December 24). Dating statistics and facts. Forbes. https://www.forbes.com/health/dating/dating-statistics/#footnote_1

The words would continue to follow me throughout the season and made me reflect on my own holiday nostalgia and the feelings I was still chasing from my younger years. Setting up the decorations right after Thanksgiving, ABC reruns playing 24/7, a host of annual holiday commercials that I could repeat word for word, time off from school, waking up early to open presents, and the Christmas meal - macaroni and cheese, fried turkey, green beans, yams, and banana pudding. All staples that I grew up with and cherished as markers of my favorite holiday. And yet, as I’ve grown older, I still find myself chasing that feeling.

It wasn’t until this year that I came to the conclusion that that “feeling” would have to be one I would need to recreate myself. I was rushing (as usual) to get to a bar for drinks with my friend, Taj. With hundreds of tabs open in my mind, I looked forward to the opportunity to unpack how I was feeling for temporary relief. In that period, Taj gave me wisdom that would be repeated many times over by the end of the holiday season: “Your holiday may look different this year, but it doesn’t mean you can’t make it your own.” I hadn’t thought about it that way, and as I continued to mull over how to imitate the holiday feelings of my youth, I realized that it was time to adjust my holiday expectations for adulthood. It was possible to still have a good holiday even if it looked different from what I’m used to.

After changing my way of thinking and choosing to lay a new path for this holiday season, I started with tradition. Last year, my friends and I went to the Rockefeller Center (my first time) to enjoy the holiday market and see the tree. All the experiences I grew up watching on TV (shout out Home Alone 2), and always dreamed of experiencing. Now, I could. I repeated the tradition by visiting with my best friend, Attiya. Probably the worst duo to take on this trip, as we both get overstimulated very easily. However, we got our tree picture, groaned at the influx of confused shoppers, and ended the evening with Hot Pot. I don’t think I could have asked for a better evening.

The second tradition was putting up my roommate’s Christmas tree. When I received the text that it was time, I grew excited to experience some of the Christmas cheer I love in my apartment. A small, but quaint tree took all of thirty minutes to put together. But the action and practice of cementing the holiday did more for me than I understood in that moment. It became a pillar of something familiar and comfortable as I traversed a new season that was missing many of those touchpoints.

The following traditions were new, but extremely necessary to help me get through the season. Since losing all of my grandparents, there is a warmth of elderly care that I often find myself missing. This season, I had the chance to revisit that feeling with a sleepover with my godsisters’ grandma on Christmas Eve. We watched Christmas movies, colored, drank hot cocoa, and had a stunning breakfast the next day. Taking in the sunrise as we ate in the morning room. All new experiences, but moments that made the holiday season feel like my own.

The last moment - not a tradition, but a reflection of the chosen family I’ve built - was a video from my friends sent to me on Christmas morning. A collection of videos of each of them expressing their love for me and wishing me a blessed holiday season. Another moment I didn’t know I needed until it happened.

Each holiday season, I’ve grown accustomed to the series of posts about giving grace and love to people grieving during the holiday season. I didn’t realize that one day it would be me who needed to hear and read those same words. In chasing the holiday nostalgia of my youth, I gained an appreciation for building new traditions that fit the season of my present life. It wasn’t the Christmas I was used to, but it was a Christmas that was fully my own.

The O’Jays - Christmas Just Ain’t Christmas Without The One You Love

“If your altar is not active, your voice will not be strong” ― Steven Chuks Nwaokeke

TW: OCD, Suicide, Mental Health

According to Merriam-Webster (the truthteller of definitions), the word altar signifies “a table or place which serves as a center of worship or ritual” (Merriam-Webster). Through time, the history of the altar and what it signifies has changed. While its origin is grounded in the Catholic church, how we view the many uses of an altar has evolved.

Started in 1995, the Adoremus Bulletin was founded and published as a “periodical full of timely and truthful information and analysis on all aspects of the liturgy” (Adoremus). According to this publication, while the altar serves as a symbol of “Christ himself in the many facets of his existence,” it can also serve as a tool to “memorialize things past, but provide a sacramental anticipation of things to come” (McNamara). I grew up in the Southern Baptist church. The altar was and in many cases still is a place of worship, a place to ask forgiveness, a place of reflection, and a home of many sorts.

As I reflected on the role the altar has played in my own life, I began to consider the many ways I’ve carried the idea of the altar into my everyday experiences. The thought came one day as I entered my small (but quaint) Bushwick apartment. The apartment, a one-bedroom turned into a two-bedroom, has two built-in bookshelves. One side for my roommate, the other for me. While the shelf holds the assortment of books I’ve collected over the years, many from my college days, and some from the various items I’ve picked up along the way, it also showcases memories and keepsakes I’ve taken from various chapters of my life. Memories that keep me grounded and help me “memorialize things past” (McNamara).

The fan I received at the Renaissance concert, a “Happy Birthday” sash that symbolizes the love I felt on that specific birthday versus the actual number (I can’t remember which birthday it was), a guest badge from my friend’s workplace, an empty bottle of my favorite tequila (La Gritona), and notes weaved in the pages of many of the books I’ve had to maneuver to fit into the small constraints of the shelf itself. Each serves as a keepsake for memories that keep me grounded whenever my eye catches one of the many items I’ve found space for.

Without knowing it, I’ve created altars in each place that has served as a home for me since I left my immediate home when I was 17. A place for me to be reminded of what guides me and what experiences have built the version of myself that currently exists. A place that has also been altered in each new home - to fit the season and chapter I currently occupy. A living, breathing structure that experiences the same seasonal changes that come with my own life’s evolution.

This idea of the altar being a living, breathing structure comes from reflection on Dia De Los Muertos. A staple in Mexican culture, Dia De Los Muertos is a holiday to honor and remember family and friends who have passed. The “ofrendas” or offerings are what are placed on the altar. Comprised of items that include references to water, wind, earth, and fire, the altar serves as a moment to honor loved ones who have died (The Grace Museum). While every state in Mexico celebrates differently, one thing that remains the same is having a stable structure to celebrate memories passed. The most common ofrendas “have three levels, which represent heaven, earth, and the underworld. With more elaborate ofrendas, you can find up to seven levels” (The Grace Museum). My bookshelf has 4 levels - an elaborate ofrenda for me to honor memories and seasons that no longer serve me, but deserve a space to be remembered, nurtured, and honored.

I’ve long said that I hate success stories that don’t acknowledge the difficult chapters or the experiences that you’d rather not reflect on, which is why I’m so intentional in the ways I take time to look back. A glimpse of what has been to then influence my present.

For me, the personal altar I’ve built helps me to do that. Each keepsake holds a memory that I cherish - whether good or bad. Some of the items I’m holding on to currently carry hurt and pain. Pain that I’m still working through, but reminders that I’m not alone in the process.

Earlier, I mentioned the role of the altar in the Southern Baptist Church. My first time coming to the altar to grieve was when I was 16. I was battling voices in my head and OCD. If I didn’t fold my comforter a certain way, I’d risk my family dying. If I didn’t pray the same prayer five times, I’d risk a detrimental accident on the way to school. All thoughts that weren’t grounded in reason, but were grounded in the initial deterioration of my own mental health. I went to the altar because the pressure and the voices became too much. I prayed for relief from my own mind, and a future in which “it would get better.”

And it did - although sometimes only temporarily. The voices stopped eventually, but new mental health challenges arose. Suicide attempts, bouts of depression, long-form anxiety, and the final all-encompassing diagnosis - Bipolar Disorder II. 11 years later, and I’m on a healthy medicine regimen, and my support system is better than ever. So much so, that my first line of defense is not thoughts of suicide, but is grounded in the community that continues to uplift and build me.

So, it makes sense that the new altar I’ve built is one that I can come to every day. A presence that doesn’t need to be acknowledged, but is always there. As I work, as I clean, and as I cook, a gentle reminder that my being is directly influenced by my past. The people I’ve gone to when I need reassurance, Bibles passed down to me from my grandmothers, gifts that are the products of forgiveness and conflict solved, and reminders that my home encompasses the journey of positioning myself to lay it all on the altar. An opportunity to allow myself to breathe, grow, and remain ever-changing when I need it most.

As I conducted research for this piece, I gathered quotes that symbolized what my personal altar means to me. The quote that resonated most is as follows: “If your altar is not active, your voice will not be strong” ― Steven Chuks Nwaokeke. My altar remains active even when my voice feels weak. And “when I am weak, then I am strong” (2 Corinthians 12:10). I wonder, what are your everyday altars, and how do they change and evolve as you grow?

Put It On The Altar

Sources:

Adoremus (n.d.). About. https://adoremus.org/about/

McNamara, D. R. (n.d.). Altar as Alter Christus: Ontology and Sacramentality. https://adoremus.org/2016/06/altar-alter-christus-ontology-sacramentality/

Merriam-Webster (n.d.). Altar. https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/altar

The Grace Museum (n.d.). Dia de los Muertos: Symbols and Traditions. https://thegracemuseum.org/learn/2020-11-4-dia-de-los-muertos-symbols-and-traditions/