culture

My identity felt fluid and contextual. Depending on where I was or who I was with, a different aspect of my identity would come forward. When people ask about my name, Aviva, I am Jewish. When people ask about my parents, I am Indian and white. When people ask where I’m from, I say San Francisco.

I am instantly reminded of what unites my Latine family, and I become hungry at the thought of food. Beyond its tastiness and incredible seasoning — which I will soon obsess over — Latine food symbolizes cultural harmony and solidarity. 

Our very lives are a commodity on social media; the content we post is the main unit of consumption. Social media companies profit off of our lives. When you reduce humans into units of consumption, you objectify humanity.

My baseline of existence as a brown woman isn’t scruffy, it’s silky. Just like my underwear isn’t black. It’s polka dotted. But it still protects me just the same. My activism doesn’t have to come only in choking out my worst experiences. It can also be chucking over them.

Maybe the lion is saying, “More.” Maybe he’s an embodiment of our shared culture at Berkeley, an insatiable beast with a ravenous appetite for more achievement.

The prospect of love and care materialized the shared vision of People’s Park.

Every week this summer, my younger self and I have been putting in the work to overcome our internalized racism. My words have created a safe space for dialogue with myself.

Ultimately, no matter the city’s work to provide supportive housing for residents of People’s Park, the park’s decades worth of history and culture will not be preserved.

The implication stands naked in front of you. Across countries and cultures, women cannot have a life detached from a dick. It’s a fantasy, a wet dream.

After that first rejection, I began seeing another therapist, my time in her office and billable hours lasting longer. At this point, I was 13 and suffering from severe anxiety.