EMERGE FINAL

EMERGE

A letter from the author.
Emerge is a publication curated and designed specifically for a
generation gap between Millennials and Gen-Z called Emerging
Adults. Generations have defined our culture and values as
they have become more solidified over the years. Emerge
seeks to explore this generation gap through understanding
the consumption of information among the Emerging Adult
generation. Many products and sources of information are
designed and curated for defined generations, not the generation
gap. This creates a lack of substantial and reliable information
that is curated for the Emerging Adult Generation. Through
first hand research, Emerge meets the entertainment and
informational desires of this generation.
This publication is filled with stories, experiences, and inspiration
from those who belong to the Emerging Adult generation. Of
course, anyone can view and enjoy this publication, but this gives
an undefined generation the chance to read work that has been
created for them based on their own requests.
Happy reading,
Molly Bokor

Contents.
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4
10
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To Go, Please!
American Brother
Subway
In the Absence of Closure
The Past

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Photo by Samuel Scrimshaw

To Go, Please!
Writing by Zoe Duncan-Doroff
I bet you don’t know anything about your baristas, the ones that work at the coffee shop
right down the block from you. Well you probably know which one remembers your drink
and which one takes forever to knot up the single serving artisanal tea bags and which one
is still in school and which one you look forward to finding yourself slipping into flirtatious
conversation with. So how dirty are we making that chai latte today? Baristas are a hackneyed
example of commonly anonymous, you’re right, but thanks to a national caffeine dependence
they are a universally understood case of the human aversion to curiosity about lives that are
not your own (or lived by members of your own social circle). As you’re hustling out the door
sucking down your iced latte — racing against the biodegradable clock that governs the lifespan
of your paper straw — I bet not much thought goes into who the people playing baristas
are, why they exist the way they do and what unique indent on space and time their life has
made so far. To be clear, I don’t blame this lack of awareness of the barista, the other, to be a
consequence of laziness or for some reason that is easily remediable. Instead, I consider most
of us to merely be ships in the night — completely unaware of the lives being battled, suffered
through, and enjoyed around us.
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American
Brother
Writing by Gabrijela Skoko
Sunday is my day for laundry. My self-care day. It sounds odd that throwing
dryer sheets would be my healing space, but it is something I will always
be able to do for and by myself. I find a certain peace in the lonesomeness.
And a certain endless possibility within it. In this time, I can be whatever I
want. This week, I chose to be a listener, and I sorted my clothes to Nikole
Hannah-Jones’ 1619 podcast.
In the first episode, she talks about her childhood home. Its ragged form,
and its constant need for reparation. Each floorboard is cracked and door
unhinged. Her father doesn’t mind, but what he would never let fall into
disrepair, was the American flag that flew outside. Jones couldn’t make
sense of her father’s pride in something that only ever denied him.
My brother was stopped by a cop again. By that, I mean my brother was
speeding in July when a Black cop pulled him over. The cop’s violent
screams piled spit on my brother’s shoulder like some sort of souvenir.
Souvenir, in its native space, means to remember. Remember. You’re
lucky I got to you first. It’s the reason you are still alive.
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A homeless man outside the outside the United Nations building
in New York with the American flag in the background.
Photo Released by C.G.P. Grey

My brother was stopped again. By that, I mean that my brother Freddie
Gray died in a police van while six Baltimore police, who committed the
fatal injury, watched him sink. I mean that my unarmed brother Sam
DuBose was shot on his motorcycle at a traffic stop in Cincinnati because
the cop didn’t want to get run over. At a traffic stop. I mean that my brother
Alton Sterling was pinned to the ground and killed for selling CDs on
the street. I mean that they shot my brother Jamar Clark in the head in
Minnesota once he had already been handcuffed.
In the head in Minnesota. Like December 26, 1862. Like Abraham
Lincoln hanging Thirty Eight Men in Mnisota* once their land had already
been stolen. Handcuffed. Hanging. When I think of these 38 men, I think
of Sandra Bland. Pulled over because she forgot to turn on her blinker.
Arrested because of her attitude. Dead in her cell by that weekend.
Hanging.
Her family had just spoken to her before her death. She said she would not
give this up. That she would not let them kill her too.
And yet, there she hanged.
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I think about my brothers past, and of you, knowing
that you probably don’t know their names. Like how up
until last year, I had never heard of the Dakota 38, or of
Mnisota. I think of how Lincoln was taught to me: the great
abolitionist, the liberator of me. I think of what it means to
be free. American. Honored. None of these feel like words
I can associate with myself.
American?
Isn’t that something we created for other people? Land we
build to be beaten on?
It never crosses my mind to tell people I am American. Like
Nikole Hannah-Jones, I feel a sort of shame in claiming
something that never wanted to claim me. When people ask
that convoluted question of what are you I tell them that I am
Black and I am Serbian.
I capitalize Black because I believe it is holy. It recognizes all
sides of my Diaspora. It accepts the roots laid for me in Africa
without ignoring my Jamaican soul. African American is a
settler-colonial term. One that denies my ‘Americanness’ but
does not want to understand my African. It straddles me in the
Atlantic, stolen from one land to create another whose people
deny me. Don’t see me. Or know me.
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Photo by Tom Coe

I fold my dark laundry through 1619’s third
episode, and as I throw my whites into the dryer, the
third episode takes me to Wesley Morris’ kitchen,
chopping tomatoes, and I feel I’m with him. His
Pandora radio plays a genre called yacht rock, and
as he listens to these white men, his voice lifts into
awe for the homage their music pays to Black music.
The body that lives within the music is like this land.
Stolen.
We can recognize the birth of America, but we can
never call a Black woman the mother.
We can recognize the birth of American music, but
we don’t ask why this is the only space where we
can be American too.
In the fourth episode, a man named June tells the
story of how his bank stole his land from him in
2008. How they forged his signature and cut his
loan prices in half so that they could evict him from
his home. He talks about how that land was all he
had. All his father, grandfather and great-grandfather
had. I think about music. How it is all my ancestors
had. How singing was what eased a day’s labor. How
singing was the Black body’s freedom. Liberator.
Protector.
Not our president.
Not our cops.
Layli Long Soldier speaks on the 17-day ride held
in memorial of the Dakota 38. She calls this a poem
in its own right. I call Freddie Gray a poem. Sam
DuBose a poem. Alton Sterling; poem. Jamar Clark;
poem. Sandra Bland. Poetry. American. And I want
to ask them if they would fly their flag or let it fall.
*The word Minnesota comes from mni, which means water; and sota,
which means turbid. Mnisota is the original spelling of Minnesota
9

Subway
Writing by Zoe Duncan-Doroff
A petite middle aged woman who has
aggressively aged gracefully sits with
a swollen black leather bag clenched
between her quads that can only be as
toned as they are due to long distances
hiked in heels. The subway passengers
on either side of her sit, heads ducked
into their phones—one lazily scrolling,
the other typing quickly. the woman
looks between her two neighbors,
then places her hands on each of their
forearms — interrupting their disparate
phone tasks and causing them to look
up in tandem. “I just want you to
know”—she says turning her head back
and forth to address both of them “that
you both have really great hair.” Sheepish
smiles curl up their respective mouths.
“You can go back to your phones now”
she says patting and releasing their
arms. The scroller goes back to surfing
but the typists’ eyes linger, waiting
for a subsequent comment that never
comes. The woman is staring straight
ahead again, already having gone back
to wondering why her teenage daughter
can’t abide by a very straightforward
kitchen cleaning schedule.
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Photo by Liam Burnett-Blue
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IN THE
ABSENCE
OF CLOSURE
Writing and Photography by Molly Bokor

Closure is a funny thing. In two weeks I was supposed to be
graduating alongside my best friends, classmates, and peers, and
now I am sitting at home submitting my final senior thesis virtually.
I waited four years to have my own studio, create a project I am
passionate about, and share it with those who have supported me
throughout my college career, and now it is all gone.
I understand that I am in a very privileged position. I was able to go home, I
am healthy, and I have a support system that allows me to live comfortably.
That does not lessen my sadness or make my feelings invalid. Since the
day classes were canceled with graduation soon to follow, I have been
documenting my life in a series of photographs. I did not document this to
share my privilege, but to capture the results of a global pandemic during
a pivotal time in the life of a young adult – a graduating senior prepared to
enter a world that is now completely shut down.
I am not just leaving college, but I am leaving my house that smells like
laundry detergent when you walk in the side door, my professors who I have
made real connections with over the past four years, Sargent Pepper’s, the
convenience store where we bought late night snacks and brownie mix, my
senior studio that I spent hours decorating and showing off to my friends,
and the hardest of all, my best friends in the world. We have parted ways
sooner than expected.
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We lived different lives before
college and we are going back to
those different lives now. We are
not moving on to bigger and better
things yet. We are returning home.
who are not experiencing the same
series of events and emotions, but
also creates a sense of community
and understanding for those who are
going through something similar.
Some of us return to our childhood
bedrooms where our innocence
and naivety sit in junk drawers
next to our beds or in mason jars
filled with bracelets and beads on
our dressers. Others are packing
up their belongings and moving
someplace new, either with or
without their family. No matter where
the members of the class of 2020
are now, we all have something in
common: none of us got closure.
That is why I wanted to share these
photographs. I wanted to document
my life without closure. I wanted
to create a body of work that not
It is okay to feel sad, to feel like
something has been taken away
from you, to feel like you missed
out on something – because you
did. You missed out on a chance
to celebrate the incredible work
you have done in the last four
years, and you missed out on the
closure that comes with it. But,
that does not make what you did
during these last four years any
less important. Closure is soon
to come, but until then, stay safe,
stay healthy, and stay home.
only describes our lives to those
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Photo by Cherry Laithang

The Past
by Annie Haroun
What does it mean for something to be in the past
For is it really
To me
There is no past
Cause the past carries with you everyday
And people will tell you it goes away with time
But it doesn’t
The past is powerful
It takes over your presence
It consumes you
It is what you use to fall asleep
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Designer: Molly Bokor
Photographers: Samuel Scrimshaw, Tom Coe, Liam Burnett-
Blue, Molly Bokor
Writers: Zoe Duncan-Doroff, Gabrijela Skoko, Molly Bokor,
Annie Haroun
Front and back cover image by
fotografierende on Unsplash.com
This publication was created in the Unites States in 2020.

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