VOLUME XII: RE:NEGATIVES

VOLUME XII | re: Negatives

CONTENTS
06 SELF REFLECTION
10 TAKE IT WITH A GRAIN OF SALT
16
MASKING IMPERFECTIONS
22
GUILT, APATHY, AND SELF-FORGIVENESS:
Conversations on Palestine

24
SEAM RIPPER
28
HOW TO TALK TO YOUR INNER CHILD
30
IMPOSTER SYNDROME
34
WILTED JASMINE
38 CRYING CANDLES
42
ON ELITISM, MUSIC, AND BEING CONTENT
44 ENDING SCENE

e: Negatives

Dearest Reader,
The holidays are right around the corner, and our side of the world
turns rainy and gray in preparation for winter. Such weather reminds
us of how this digital edition’s theme came into conception. We, the
creative directors, envisioned an edition that pushed beyond notions
of beauty and pleasantries, that dove deep into the uglier sides of our
everyday living. With that, we dub our digital re:Negatives, a callback
to “negative” feelings in search for greater meaning and creative
inspiration.
We asked our writers, photographers, designers, stylists, and editors
to (re)explore the notion of unpleasantries, mediocrity, and shame–
feelings that we perhaps tend to suppress–and see what comes out on
the other side. re:Negatives begs the question: What happens when
we stop preserving ourselves? It has thus become an investigation of
uncomfortable emotions as a gateway to creation.
Despite a take at a rather conceptual theme, the pieces in this edition
are incredibly grounded in reality. They hold feelings of guilt,
embarrassment, regret, fear. We hope that you, reader, can take our
stories and reflections with you, long after you finish your digital
perusal. We hope that you may take time to heal and process and
create from your own experiences, and perhaps share them with us
too.
As always, we hope you enjoy our collection of stories, and we’ll see
you all soon.
xo,
MA:E

Photographer | Christina Chen
Stylist | Jodie Shin
Videographer | Vivian Lin
Designer | Vivian Lin & Lindsey Lu
Model | Taylor Woo
SELF-REFL

ECTION

TAKE IT WITH
GRAIN OF SAL
Writer | Fahmida Rahman
Designer | Woojin Kang
The house is emptied
But the looming feeling,
that this two story entity loves and mocks her all at once,
engrains a troubling fate into her frazzled mind
A homemaker.
To be a smiling face to return to and a relief to leave.
The house is full
All the lights are on despite the dark slumber growing outside
The buzz of a tv, a gnarly laugh, unattended children
It is not long before the pool of grievances flood in
“bed”, “tired”, “dinner”, “mama”
A working mother.
The face of empowerment and yet, selfish.
Pots and pans clatter with heavy hands
Knives slash at the vegetables
A whistling steam arising from the cooker.
Steam.
It shrieks and yells to alert it is done
“How simple and sweet” she thinks.
Even mere vegetables can voice their concerns.
The microwave’s exuberant light flickers
Each second on the screen feels heavier.
The turntable spins under the plate lifelessly
Could it ever defy its gravitation? Turn the other
way for instance and set its own path?
A minute-thirty.
All it takes to know that
she and the graying
casserole are identical

A
T
Hash away with your fork, consume
with a forced smile, and dispose of it
when no one is looking.
With an aggravated groan he
says“there’s not enough salt”
There’s not enough salt! OH LORD,
there is not enough salt.
She bites back a chuckle.
He doesn’t know that the salt lays lifeless
in the drawers
To add all the spices and exclude salt
To appear naive and then deceive him
It’s foolish isn’t it?
A gaping scream etches at her throat
With immense persistence it reaches the very top of the tonsil
Her cheeks swelling with the words
The teeth form a strong blockade and her vocal cords shake to project
She knows how to treat this anatomical mess
A deep breath, a swallow, a biting of the tongue
The words retreat grimly, tied in knots
Down to the empty pit of her body
Its difficult to stomach anything in such a system
The hungry hands that once slammed the table in excitement, now stare blankly.
The trigger is only waiting to be shot and alas, the words pierce through her ears
“Again? We’re having that again?”
The calm lasts for but a moment.
She tried. She really did try to constrain herself.
But she could not fathom harboring such resentment

This was family. She can be expressive, no?
And so she lets the words flow.
She bellows with profanity
She screeches with an indescribable pain
Her eyes possess an unfathomable rage
Her hands shaking in distress
Staring into the cutlery’s reflective surface, she grows deep into thought.
When all her efforts terminate, a tear or two may trickle into the pot
The salt would be there
The sour taste of her stress and anger in a concentrated capsule
His tongue will turn and his eyes will squint
Only then, will she taste sweet vengeance.
When his complaints finally come to an end
She quickly grabs his keys for a momentary rendezvous into independence.
Perhaps, she’ll pick up some salt.
The words linger
There is still so much more to be said
In mumbles and sighs she retreats
Keys slide through her ring finger, resting right above her band
She was in need of a new casserole.
Her fingers tap at the steering wheel in anticipation
Here she was, all alone, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to say anything
She stares into the rear view mirror, mouth agape
It is almost as though she can see the words pooling, swirling, along her cheek
The house is emptied
But the looming feeling,
that this two story entity loves and mocks her all at once,
engrains a troubling fate into her frazzled mind
A homemaker.
To be a smiling face to return to and a relief to leave.
The house is full
All the lights are on despite the dark slumber
growing outside
The buzz of a tv, a gnarly laugh, unattended
children
It is not long before the pool of
grievances flood in
“bed”, “tired”, “dinner”,
“mama”

A working mother.
The face of empowerment and yet, selfish.
Pots and pans clatter with heavy hands
Knives slash at the vegetables
A whistling steam arising from the cooker.
Steam.
It shrieks and yells to alert it is done
“How simple and sweet” she thinks.
Even mere vegetables can voice their concerns.
The microwave’s exuberant light flickers
Each second on the screen feels heavier.
The turntable spins under the plate lifelessly
Could it ever defy its gravitation? Turn the other way for instance and set its own path?
A minute-thirty.
All it takes to know that she and the graying casserole are identical
Hash away with your fork, consume with a forced smile, and dispose of it when no one is looking.
With an aggravated groan he says“there’s not enough salt”
There’s not enough salt! OH LORD, there is not enough salt.
She bites back a chuckle.
He doesn’t know that the salt lays lifeless in the drawers
To add all the spices and exclude salt
To appear naive and then deceive him
It’s foolish isn’t it?
A gaping scream etches at her throat
With immense persistence it reaches the very top of the tonsil
Her cheeks swelling with the words
The teeth form a strong blockade and her vocal cords shake to project
She knows how to treat this anatomical mess
A deep breath, a swallow, a biting of the tongue
The words retreat grimly, tied in knots
Down to the empty pit of her body
Its difficult to stomach anything in such a system
The hungry hands that once slammed the table in excitement, now stare blankly.
The trigger is only waiting to be shot and alas, the words pierce through her ears
“Again? We’re having that again?”
The calm lasts for but a moment.
She tried. She really did try to constrain herself.
But she could not fathom harboring such resentment
And so she lets the words flow.

Photographer | Ayla Soofi
Stylist | Janna Khan & Ishika Majumder
Videographer | Sarah Hossain
Designer | Erin Lee
Model | Reiah Jaffer

Writer | Hera Akmal
Designer | Ayla Soofi

Seam Ripper
Photographer | Dylan Chen, Rishad Hasan
Stylist | Emily Zhao
Designer | Ria Mittal & Kiana Yin
Model | Alex Lam, Donna Pham

Writer | Ava Im
Designer | Nawal Ahmed

IMPOSTER
SYNDROME

Photographer | Tina Tran & Nahida Akthar
Stylist | Nahida Akthar
Designer | Woojin Kang
Model | Anika Kashyap

Wilted Jasmine
Writer | Dhivya Bala
Designer | Shrisha Bollu
Something dark and deadly rose and fell
like waves inside her. Vidya was nervous,
but she didn’t know why. It felt like she was
sitting for an exam, adrenaline pumping
through her veins. She considered that
perhaps the lunch her mother had packed
her had gone bad. That’s impossible. Mother
would never let such a thing occur. Her
mind roared, muffling the soft chirp of birds
and whistle of trees around her. She felt the
heat radiate off of Maari’s skin, as though he
were the sun himself. He sure looked like it,
the way his dark skin glowed in the sunlight.
The way it cut through the green grass and
intertwined with the laying jasmine flowers,
with white petals dancing with the wind
as their partner. I must remember to pick
some for Amma to put in her hair. She stole
glances at him when she thought he wasn’t
looking, but little did she know— he was.
Lying next to him by the pond felt so wrong.
Especially when the pond was owned by her
father, just like the rest of the farmland the
pond was adjacent to. Vidya knew that were
she to be caught, she would be dead before
dawn. But something about that made it so
exciting, made him exciting. It made her
stomach churn with rebellion. She couldn’t
help her gaze drifting to him every so often,
and a warm feeling crept over her like
the sun. She could have continued in this
beautiful silence had he not broken it.
“We have been doing this for months, and
yet you still try to hide the fact that you can’t
stop looking at me,” he said, a wicked grin
sprouting in his expression.
She whacked him in the arm. “Idiot. You
won’t ever understand. Go away.” She turned
away from him and stared into the green and
white foliage surrounding them, until she
felt his fingers brush
her shoulder.
“Do you really want
me to go away?” he
playfully questioned
her.
She turned back to
face him, a shy smile
on her face. She
looked into his eyes,
and saw her favorite
things about him
flash in them like a
movie. His laugh,
the way he always
brought her flowers,
the way he correctly
answered every
question in class. He
was the perfect boy
for her. It was unfair
that he was given
both beauty and
brains, she thought.
They laid in silence for a moment, before
she broke it. “You know, I used to hate
you…because you kept beating me in class
rankings,” she said, still smiling.
At that, Maari’s bright eyes dimmed, his
expression darkening. “Your father thinks
I’m a low-caste nobody. Everybody thinks
that. It’s why I kept beating you. You simply
wanted to beat me. I needed to beat you. It
was the only way anyone would look at me

and see something worthwhile. If I didn’t
have my smarts, I would have nothing at
all.”
______________________________________
Vidya came home with a sagging demeanor,
pondering what Maari had said. She knew
he was right, but she hated thinking of it.
It was too ugly and real. She would rather
fantasize about his eyes than remember that
they didn’t belong together. No, they did
belong together. It
didn’t matter if other
people disagreed.
Vidya tried to study
her notes from
school today, but
everything reminded
her of him– the
pencil he had lent
her, the notebook
he had once handed
to her after she
dropped it, and the
night sky through
the window the same
color as his eyes.
Was the secondranked
student in
Class 12-C really
being reduced to
this? Of course, the
moment she could
get herself to focus
on her chemistry
assignment, she
heard her mother’s
voice call her down for dinner.
As she made her way down the stairs she
saw her mother, her hair slicked back with
oil and woven with jasmine flowers, as was
customary for all women and girls where
she was from. The white petals laid tangled
with the dark strands of hair like two lovers.
Vidya couldn’t help but marvel at her
mother’s beauty. She was quiet, but elegant,
her movements flowing like water. In
contrast, Vidya’s father looked particularly
inhumanly large today as he lumbered into
the room.
As Vidya sat down at the table, she tried to
forget Maari. Her father handed her a glass
of water and said “You look troubled, kanna.
Is everything alright?”
Vidya gulped down the water, savoring
the cool clarity it gave her. “I’m fine, Appa.
Just annoyed. I was beaten in the rankings
again.” She put on a brave face and looked
up at her father.
“Well, no use being upset about it now. Study
harder and do better next time,” he said, his
face hard as stone.
Silence enveloped them as a dark, thick
misty fog, clouding their vision and choking
their voices.
“Tell me, was it that Maari boy who
outranked you again?”
The world stopped. She nearly spat out
her water at the sound of his name on her
father’s tongue, but narrowly caught herself.
“Yes,” she said quickly.
“I don’t understand why they let filth like
him into the school. The entire reason we
send you to that school is so you may learn
amongst your own people. Regardless, you
don’t worry about scum like him. He is
nothing next to you. You are my daughter
after all.”
Vidya wanted nothing more than to
disappear at that moment. Her face felt hot
with embarrassment, and she prayed it
didn’t show. He is not nothing. He is number
one in the class. And he has gorgeous eyes.
He’s perfect. She wished to scream at her
father. She wished to tell him he was wrong.
But her tongue wouldn’t move. Her tongue
only bent for the seemingly calm words that

came after another mindclearing
gulp of water. “I’ll beat
him next time, Appa.”
“You’d better. I can not keep explaining
to my friends at City Hall why my
daughter keeps being outranked by some
irrelevant low-life. Just the other day, I
heard from the neighbors that Sandhya from
down the street has run away from her home
with some boy from outside the city. You know
not to do such things, right dear?”
Vidya’s chest squinched as she forced the air
to slowly stream in and out of her lungs. But
before she could respond, her mother flowed
into the room. She placed a pot of still-boiling
stew, carrots and peas lazily swimming around a
liquid as gold as the sun. Her mother brightened
the world, same as Maari. She looked over to
her father and found a different man sitting in
her father’s seat. He had the same eyes, same
nose, and same hair peppered with gray. But he
now wore a smile she only ever saw around her
mother. The unnatural show of teeth gleaming
in the kitchen lights only prickled her skin more.
“Vidya, do you like the flowers in your mother’s
hair? I picked the jasmine fresh this afternoon on
the way home from work.” he beamed.
Vidya blinked away her shivers. “Mmhm...” Her
mother simply smiled and hurried out of the
room, quiet as a mouse.
As soon as her mother was out of sight
her father spoke again. “Vidya, I had
asked you a question. You know what
is expected of you, right? Family
first.”
“Yes, father.”
______________________
The bedroom felt too cold and too hot at the
same time. Her father’s words pounded in Vidya’s
head. It felt like the room was spinning. She
opened the window and let the cool night air kiss
her face. She imagined it was Maari brushing
against her cheek like soft jasmine petals. At that
moment, the nausea settled. She sat in her chair
and opened her textbook. She was ready to prove
herself to her father. She would hold their family
reputation up. No, I’ll take it to new heights, she
thought.
But suddenly, her head swam again.
Then she felt herself fall to the floor.
Her stomach began to churn, but instead of
butterflies she felt knives. That’s when she cried
out.
“Ma! Appa!”
A deathly silence followed.
It felt as though her stomach might rupture.
Vidya began to sob in pain. Then, a creak
sounded. It was so slight, it could have been
mistaken for the howl of the wind or rumblings
of the house. But a large dark shadow that
appeared in the doorway proved otherwise.
As her father silently approached her, Vidya felt
a pang of relief. Help was here. She breathed.
Though something still felt wrong, she looked
up with hope, only to be met by her father’s cold
stare.
He was death reincarnated.

Vidya cowered under his presence, suddenly
feeling like all the air was sucked out of
the room. She didn’t understand. The pain
worsened and her head throbbed. She leaned
her back against the desk leg.
“What…what’s happening? What did you…”
she trailed off, unable to form the words.
Her father knelt down in front of her, and it was
only then she saw the silver shimmer of tears
in his eyes. He reached out a hand and brushed
her chin. Vidya couldn’t place the emotion
on his face. Was it anger? She had never seen
anger like this on his face though. This was
not her father, this was someone else. But she
couldn’t even bear to keep her eyes open now.
She tipped her head back against the desk,
loosening a breath.
“I’m sorry” she heard him whisper, his voice
breaking. But his voice turned stern as he
continued. “The dose was only supposed to take
half an hour to work in full effect. But I suppose
you’ve always been strong. Always making
things difficult for me until the very end, isn’t
that right kanna?”
Vidya could only barely hear the words he
said, but he continued on, his voice a choked
whisper.
“How dare you? Who gave you the right to run
around with that boy? Did you think about the
hard work that your ancestors did to get you to
this place before you laid with him in the fields?
Not just any fields. Our fields. Do you know
how it felt for me to watch you take sip after
sip of your water and know nothing of what
you were doing to yourself?
I wanted to grab your glass
and throw the poison in your
face.” His sound was strangled, as
though it was stuck in his trachea and
he was unable to conjure enough breath
to sound out his words. “Stupid girl. No,
yes, you did this to yourself. Yes. Yes. You
did this. Not me. You know our family
comes before everything, yet you disobeyed
me. Now you are simply dealing with the
consequences. Why did I ever love you, kanna?
You don’t deserve my love, or this family’s name
and title, and you have lost both in loving that
boy!” Tears poured out of his eyes in streams
of sorrow. His breath came out in sharp pangs,
jagged as a knife.
The words were all a jumble, but Vidya
recognized one thing. Appa did this. He did
it because he knows. She kept asking herself
how. She may have even said it aloud, she
didn’t know. How could a man do this to his
own daughter? His own flesh and blood. Had
he not heart? Or did his heart only beat for his
reputation and family name? As she felt her
mind slipping, she felt her father’s shuddering
body surround hers, and cover her with
warmth. She felt a hand stroke through her hair,
and rock her cold body back and forth.
The tears would not stop. He did not want
to mourn her. But as he closed his eyes
and let the tears fall, he could only see
her bright smile, her aura of hope in his
mind. With his arms wrapped around
her, Vidya’s father eased the final
breath out of her.

Photographer | Anjali Kota
Stylist | Janna Khan & Sidney Vue
Designer | Ayla Soofi & Tina Tran
Model | Phoebe Chen

ON ELITISM, MUSIC,
AND BEING CONTENT
My friends and I had been talking about when
Spotify Wrapped would come out for at least
a week. We were truly a bit too excited for it.
Finally, I got the notification on the morning of
November 30th. I wanted to scream in relief. I
immediately stopped working on my homework
to open it up, watching the curated slideshow
with my listening information from Spotify
multiple times over and over.
I got at least 5 artist messages, the final one
being from Sebastian Yatra, a Columbian artist.
I couldn’t understand what he said in his video
because it was in another language but Yatra
was the only artist to have two songs show up on
my top-5 most listened to list. The songs were
“Dos Orugitas” and “Two Orugitas,” both from
the Disney movie Encanto. But to see that I had
listened to both songs so much that they sat in
my second and third spot for the entirety of the
year made me hesitate before uploading my
Wrapped to my Instagram story.
Considering that I listened to both songs
multiple times a day for months, I should have
expected it. But did I want the world to know
that those songs specifically mean so much to
me?
I posted it, but it felt weird to see everyone else
with songs from what my brain classifies as
“serious artists.” People like Casey Musgraves,

Beyonce,
and Adele
amongst the hoardes of
underground artists that are way cooler and
high-brow without trying to be. All are people
who in my mind are better than what I listen
to because I primarily consume pop and always
have. Although I listen to the previous three
mentioned, I have always returned to artists like
Taylor Swift, One Direction and Olivia Rodrigo.
In my mind, anything that is “cringe” is something
that I think I would be embarrassed to show a
stranger. Something that I feel like I would be
judged for the topic showing up constantly in my
social media algorithm. It’s cringe, in my mind,
that I read like 70 romance novels last year, when
I could have been reading East of Eden (which I
have picked up and put down multiple times in the
last two years). But I don’t, because I don’t want to.
Cutesy romance brings me joy. It makes my skin
warm and my heart flutter.
That’s not to say that liking any of these things
now is bad, or that I won’t be cringed out thinking
about the things I currently wear or do in a year, it
just means that I’ve moved on. My priorities have
changed because I have changed and grown from
everything that I have experienced. But in reality,
I still like a variety of things, it’s just about whether
or not I feel judged for liking it.
I was reading an article for my digital studies
class about how we are living in an age where
children are able to post whatever they want,
and are quickly losing their ability to try things
because everything
they post would always be
attached to who they are. It’s
daunting to know that anything can
go viral. Anyone can re-post or reuse
what you posted. Anything can be seen
by employers and colleges and anyone. As
someone who joined Instagram and Snapchat
in eighth grade, which is apparently later
than a lot of people, I’ve been absorbing ideals
of what I “should” like and dislike for a vast
majority of my life, which has in turn influenced
how I judge my own personal interests.
Sometimes when I look at old Instagram posts
or text messages, I am judging and comparing
two completely different versions of myself,
disregarding how that’s what made her happy.
That’s what she thought was cool at the time.
That’s how she chose to express herself. When I
look at my old self, I see how much I’ve grown and
changed. But I’m trying my best to not shame that
girl for listening to the music that she liked even
if it was just the Glee cast version of “Somewhere
only we know” on repeat. I try not to judge her for
how she looked when she didn’t even care about it
that much; she was just living her best life. I hope
in the future I can look back at myself now and
know this is when I started to be whoever I wanted
to be, just like I did before.
I am proud to say that my Spotify wrapped last
year included both versions of the songs from
Encanto. Posting it on my story has opened up
conversations with people about the movie, and
has even led me to show some of my friends the
film. The songs still rank highly on my all-time
listened-to songs according to Reciptify. This
doesn’t mean that my music taste sucks inherently
or is just for children. It means that I can embrace
something that I would perceive as potentially
shameful to share. It took time and a lot of love for
the songs, but I did it because it was the truth.
Writer | Mishal Charania
Designer | Woojin Kang

Ending
scene

Photographer | Audrey Lu & Faith Tang
Model | Nina Nguyen
Designer | Suzie Cheng & Mia Viles

CORE LEADERSHIP
PHOTO/VIDEO/STYLING DIRECTOR
Abigail Lee
DESIGN DIRECTOR
Woojin Kang
VIDEO DIRECTOR
Allison Baker
EDITORIAL DIRECTOR
So Jung Shin
STYLING CO-DIRECTORS
Angeline Tran
Janna Khan
PHOTOGRAPHY DIRECTOR
Dylan Chen
EDITORIAL ASSISTANT DIRECTOR
Lynn Dang
BLOG DIRECTOR
Nicole Kuchta
OUTREACH CO-DIRECTORS
Lanny Lo
Ally Garcia
ENGAGEMENT DIRECTOR
Emily Wang
ENGAGEMENT ASSISTANT DIRECTORS
Naomi Philip
Julia Tsutsui
MARKETING DIRECTOR
Angel Huang
MA:E OFFICIAL WEBSITE
www.maemag.com
MA:E DIGITAL EDITION
www.maemag.com/digital
STRATEGY DIRECTOR
Yena Kwon
FINANCE CO-DIRECTORS
Anh Duong-Tran
Francoise Martinetti

ACTIVE TEAM MEMBERS
PHOTO TEAM
Jodie Shin
Spurthi Jayadeva
Ayla Soofi
Tina Tran
Bavani Vijay
Christina Chen
Rishad Hasan
Anjali Kota
Audrey Lui
MARKETING TEAM
Jennifer Kim
Tina Tran
VIDEO TEAM
Weicong Wan
Angel Nguyen
Sarah Hossain
Vivian Lin
Joanne Kang
Taylor Woo
STYLING TEAM
STRATEGY TEAM
Ishika Majumder
Marzia Tasnilim
Zhen (Tracy) Li
Izzy Manlongat
Jodie Shin
Faith Tang
Amory Tin
Ria Mittal
Nahida Akthar
Sidney Vue
Emily Zhao
FINANCE TEAM
Jenn Kim
Miaoya Feng
DESIGN TEAM
Shirley Zheng
Ashini Parikh
Nawal Ahmed
Kiana Yin
Anjali Kota
Nhi Tong
Ayla Soofi
Lindsey Lu
Kaisha Handa
Erin Lee
Angel Nguyen
Mia Viles
Ria Mittal
Shrisha Bollu
Suzie Cheng
Tina Tran
Vivian Lin
EDITORIAL TEAM
VOLUME XII | re: Negatives
Melissa Vozar
Zoha Khan
Hera Akmal
Fahmida Rahman
Mishal Charania
Ava Im
Dhivya Bala
Mehr Kumar
OUTREACH TEAM
Erisa Rosen
Joanne Kang
Esther Kwon
Vicky Mai
Nilisha Baid
Omar Fan
Erin Lee
Drishti Srivastava
Cover Page | Seam Ripper
| Photographer
Dylan Chen & Rishad Hasan
| Model
Alex Lam & Donna Pham