Pop Culture

This film employs the act of doing laundry, in its habitual, cyclical mundaneness, to reflect a deep longing for a cultural heritage under the strain of constant, quiet erasure. Invoking two voices, mother and daughter, Tagalog and English, I choose to render this immigrant experience through the insecurities surrounding language, and its intimate relation to generational relationships.

As fourth-year students, my friend and I wanted to celebrate our final spring break with a bang, so naturally, we took a spontaneous trip to Las Vegas.

My K-pop origin story all began with a YouTube React video. One day, one of those “YouTubers React to K-pop” videos popped up on my YouTube recommended—it intrigued me.

The red dress I had planned on wearing to my boyfriend’s winter formal, coincidentally, happened to be the same shade of red as the back of my throat. That is, as I was about to discover, the portion of it that wasn’t covered in white stripes of bacteria (lovely, I know). 

Yes, I took a pole dancing class. Anyone who knows me is likely unsurprised since I’ve been wanting to take one for quite some time.

It’s 3:30 p.m. on Friday, January 12, 2024. I dress in a black and pink cropped sweater, and listen to my newly created “reneé rapp” playlist as I softly draw on my eyeliner, preparing for the life-changing event I am about to experience.

I am fifteen years old and sitting in my dining room. I am painting a mask from Michaels for a school project on A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

I was in Sephora over winter break, looking for a new perfume, when a couple of girls who could not be any older than 11 shoved past me to get to the Sol de Janerio display.

Walking into a dimly lit room, bass vibrations rattling the windows, I look around—the women are in uniform. So am I. The year is 2023. I’m in a small “going out top” matched with straight leg jeans, and for personal flair, my black combat boots.

1. Burnett’s Liquor 

If they’re over 21, this is an insult.