Read our second print issue of the year, including stories about queer archival organizations, robot therapists, JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure, Brookfest 2023 and its future, as well as our latest Songs of the Summer and more. Cover photo courtesy of OutCentral Collection, Albert Gore Research Center.
Letter from the Editor
By Jane Montalto
So much truth can be found in quiet. I find my quietest moments on the bus. I’ve been going to this school for years now, but suddenly every face is unknown. In these moments, I can’t help but be fascinated by the people in my field of view. What are they studying? What music are they listening to? So much can be told about these commuters without any words. For instance, while some people refuse to pick their bags up for others to sit down, others sit with their bags in their laps to make room. If a phone is in my sights, I discreetly take a peek. Why do they have so many Snapchats to answer? Why did the girl in front of me just text “I hope you are safe” to her mom?
I feel invisible on the bus, and I guess that’s why I feel the power to observe so much. Maybe my fascination with the bus is genetic — my dad was a bus driver at Stony Brook while he was a student over 30 years ago.
I think that the loneliness of commuting is easier to avoid than people initially think. It is such a cliché, the whole getting involved thing. I hate to say it, but it’s true. My life changed the first day I stepped into the Press office.
Of course, its impact wasn’t immediate. I could only attend with a friend from one of my journalism classes, as I was too nervous to attend on my own. I would sit on the chairs at the outskirts of the main group at the GBMs, behind the couch, so my existence was barely noticeable. I was so scared of the editors who ran the magazine back then. As time went on, I grew more confident and began to get more involved with the production of the magazine. The people who once scared me grew to be some of my closest friends.
Now, I often forget that I’m actually a commuter, given the amount of time I spend on campus. The office is almost a dorm room to me: I use the microwave to prepare food brought from home and I lay down on the questionable couches when my body has given out from exhaustion. All of a sudden, the quiet of the office is broken by the faint click and beep of the door unlocking, and I am immediately excited to see the face of a friend.
I think of the magazine as a baby — one who is slightly vampiric and remains eternally young, needing to be passed down to its next adopted parents every year or two. For just a few months more, it’s still our glossy-papered vampire baby.