Letter From the Editor in Chief

Love Letter from the Editor

I’m exhausted. Worn to the bone by a cruel semester that marches on as if it doesn’t see the fingerprints of grief all around us, by a capitalist hellscape that demands more of our labour and our environment and our compassion and our future each day and gives us less and less in return, by a standing worry that one miscalculation could jeopardize the lives of those I care about most. I have finals looming over me and late assignments trailing behind me and law school applications waiting to be submitted and a thesis that, stubbornly, will not write itself. And I’m exhausted, reader. I’m sure you are too. 

So I’m going to use my 400-or-so-word exposition of our final issue of the semester to write about something that energizes me, ceaselessly. This is a love letter:

Every conversation with my mother commences with a familiar dance through her favorite venue of interrogation. She asks me if I’ve taken my vitamin D supplements for the day. She asks me about my iron tablets. My probiotics. My multivitamins. Am I eating? Am I tired? Am I hungry? Am I happy? Really, am I happy? I dodge and weave each question, treading carefully through her minefield of maternal worries. Mama, I promise, I’m okay. I’m okay. This is, first and foremost, a love letter to her. 

At random points throughout this semester, my friends have parachuted onto my balcony, mercifully and wholly unprompted, to drop off ginger tea or ice cream from CVS or apple cider or Trader Joe’s takis or whatever consumer good they have decided to bestow upon me. My roommates listen to me complain about the LSAT and withhold judgement when I fall asleep on the couch. I’ve spent hours on Zoom calls and attempted facetime study sessions that invariably devolve into venting seminars. Occasionally, I find myself immobilized by stress and take weeks to respond to a message. My friends still text me anyway. This is, decidedly, a love letter to them.

Two summers ago, with my face pressed against the window of a bus during my morning commute to work, I noticed a sign that read, “Justice is what love looks like in public.” A hurried internet search attributed the quote to Dr. Cornel West, and I began looking forward to completing my daily pilgrimage across those pink-and-white bolded letters draped over the side of a church. Now, as much as ever, our capacity for compassion, for mutual aid, for community care is transformative. This is, also, a love letter to paradigm-shifting love in all its forms.

And today, dear reader, the six-week publishing cycle of our final issue of the semester has come to an end. Written, designed, and illustrated by over 50 staff members, interns, and freelancers working in isolated coordination, this magazine is, deeply, ultimately, and sincerely, a love letter to you. Don’t hesitate to write back.

With love,

Tala Alfoqaha

Editor-in-Chief