To:Russel, Sam
Hi Sam,
Here you go. Let me know if you need anything else.
Best,
Mal
1. What made you want to startMixxedMedia?
I didn’t really want to do this, if I’m being honest. But I had to, so I did. And I think out of that necessity, we’re making something really Important. With a CapitalI.
2. How did you learn to make zines?
Emerson taught me. She taught all of us, really. She says that’s part of what makes it so punk rock—the “DIY spirit of it all.” I didn’t know when I first signed on that she’d mostly just watched a bunch of YouTube videos about it, but with a little trial and error (and some help from you, Sam), it’s worked out.
3. How did you find your workspace?
The Haus was Emerson’s suggestion because she knew there was unused space and then we kind of just… never stopped going, I guess. Now I think we’re just an extension of what the Haus already does: become what the community needs. We needed this space, so we made it.
4. How do you fund the project?
We started with a loan from Emerson’s mom (which she didn’t know about, so maybe don’t run that part?), but now we’re self-sustaining. It’s been challenging, since we’re not supposed to sell them at school (maybe also don’t run that part, since we fully do). Since our first print run sold out really fast, we’re doing a Mini Zine Fest to raise more funds and expand our print runs.
5. Where do you seeMixxedMediagoing in the future?
I wantMixxedMediato keep going. Sometimes I wish it didn’thave to—that we hadn’t been canceled. Colleges take official, school-sanctioned activities much more seriously than hobbies when it comes to applications. But if there’s not a place for us there, I want to keep building one for us here. What we have to say is important, even if traditional institutions say it’s not.
CHAPTERTWENTY-ONETHE HAINT HISTORY FEST
They set up as the sun went down.
After school, the staff had all rushed to the Haus on 3rd Street and loaded their materials into the cars they had at their disposal—Kodi’s SUV, Nylan’s Civic, and Emerson’s Subaru, which was a hand-me-down from her mom. And the 6th Street Promenade, a little strip of green between the east- and westbound lanes of traffic, became the home of theMixxedMediamini zine booth.
Their setup was a bit cobbled together, but it worked: a handful of foldout tables borrowed from Emerson’s moms’ Pride-events stash; enough folding chairs for all of them, borrowed from the Haus; some Halloween-themed paper tablecloths Mal had bought from Dollar City using their pooled funds; and, of course, their zines (Mal’s among them, a last-minute decision), stacked neatly on the tabletop between jack-o’-lantern buckets full of candy, plastic spider rings, and glow-in-the-dark vampire fangs. Next to the folks on either side of them, who had things like tents and lighting, their booth looked a little amateur, but Emerson assured Mal that this was part of its charm. Even their tabling setup was full of rebellious DIY spirit.
Mal hoped that festival patrons would feel the same way.
They had a good spot, at least: close to the front of the event space near the Goose Girl Fountain, a towering bronze sculpture of a girl (tonight, wearing a seasonally appropriate laurel of autumn leaves) with a goose tucked under each arm, both of which spouted water from their beaks. Mal had never been sure why she was there—other than for decoration, of course—but they eyed the geese with suspicion. They were certain that there was something sinister about the statue under its turquoise patina, something that had little to do with the spookiness of the holiday.
As the sun went down just after five p.m., the festival’s start time, Mal held their breath—and the first of their patrons approached the table.
Maybe it was the bribe of free candy, or their lucky placement close to the front, but theMixxedMediabooth saw heavy traffic. The staff had agreed to take shifts at the table so everyone could have a chance to enjoy the festival. Mal (underdressed in a ghost-print sweater from the plus-size section of Walmart and some silvery makeup Parker had applied as they loaded in) and Emerson (dressed as a “glitter cat,” she said, which meant cat ears, painted-on whiskers, and anything sparkly she could find in her closet, by the looks of it) took the first shift, along with Sam, who had volunteered to support them, and one of their friends from college.
As staffers flitted to and from the booth, bringing goodies and craft finds and chatter about what Malhadto check out when it was their turn to wander, Mal talked to people who visited their table. They explained what mini zines were andhanded out take-home kits (a donation from one of the arts programs Emerson attended), sold a surprising number of zines (including the first copy of their own, to Emerson, who tipped them a kiss on the cheek), and talked to a couple of actual adults who seemed really interested in what they were doing. Among them were the owner of Uncommon Grounds, Mal’s favorite coffee place, and the guy who ran the art bar around the corner. They both asked to be added to the consignment list for the monthly zines—and asked if they could take a sampling of the mini zines for resale at their stores too.
“I think so?” Mal had answered.
“What they mean is,” Emerson cut in, practically bouncing out of her glittery cowboy boots, “hell yeah, we’d love that!”
Usually, so much time being On—how Mal thought of times when they had to keep it together and talk with tons of people all at once, like they were an actor on a stage—would leave them feeling fatigued. (Often, even the daily performances of School and Work were enough to exhaust them.) But as Mal took a quick step back to take a sip from Emerson’s water bottle, they felt strangely energized instead. Talking to people about something they cared about was actually really exciting. And they had taken extra time with a pair of younger kids, unfolding a copy of theirA Walk, Divergentzine to show them that yes, it really was one page, and that if they used one of the take-home kits, they could make one too. As the kids rushed off with the little paper envelope of supplies in hand, the idea that the two little girls mightmakesomething because of their talk with Mal made them feel a little giddy.
Mal smiled and wondered whattheymight have done, atthat young age, with a mini-zine take-home kit—and maybe with someone like themself to talk to, to encourage them to try.
A familiar voice broke through their thoughts. “This is the person of the hour.” Sam slid around from the other side of the U-shaped table setup, their college friend coming with them. “Mal, meet Emily Hartig. Em, meet Mal Flowers. Emily’s a big fan of what you’re doing here.”
“This is so cool, Mal,” Emily said. She was slim, with long red hair that was mostly wrapped up in her mummy costume. Pinned to one of her bandage wraps was a lesbian Pride flag. “Literally, I’m blown away.”
