Essay

What About Your Friends?

From kindergarten through high school, I attended eight different schools. We moved a lot—not to anywhere far or exciting, just enough to make me start over again and again. I was always the new kid, working overtime to decode social hierarchies already in place—an exercise I failed at more often than I succeeded.

What I didn’t understand then, but know now, is that I’d been dropped into something like The Hunger Games, without alliances or a thrilling plotline to protect me. My mom didn’t know the other kids’ moms, which meant they could bully me without consequence. The conclusion my little-kid brain arrived at seemed inarguable: if kids at all these different schools—divided by geography, with no knowledge of each other—called me the same names, they must be right. I must be the problem.

There were times when the name-calling and violations of my “personal bubble” really got to me. But before you get too sad, you should also know that being an only child for my first six years, and having moved so much, taught me how to enjoy my own company. I was unbothered by solitude—actually, I loved it.

I devoured books, comics, magazines—even liner notes. I was listening to all kinds of music. These media portals became windows into a world that felt bigger—and, most importantly, cooler—than the dumb schools, in the dumb neighborhoods, full of dumb people.

There was a brief moment in seventh grade when I finally cracked the social code. But I quickly discovered that the performance required to uphold it was exhausting. The constant attention and forced social contact were draining. So instead of retreating into quiet solitude, I chose a different path: I let my little freak flag fly, and embraced my party of one—even if it confused people or made them uncomfortable.

By the time I started high school, I had fully divested from the fantasy that those four years would be my “glory days.”

It turned out that flying my freak flag was its own kind of code—like a pheromone calling out to the other weirdo kids floating through the liminal spaces. Ironically what transpired over the next four years ended up being pretty fantastic. Through a code of various subcultural signifiers we found eachother.

My friend group was a constellation of cultural unicorns: mixed-race, ultra-minority, gender-defiant, and queer kids, all bound together by our love of music and art. Behind the veil of suburban perfection, we built a community that embraced plurality rather than erasing or blending it in.

In this community, I finally felt at home in my own body—who I was (or wasn’t) was no longer a problem, or even a question here. They was my first chosen family, and like any real family, we were equal parts wholesome and toxic. We empowered and enabled one another in equal measure. We snuck out to raves, dyed each other’s hair, experimented with substances, shared clothes, got arrested together, gossiped, scammed on people we shouldn’t, and loved each other in all the messy, brilliant, transcendent ways. We shone our light in a world that had otherwise demanded our erasure.

The rave scene was still heavily underground in early-to-mid ’90s in Los Angeles. Parties were accessed through a network of flyers, hotlines, and secret map points. In that world, we found other adolescent tribes on their own music-fueled psychedelic journeys. There were people dressed in feathers, satin, snow goggles, go-go boots, and military surplus gear. Together, we gathered to leave offerings—of dance and candy-necklace-stained sweat—on the sticky floors of warehouses and community centers stretching from Downtown LA to the far edges of Riverside County.

When I think about subcultures, I ask myself what defines them as something different than a “trend”—and I’ve come to believe that the answer can be found in wether or not there exists a shared value system.

When I think about subcultures, I think about what defines them, and I’ve identified one very key element that defines the difference between a trend, and a subculture—a shared value system.  Raving wasn’t just about music, wild self expression, or taking drugs—it was a world organized around a collective agreement: PLUR—Peace, Love, Unity, and Respect.

These four letters were everywhere: on flyers, beaded bracelets, homemade T-shirts. You couldn’t be part of the scene without encountering this ethos, and the community lived it in real ways.

Raves were often structured as a series of rooms, each offering a different facet of the dance music genre: a jungle room, a house room, a trance room (for the noobs), and always a chill-out room—where the music was more Lo-Fi, the lights dimmer, and lounging was encouraged. Today, we might describe this as “accessible”—a party ecosystem designed with micro-spaces that accomodated different energy levels, vibes, and comfort zones.

Recently, I came across a social media post from a man who said the rave scene had saved him from white supremacy. He shared how, in the ’90s, he attended a rave, and learned about PLUR. He found that despite his appearance, he was welcomed into the space, and treated warmly. This experience radicalized him. 

I wasn’t surprised—because I saw that happen with my own eyes.

At every party, there was an outdoor area—often for smoking or cooling off—where you could actually hear people talk. You could start or join a conversation with anyone.

One night, I made my way from the dancefloor to the patio with some friends, we shuffled toward the less crowded back end of the space. As we stepped into the open air, we came face-to-face with a group of Neo-Nazi skinheads in full regalia. My chest tightened—until I noticed—they were happily laughing. They had their arms wrapped around members of a Chicano party crew, and everyone was smiling. Members of both groups were clearly high on E.

I tried not to make eye contact, but my friends and I exchanged the same look of disbelief.

“What the fuck, girl?” whispered Gerry.

 “Am I tripping?” asked Sam.

We all got quiet, trying to eavesdrop on the surreal scene unfolding just beside us.

“I don’t know why I started hating you guys!” one of the skinheads said.

“I don’t know, dog? We’re cool as fuck!” he replied.

“Man, I love you guys now!” the skinhead shouted—and then they hugged. For a long time.

This memory is a possibility model, that still remains burned into my mind. 

Some might argue it was the drugs—ecstasy, originally used in family therapy before being outlawed in 1994—that opened the door to that moment of healing. But I’d say the substances were only one ingredient. I’ve seen people high on E throw hands outside the rave scene. The real catalyst was the shared value system—the unspoken code that defined the community and held us together, even through conflict.

Subcultures during that time often formed around music—but once they took shape, they expanded into value systems and codes of conduct. While I’ve always been a huge music nerd, I think my neuro-spicy brain especially appreciated the clarity of a social code that felt both decipherable and friendly.

I also responded to the fact that these subcultural codes weren’t bound by geography. I could move from one space to another without having to start over and decode a new social system. The values traveled with us. The code was portable. And that meant belonging could be too.

There were also consequences for being in-authentic. You got called a posuer if you disrespected the code. 

At punk shows, big guys looked out for little guys near the front of the stage, if you acted like a jerk, someone would let you know. If women were on the stage, they would demand that the rowdy boys who started fist-swinging violent mosh pits, move away from the front of the stage: “All women to the front!” 

The creation, and protection of these sacred places was a communal responsibility.

This is another lesson I have carried with me from lived experience and into design education and practice. 

In a conversation with a couple of my classmates that took place during our studio practicum hour I stated that  “I didn’t come here to be an art-star.”

My friends Roger and Lance looked at me, mouths and eyes wide with disbelief.

“I thought that was why everyone was here!” said Roger.

“That’s why I’m here,” added Lance.

I shook my head. “Nope. I came here to be the best version of myself doing a thing I love.”

Art school environments have a reputation for being fiercely competitive, but I wasn’t interested in competing. My admiration for some people’s work (and work ethic) over others was rooted in a value system and taste—not in sizing people up. I loved Roger and Lance’s work, and I rooted for their art stardom because they were my friends.

The culture of competition in the design world is validated by hero stories with big main-character energy. Graphic Design Visionaries by Caroline Roberts, released in 2015, is an iconic example of this kind of narrative. Each chapter is dedicated to a single designer and their body of work. Among the 75 designers featured, none are Black or Brown—a fact that reflects a broader bias in who gets lionized as a "hero" and who doesn’t.

This toxic formula for design storytelling is extremely harmful to our practice in multiple ways.

As a design student, I really began to wonder where I fit in to this culture. I had just presented a project about the singer Vicente Fernandez (whose fame within a Mexican family is akin to Frank Sinatra in an American one) to a group of classmates and professors who had never heard of him. 

Like a good nerd, I turned to the Millard Sheets library shelves. I hoped to find examples of Mexican graphic design—a historical connection that would bridge who I was with the history of design. I was looking for ancestors. When I couldn’t find a single book dedicated to us or our visual traditions, I understood how rare my position was in this place—and this field.

The one thing I did find were bound back issues of Graphis, a design magazine, and an article featuring the graphic identity system of the 1968 Mexico City Olympics. This vibrant system was one of my favorites, and I felt a bit dim for not having immediately recalled it as a monument in Mexican design history. Just weeks earlier, I had included research on the 1964 Tokyo Olympics pictographic system in a project, which credited a team of visionary Japanese designers. I flipped eagerly through the article, hoping to learn the names of the Mexican designers behind this equally compelling work.

But I found only one name: Lance Wyman. An American. A white designer from New York.

My heart sank. Why did Mexico entrust this historic cultural moment—its visual storytelling—to someone outside of the culture? Why hadn’t we seized this moment to elevate our own design voices?

I stared at the design system, skimmed back through the article, and sat with the cognitive dissonance of an artifact that looked so deeply Mexican—yet, according to the text, was the creation of one man alone.

Years later, a friend told me the story of meeting the son of Vázquez Ramírez, who had held onto the "receipts"—documentation that proved the 1968 Olympic design system was the result of a collective effort by Mexican designers, design students, and a visual language deeply inspired by Indigenous design systems. As he spoke, an image of Huichol yarn painting flashed into my mind. Holy shit. The cognitive dissonance I’d once felt dissolved, replaced by the deeper grief of recognition: the truth of Mexican design had been paved over with the myth of a foreign savior.

Just as the Spanish razed Tenochtitlan to build Mexico City atop its ruins, this narrative buried the brilliance of a communal, Indigenous-informed design practice beneath another hero story.

In almost every other life scenario, when I have found the line of code that reflects white supremacist values, or signals that my presence was never consider in the creation of the culture—I’ve left. But I love design, the way I love music. Over and over again I have decided to stay—and make challenging exclusionary social codes embedded in graphic design and visual culture a bottom line of practice.

In client projects, I advocate for the diverse representation of bodies. When creating work for historically marginalized audiences, I push for those communities to be included as stakeholders—with real influence, not just token consultation. In the classroom, I’ve used annual budget dollars to build a resource library that reflects a diverse body of designers, voices, cultures, and abilities. When bringing guest speakers to campus, I seek out individuals whose identities, stories, and interests reflect the population we serve. At the curricular level, I build projects that make space for students to bring their lived experiences into the work. And during critique—if a student presents something I don’t know about—I don’t shrink from the discomfort of not being the expert. Instead, I get curious. I ask questions. And I thank them for teaching me something new.

In choosing to stay, and do this work, I’ve also found others—folks with similar experiences, who have also dedicated themselves to shaping a collective value system within design culture. I am constantly in awe of their brilliance, their care, and their courage. I’m honored to call them friends, and be in community with them. Our presence in the field of design, and our shared commitments as educators, have become a living illustration of what is possible when community is centered over competition, and when care is central to the culture.

Side bar fun fact:
According to the codeswitch podcast episode “What about your friends?” a recent survey found that mixed race kids (among all demographic groups) are the most likely to have a diverse body of friends—if they have any at all.

The survey also found that because American culture tends to self sort by race, social isolation is experienced disproportionately by mixed race kids.

Book: Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?