Category: Media

I still remember the first time I really started noticing the power of TikTok. It was back in seventh grade, right in the middle of COVID. Everyone was stuck at home, and suddenly it felt like the entire world was dancing on their phones.

One afternoon, I was scrolling through my feed when I saw two girls who seemed to be everywhere, on my “For You” page, in brand commercials, and even on Dunkin’ Donuts cups. They looked like sisters, and sure enough, they were Charli and Dixie D’Amelio.

At first, I was just surprised. How could two teenagers who posted dance videos suddenly become ambassadors for a massive company like Dunkin’? I did some research and found out they were TikTok creators whose dances had gone viral, so viral that companies, brands, and even entire industries were reshaping their marketing strategies around this new kind of fame.

That was when I first started to understand that TikTok wasn’t just entertainment; it was a kind of cultural diffusion.

The same way languages, music, and art once spread through trade or migration, TikTok was spreading culture through 15-second videos. A single dance created in someone’s bedroom could reach millions across the world in hours. Moves inspired by African hip-hop, Latin reggaeton, or American pop blended together into new routines that anyone, anywhere, could learn.

Teenagers in the U.S. were learning choreography from creators in South Korea. Songs from small artists in Nigeria were suddenly topping global charts. Food, fashion, and slang jumped across borders overnight.

Cultural diffusion used to take centuries. Now, it takes seconds.

A few years ago, I remember sitting on the couch with my family watching The Emoji Movie. At first, we put it on as a joke, just something light to watch together. But somewhere between the chaotic scenes of dancing smiley faces and talking text bubbles, I realized the movie wasn’t really about emojis at all. It was about communication.

It was about how our generation has built an entirely new language, one made of tiny, colorful symbols that say more than words ever could.

Emojis started as a fun way to add personality to text, but they’ve grown into something much bigger. In a world where tone can be easily lost over a message, emojis have become emotional translators. A simple “okay” can sound flat or even cold, but add a 😊, and suddenly it feels friendly. Add a 😬, and it becomes awkward. The meaning shifts entirely, even though the words stay the same.

That’s when I began to see emojis not just as decorations, but as expressions, micro-languages that bring feeling back into text.

Across the world, communal eating is one of humanity’s oldest and most universal traditions. From ancient harvest festivals to modern dinner parties, food has always been more than sustenance; it’s a way to connect, celebrate, and communicate. Anthropologists often describe shared meals as “social glue,”a way to build trust, form identity, and strengthen community bonds.

In Japan, for example, the tea ceremony (chanoyu) is not simply about drinking tea; it’s about mindfulness, respect, and presence. The ritual emphasizes harmony between host and guest, where every movement, every sip, is deliberate and meaningful. It’s a shared pause in a busy world.

In Ethiopia, meals are communal by design. Families and friends gather around a large platter of injera, a spongy flatbread, and eat with their hands. There are no personal plates; everyone dips into the same dish. One beautiful tradition is gursha, where one person feeds another a bite of food as a gesture of love and trust.

In India, festivals like Diwali or Eid feature massive spreads of shared dishes, where food becomes an offering of generosity and faith. Even street food culture there, like chaat stalls and dosa stands, shows how communal eating breaks social barriers. Food brings together people of different classes, backgrounds, and beliefs.

And in the Middle East, sharing food is an act of hospitality rooted in centuries of tradition. Bedouin culture, for instance, values feeding guests before even asking their names. A shared plate of rice and lamb isn’t just a meal; it’s a statement of welcome and honor.

Even in Western cultures, the idea of breaking bread together carries deep meaning. In ancient Greece, the symposium was both a feast and a forum, where people ate, debated philosophy, and built community through conversation. In many ways, our modern dinner tables still serve the same purpose.

When I think back to my own Thanksgiving table, turkey beside mapo tofu, cranberry sauce next to crepes, I realize it wasn’t chaos. It was a connection. Each dish represented generations of migration, adaptation, and identity. Each one said, “We belong here, together.”

Communal meals remind us that food is one of the few things that transcends language. You don’t need to speak the same tongue to share a dish. You just need to sit down, pass the plate, and listen to the stories that come with it.

So whether it’s a traditional feast, a potluck, or even takeout shared among friends, these rituals of sharing keep us grounded. They remind us that every meal, no matter how small, is an act of belonging.

I still remember the first time I really thought about what clothes say. It was cultural heritage day at school, and everyone was encouraged to wear something that represented their background.

I had no idea what to wear at first; jeans and a hoodie felt too plain, but dressing up in traditional clothing felt unfamiliar. Finally, my grandmother insisted I wear a silk jacket she had brought from China years ago. It was red with gold embroidery, slightly too big, and definitely stood out in the sea of T-shirts and sneakers.

At first, I felt self-conscious walking down the hallway. But something changed during lunch. One of my friends asked me about the jacket, where it came from, and what the designs meant, and suddenly I found myself telling stories about my family, my grandparents, and the meaning behind the patterns.

That jacket became a conversation, a bridge between cultures, and a reminder that clothing isn’t just fabric; it’s communication. It carries stories even when we don’t realize it.

Studies have shown that younger generations tend to be more skeptical of media than older ones. I remember at a journalism and media conference I attended, I learned that Gen Z and Millennials are far more likely to fact-check or cross-reference something they see on social media.

It’s not that we don’t trust information; it’s that we trust patterns of credibility. A blue checkmark, multiple sources, or an official link mean more to us than a single video or headline.

At the same time, this constant skepticism can be exhausting. With AI-generated videos and hyper-realistic images circulating daily, we’re living in a time where seeing is no longer believing. Technology has made it easier than ever to manipulate reality and harder than ever to agree on what’s real.

But maybe that’s what defines the generational difference: adaptability. Older generations learned to trust the systems that informed them, while younger generations are learning to question the systems that shape them. Both perspectives have value. One teaches faith in structure; the other teaches caution in chaos.

That night with my parents ended with all of us laughing, rewatching the hoverboard video while debating whether AI will ever stop surprising us. But deep down, I knew what made that moment special; it wasn’t about the video at all. It was about how every generation sees the world through a different lens, shaped by the media that raised them.

And in today’s digital age, those lenses are changing faster than ever.