First emerging in the mid-twentieth century, a zine — pronounced zeen — is a miniature version of a traditional magazine, typically a hand-crafted booklet containing art and information which relates to broader social or political issues. Zines are oftentimes used a tool to disseminate information and connect marginalized groups excluded from mainstream publishing. Historically, they’ve appealed to members of counter-culture movements on the political left, like punks, feminists and the queer community. These groups adopted zines as a low-cost, accessible way of telling their stories and documenting their experiences when mainstream publishing refused to listen. The self-published format allowed for a greater, more candid expression of stories excluded from mainstream cultural conversations.
Notably important for the queer community during the height of the AIDS epidemic during the 1980s and 90s, zines enabled activists to document queer history, mobilize for social and political movements and provide community and visibility during a period of intense homophobia. For example, the San Francisco queer anarchist zine “Homocore” offered to mail zines in plain envelopes to “accommodate your potentially oppressive environment,” so readers could access its radical information away from the prying eyes of potentially discriminatory landlords, neighbors, roommates, family members, etc.
These zines had low production costs, were easily spreadable and became a symbol of resistance and self-expression for marginalized groups that have endured today. Take, for example, grain of salt and the article you are currently reading.
I first came across grain of salt from a TikTok looking for applications to join their summer residency program, where young writers could collaborate, submit work for review and connect with professionals in the industry. It was unlike any of the other summer internships I’d applied to that spring — this was actually cool. I spent the summer working with some of the most gifted, inspired and insightful creatives I’ve met, and I am deeply grateful to have been able to hone in on my writing amidst such a vibrant, talented community.
In the years since I’ve been involved with grain of salt, I’ve been given the incredibly unique opportunity to submit work that is entirely my own voice. The pieces I’ve written — on queer hookup culture, silly TikTok trends, early 2000s reality television that I’m still obsessed with — would be easily dismissed by traditional media organizations, and yet all found a place here. More than that, the grain of salt community has allowed me to connect with other young writers across the country, particularly creatives from marginalized groups. Just as our zine predecessors did nearly fifty years ago, grain of salt has provided a means of connection and community through art and writing outside the mainstream conversation. R.I.P. grain of salt, you will be deeply, deeply missed. 89