From August to November, white girls flock to any and every Starbucks to get another hit of that spicy pumpkin. To feel alive again. To feel fall running through their veins. The Iced Macchiato, the Green Tea Frap, even the Peppermint Mocha, has nothing on that glorious Pumpkin Spice.

I struggle with what it means to be an artist. Three years ago, I graduated from art school denying my title as an “artist.”