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Winning Love Essay

February 13, 2019 | 34st.com

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Vagina Monologues Feature

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Best Bumble Date Ever

February february13 13,,2019 2019

3 SABRINA APONTE

Learning to Feel Beautiful *WINNING ESSAY*

Black Coffee

7 ANONYMOUS

Feeling Small in the Universe

9 LUCY CORLETT For J

10 ANA WEST

We're Not Dating Anymore, But I Still Love Him. Just Differently.

11 KATIE LEVESQUE

I (Haven't) Met my Husband at Penn

12 FEATURE

Taking the Vagina Monologues into 2019

Sophie Burkholder, Word on the Street Editor Katie Bontje, Ego Editor Sam Kesler, Music Editor Eliana Doft, Special Issues Editor Meerie Jesuthasan, Long–Term Features Editor Angie Lin, Developing Features Editor Bella Fertel, Style Editor Maryanne Koussa, Film & TV Editor Josephine Cheng, Arts Editor Emma Boey & Sophia Dai, Photo Editors Tahira Islam & Katie Steele, Copy Editors Dean Jones & Jackson Parli, Video Editors Ben Zhao, Print Director Ego Beats: Amanpreet Singh, Michelle Shen, Sophie Xi, Caroline Emma Moore, Chelsey Zhu, Sonali Deliwala Music Beats: Beatrice Forman, Arjun Swaminathan, Teresa Xie, Melannie Jay, Aleksei Kuryla, Johnny Vitale, Julia Davies, Paul Litwin Features Staff: Katrina Janco, Shinyoung Hailey Noh, Allison Wu, Srinidhi Ramakrishna, Caroline Riise, Paige Fishman, Chris Schiller

Film & TV Beats: Anna Collins, Shriya Beesam, Shannon Zhang, Zovinar Khrimian, Calista Lopez, Ana Hallman, Samantha Sanders Arts Beats: Michelle Wan, Will Miller, Jess Araten, Katie Farrell, Adeleke McMillan Design Editors: Gillian Diebold, Lucy Ferry, Alice Heyeh, Jess Tan, Tamsyn Brann Associates: Dannie Watson, Joy Lee, Ian Ong, Jackie Lou, Anna Callahan, Isabel Liang, Christine Lam Staff Writers: Liz Kim, Jordan Waschman, Anjalee Bhuyan, Shunmel Syau, Bebe Hodges, Emma Harris, Tara O’Brien, Jessica Bao, Mehek Boparai, Zoe Young, Sophia Schulz-Rusnacko, Alex Cook Illustrators: Anne Chen, Anne Marie Grudem, Brad Hong, Carly Ryan, Catherine Liang, Jake Lem, Reese Berman, Saranya Sampath, Jessi Olarsch, Christopher Kwok, Diane Lin, Jacqueline Lou, Sabrina Tian, Kathy Chang, Ben Joergens Staff Photographers: Sophia Zhu, Eleanor Shemtov, Alice Deng, Hoyt Gong, Sukhmani Kaur, Mona Lee, Sally Chen, Adiel Izilov, Christine Wu, Anran Fang Video Staff: Jean Chapiro, Christina Piasecki, Anab

Aidid, Deja Jackson, Megan Kyne Copy Deputies: Sarah Poss & Kira Horowitz Copy Associates: Kate Poole, Serena Miniter, Erin Liebenberg, Lexie Shah, Carmina Hachenburg, Luisa Healey, Agatha Advincula Audience Engagment Associates: Brittany Levy, McKay Norton, Kat Ulich, Emily Gelb, Ryan McLaughlin, Valentina Escudero, Samantha Lee, Nadeen Eltoukhy, Fiorentina Huang, Rachel Markowitz, Julia Zhu Cover Illustration by Diane Lin Contacting 34th Street Magazine: If you have questions, comments, complaints or letters to the editor, email Annabelle Williams, Editor–in–Chief, at williams@34st.com. You can also call us at (215) 422–4640. www.34st.com

My vagina is not pastrami, Daniel. ©2019 34th Street Magazine, The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc. No part may be reproduced in whole or in part without the express, written consent of the editors (but I bet we will give you the a–okay.) All rights reserved. 34th Street Magazine is published by The Daily Pennsylvanian, Inc., 4015 Walnut St., Philadelphia, Pa., 19104, every Wednesday.

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

16 MARGARET ZHANG

Thinking About the Future When You're About to Leave

17 ANONYMOUS

I No Longer Feel Like I Am a Burden

18 ZOE YOUNG

Becoming My Own Prince Charming

19 KELLY MACGARRIGLE

My Dad was Deployed in Baghdad. For a While I Didn't Know What that Meant.

20 SYDNEY GELMAN

A Bumble Date That Actually Went Right

22 JACKSON BETZ

Turning Feelings into Friendship 2

Style Beats: Karin Hananel, Allie Shapiro, Jen Cullen, Alice Goulding, Diya Sethi, Hannah Yusuf

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I

n my Shakespeare class today, we tracked all the uses of the word “love” in a few pages from "A Midsummer Night’s Dream" and plotted out what all of them mean—possession, marriage, sex, money, family, romance, patriarchy, devotion, obsession, death. The blackboard filled up in under an hour; drawings of triangles spilled over into hierarchies nestled under diagrams of umbrellas.

I looked at the board while throwing my laptop into my purse to leave class and I just felt overwhelmed. We’d talked for so long and I couldn't help feeling like we hadn't come to any real conclusions.

Street’s Love Issue culls content from every section of the magazine and solicits user–generated stories, essays about what love means, its absence, its presence. Loving yourself after trauma, loving a father who’s deployed, learning to love food despite not always wanting to—the definitions of love that you’ll read about in the following pages of this magazine can get overwhelming in the sheer scope and emotion.

But what I’m trying to remember, and what I hope you remember too, is that love can be pretty damn triumphant.

It’s a big word without a set definition because it’s all– encompassing. And this year, I’m choosing to appreciate that instead of being overwhelmed by it.

This year our Love Issue features content from all angles.

I love that we’re relaunching 69th Street, our sex column, with a new writer. I love that we’re considering queer love in all its forms and expressions. I love that this week, I’ve edited articles ranging in topics from clit piercings to

mixtape making to the Vagina Monologues to breakup songs. And I love that I’ve been listening to the Velvet Underground while doing all of it.

Every day when I wake up (even if I oversleep), I’m choosing to love myself, to love being alive, or at least to try, even when it gets tough. On days when I feel like retreating into myself and hiding in my room, I’m trying to get up and feel things and be okay with it.

It’s a new thing for me to let myself feel love all the time.

It’s tiring, overwhelming, emotional, and kind of amazing.

And it’s going pretty well so far.

I hope Street’s Love Issue can bring you some of that too.

Jessi Olarsch | Illustrator

6 ELIZABETH BEUGG

Annabelle Williams, Editor–in–Chief Dalton DeStefano, Managing Editor Daniel Bulpitt, Audience Engagement Director Lily Snider, Assignments Editor Ethan Wu, Media Director

Learning to Feel Beautiful I tried to be a “beautiful” girl that cared about how she looked, but I wasn’t ready to see her. **Content warning: The following text describes sexual assault and can be disturbing and/ or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed at the end of the article.**

SABRINA APONTE Essay Contest Winner

I

remember staring in the mirror, examining the painted face staring back at me. Pink lips, natural eyeshadow, black eyeliner, mascara, and soft blush.

My parents said I looked beautiful, but the word made me feel nauseous as I held back tears and swallowed the pain away from my throat. My mind was screaming, yelling at me to rip the makeup off my face, but all I did was stand and stare. I was twelve at the time and I remember being afraid to be called “beautiful.”

When I was seven years old, my family and I went to an indoor water resort where I was sexually assaulted by an older boy, and whose sister attempted to drown my younger sister in the pool. We were able to escape before anything worse happened, but never spoke a word about it because it was unfathomable at the time.

I forgot about it for a while, until I hit sixth grade and all of my girl friends started wearing makeup and tight clothing to impress their crushes. Twelveyear-old me was confused and didn’t want to switch out my basketball shorts and ponytail for leggings and styled hair, but the social pressure

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from my friends and parents to “dress and act like a girl” eventually got to me.

I tried to be a “beautiful” girl that cared about how she looked, but I wasn’t ready to see her. Seeing her in the mirror made me want to cry and throw up. I didn’t want to see her because I was afraid to, because I thought being beautiful would bring her danger.

Fast forward to high school to the cool, tomboy me who still never spoke about what happened. I eventually learned how to do my own makeup because I had to for dance, but my nausea around makeup was replaced by a fear of touch.

Any sort of touch made me flinch. I remember my body would go cold and stiff in a hug no matter if it was by an acquaintance, friend, sister, or other family member. At least I was able to get away with “not being the hugging-type.”

Although everyone kinda hates being at Penn at some point in their lives, one of the most unforgettable things I have learned since being here is that love works in mysterious ways, especially when you aren’t looking for it.

Somehow, my awkward and broken self got the courage to confess my feelings to one of my guy friends the end of my first semester at Penn. Nor4

mally, I play it really safe because of my past experiences, but I had a good feeling about him (although I also was so ready to get rejected). After studying and playing video games together almost everyday after classes ended, and swerving my first kiss with him at 3 a.m. and laughing out of nervousness for another half hour until I felt ready to kiss him for real, I asked him to date me the next semester.

Falling in love with my now-boyfriend and best friend of three years was actually very hard, but without those three years of laughter, tears,

my pent–up experiences and feelings that had already translated into the way I felt and behaved. Growing up as the older sister and having the role of the mediator in my family, I was always listening to others and setting my feelings aside to make sure those I cared about were happy. And when it came to my more traumatic experience, I got used to the ease of keeping things to myself.

That way, no one had to worry about me and I could focus on taking care of everyone else. I started doing the same thing with

instead he would always give me a little push to be more vocal and tell me how much he cared about what I had to say until I said something.

Especially after our first summer apart, I realized how important communication was in any relationship. Not only did I speak my mind more often with him, but I also became more vocal about my thoughts and feelings to my family because

heartbreak, fights, friendship, and honesty, I wouldn’t have become the better version of myself you see today.

For one, being in a relationship meant I had to address

my boyfriend, only he would ask me a lot about how I felt and what I wanted, but I never really knew how to respond. I tried to hide my feelings and default to what he wanted, but

my voice did matter. For instance, when my dad found out I had a boyfriend, he got mad at me and told me I had to break up with him because I didn’t ask for his permission. I

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was able to have the courage to tell my dad, “No,” for the first time. It was super scary but also empowering, and to this day, my dad always tells me that he’s glad I spoke up. My words made him realize how narrow-minded he had been about a lot of things, and after his divorce, he said he hoped he could find a love like mine.

Being in a relationship also taught me to be comfortable in my own skin. Freshman year, I was haphephobic, had cystic acne, gained 20lbs, and never felt beautiful nor wanted to be called beautiful.

Ever since we met through our dance team, my boyfriend and I had a natural connection. You could always find us in the corner of the studio laughing at Spongebob memes or watching clips of cartoons we both loved. We’d always compliment each other on our geeky pop culture shirts and talk about a new video game we were excited about. Since day one, he had always been someone I could rely on, someone who never failed to make me laugh or cheer me on while I danced, someone who listened to what I had to say, and was one of the few people I enjoying being with while I still felt like an outsider among the other dancers on the team. Because of our early connection and trust, hearing the words, “You’re beautiful,” from my dear friend during a time

when I felt how I looked physically was at its worst was the first time I actually believed it.

Since then, I started learning to love the way I looked while also seeking to take care of myself better. I got more sleep, watched the foods that I ate, exercised, and started being more open to new clothing styles outside of my usual sweatpants and t-shirts

look. After each semester of self-care with a side of reassurance from my boyfriend here and there, I realized that I only needed to look beautiful for myself under my own terms.

Today I can say I am a more loving person, especially around my family. That has been something I am most thankful to have learned from my boyfriend. My family never really told each other we loved each other—maybe I would read it on a birthday card a few times. Because I had grown into a more independent person that kept my feelings to myself, it was easy for me to leave home to go to Penn.

But watching the way my boy-

friend interacted with his family, how close they were, how often they called or texted each other, and how easy it was for them to tell each other, “I love you” before departing made me begin to miss my family and desire that same relationship with them. Especially after my parents' divorce, my whole family was split and became more distant from one another. But it also made us see how much we missed being together, and I took that as my opportunity to finally say “I love you” to my parents and my sister. Since then, we have become more open to talking to each other about our deepest feelings and fears, and not

being afraid to burden the other with what we have to say.

After these 21 years of life, I can finally say that I am happy.

Learning what it means to be loved for all of who I am gave me the strength to pick myself back up, and falling in love with someone gave me the courage to build a better, more loving me. I wouldn’t say it takes falling in love with a partner to learn how to love yourself, but all you need is someone, whether they’re in your family or a close friend or guardian, that sees the beauty and goodness in you among the imperfections you see, and takes the time to help you bring that out.

Campus Resources: The HELP Line: 215-898-HELP: A 24–hour–a–day phone number for members of the Penn community who seek help in navigating Penn's resources for health and wellness.

Counseling and Psychological Services: 215-898-7021 (active 24/7): The counseling center for the University of Pennsylvania.

Student Health Service: 215-746-3535: Student Health Service can provide medical evaluations and treatment to victims/ survivors of sexual and relationship violence regardless of whether they make a report or seek additional resources. Both male and female providers can perform examinations, discuss testing and treatment of sexually transmissible infections, provide emergency contraception if necessary and arrange for referrals and follow up.

Reach–A–Peer Hotline: 215-573-2727 (every day from 9 p.m. to 1 a.m.),A peer hotline to provide peer support, information, and referrals to Penn students.

Penn Violence Prevention: 3539 Locust Walk (Office Hours: 9 am – 5 pm), (215) 746-2642, Jessica Mertz (Director of Student Sexual Violence Prevention, Education)jmertz@upenn.edu, Read the Penn Violence Prevention resource guide.

Sexual Trauma Treatment Outreach and Prevention Team: A multidisciplinary team at CAPS dedicated to supporting students who have experienced sexual trauma.

Public Safety Special Services: Trained personnel offer crisis intervention, accompaniment to legal and medical proceedings, options counseling and advocacy, and linkages to other community resources.

Penn Women's Center: 3643 Locust Walk (Office Hours 9:30 am – 5:30 pm Monday–Thursday, 9:30 am – 5 pm Friday), pwc@ pbox.upenn.edu. PWC provides confidential crisis and options counseling.

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Black Coffee "Maybe my body loves me a little less, but I’m learning to love me a little more."

Elizabeth Beugg It took me two full years to start drinking coffee.

When I was in first grade I got low marks for “selfcontrol.” First of all, why is that even part of the grading criteria for a six–yearold? Second of all, they were right. Historically, I have had a hard time doing things I don’t want to do. Anything that causes me discomfort is generally dismissed unless I decide it’s important.

Learning to do my taxes? Off the table. Going to the dentist at consistent intervals?

Maybe when my teeth fall out. Monitoring my spending so I don’t deplete my life savings in one month? Live fast, die young, baby. Let’s just say I’m lucky I got vaccinated before I learned how to run.

Joining the caffeinated beverage big–leagues? Now that is a venture worthy of my toil. Goodbye frappuccinos, hello sour bean water! My senior year of high school I laid out a detailed plan of attack. Hot chocolate to mocha, mocha to latte, latte to iced latte, iced latte to iced coffee with milk (coconut), iced coffee with milk to black iced coffee. Is this what it feels like to be alive? By the beginning of my sophomore year of college, I had become an honest-to-goodness black coffee devotee. Sometimes I dabbled in cold brew. I wish the story ended there.

My senior year of high school I also put a ban on all sugar. No candy, no 6

soda, no cake, no yogurt, no fruit—only nuts and meats and carrot sticks and anything with zero grams of sugar on the label. I had read that this type of diet was key for ‘mental acuity.’

With college applications and SAT scores around the corner, it seemed like a good idea. Healing from the inside out—a harmless lesson in self-control. It felt great, quite honestly. I can’t say that my SAT scores improved, but it was easy to maintain. I felt clear-headed and energetic all the time. I transitioned from mocha to latte (unsweetened).

When I came to college things got more complicated. I couldn’t control what I ate or when I ate or who I ate with. Latte to iced latte. I ended freshman year vowing to be better, but my definition of ‘better’ had changed. Iced latte to iced coffee with milk (coconut).

Over the summer I worked at Anthropologie, haven to bohemians and middle–aged women alike. It was fun, but it required a lot more looking into mirrors than I was used to. No more milk.

I got healthy at the same time I got sick.

Iced coffee.

It was self–medication.

French fries became kale and root beer became green tea and pasta became the eighth deadly sin. My body cried with joy and my skin sang one million hallelujahs.

With this slice of tempeh, I consecrate the temple that is

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my body.

But my temple wasn’t built exactly like the others. And my skin’s hallelujahs sounded off–key and my body’s tears felt like saline and the more kale I ate the deeper the pit in my stomach sunk.

Maybe I should try spinach.

I spent my sophomore year in yo–yo. Eating nothing, eating everything. Iced coffee. I started feeling guilty all the time. Everything felt like a competition. Is everyone working out more than

me? Eating less than me?

Taking supplements? Waking up earlier? What are you ordering? Me? I haven’t decided yet. Iced coffee. Maybe I’ll just stay home.

My body loves me, but my brain hates me—should I be eating more avocado? I think this might be deeper than my large intestine. Or maybe I think too much?

I should start meditating.

How can I quiet the voice in my head that screams bloody murder every time I pick up

a fork? Please — I’ll give you arugula if you give me peace.

No deal? I need earplugs. Or maybe a turmeric latte—unsweetened with hemp milk (rich in Omega-3s). I’m so tired of this.

I started putting milk in my coffee again. Still iced, still unsweetened, but with a little bit of oat. Or almond.

Or soy (god forbid). Something to cut the bitterness.

Maybe my body loves me a little less, but I’m learning to love me a little more.

Feeling Small in the Universe

"Since I’m melodramatic, my own tininess in relation to the movements of the cosmos sometimes makes me feel better."

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he is awake.

“Shit,” he manages. He ignores me. He sits up. Stands.

The lines of muscle in his back move as he adjusts his boxers and walks over to his desk to turn off the alarm.

“Ugh,” he breathes, because either a) he has realized that he has to be at class in Williams in twenty eight minutes, or b) I am still here, and my eyes are open and glassy, and I’m breathing shallow breaths, dress bunched around my upper thighs. I don’t turn my head. I stare up at the plastic stars. Proxima Centauri, I think. Polaris. Betelgeuse.

“It’s 8:32,” he says, authoritatively, as if this mattered.

I blink.

“You’re awake.” He says this in the same tone. Then he says my name. That used to work.

I don’t move. I read somewhere that (was it a certain species of rabbit, maybe?) some small animal freezes when a predator appears, in an attempt to be inconspicuous. I pretend that I am invisible and even hold my breath. I can feel my heartbeat quicken and the timed

sp

I’m dreaming about the Eagle Nebula. Everyone recognizes it even if they don’t know what it’s called — those three columns of glowing gas clouds and baby stars. I won’t remember anything about the dream once it ends but the shape of the pillars of creation remains stamped on the inside of my eyelids. My left eye opens before my right, which is glued shut by melted mascara. I blink stickily up at his glowin-the-dark star-speckled ceiling – a poor substitute for what I’ve just woken up from. I try to reassess.

He’s asleep next to me, wearing nothing but a pair of red boxers. I’ve woken up because his phone is shrilly ringing with the same default alarm that never seems to wake up my roommates.

It doesn’t wake him up, either. He doesn’t snore. His breathing is heavy and regular, through lips that burst oddly from his face beneath a nose that could have been nice if not for the bump halfway down. Eyebrows too arched to be masculine furrow slightly. Eyelashes flutter quickly for a second, then eyelids slide apart and

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shake of my chest cavity with the regular pumps gives me away as alive.

Now he’s standing somewhat insistently by the dirty mirror that hangs on back of his door. And suddenly, unasked for, a memory – my own voice, slurred: “Is the door locked?” “Yeah.” “Are you sure?” “Yes.” The “yes” he spits in the vague recollection is hard.

I can almost hear the slick clack of the lock, and the push of a hand against the small of my back.

Since I’m melodramatic, my own tininess in relation to the movements of the cosmos sometimes makes me feel better. The solar system careens along a spiral arm of one of at least a million galaxies. The chemical reaction that produces an emotion for him I wish I didn’t feel is nothing compared those that power stars, start life on other planets, or form a brilliant, tragic supernova.

“Get up,” he says, in a way that I want to say is not unkind but is unkind. He says this in the same way his eyes are unkind even when he intends to kiss me, or when he’s searching for me across a strobe-lit room, or when I turn my naked body towards him, a foot away

tucks a few strands of hair behind my right ear and kisses my mouth chastely. I stick my debit card into the chip slot. He’s gone before I can type in my PIN. I’m halfway back from the Wawa with a plastic bag containing hot Cheetos, two energy drinks, and a

on the bed, to see that he’s awake and has been watching me.

It is 8:43 a.m. and we walk to the Wawa in silence.

After he buys his 12 ounce coffee (Cuban roast, black) and I present my hangovercure items to the cashier, he

pack of gum when the sky darkens almost imperceptibly behind Harnwell’s ugly silhouette. Lightening rips the morning in half. The air is heavy. I try to take a deep breath but collapse into hacking sobs that sound like coughs, that sound like

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I’d never learned how to breathe.

Water hurls itself from the sky and lands on my back as I hunch over and clutch my knees for balance. I think about how it’s entirely temporary, that all the raindrops will slip upwards again to fall and float. They’ll forever cycle, without cause, through same phases as water that first slammed into the volatile surface of Earth billions of years ago.

I think about all of this. I stand upright. I make it all the way home, undress, and take a shower. The water isn’t hot enough though it’s turning my bare torso red, and I scrub my inner thighs with a loofa that I should probably replace until they begin to burn. When I look at myself in the mirror above the sink, I’m as pink as a sunset. I stare at my reflection until I can’t anymore, and then, still dripping, leave the bathroom.

For J

I’ve typed up this timeline of my affection, though I do not know its purpose.

For reference, I suppose.

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I thought one thousand things.

You looked just like you had in my dream. Smirking then smil-

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your face, your jump, your dance. From far away I sent emails like darts with strings attached, hoping one would find you and lead you back. I held on tightly to the rim of a messy jam jar. I fell in.

Summertime slowed and I was sustained by an image of you in August. My friend.

You’d hug me and shake my hand. Finally, you arrived and we made plans. Not today, but the next one. Plenty of time.

Scrambling through work, I gathered things from the office. Texting, arms full, droplets forming and flying. I raced to see if I could beat my time. The train came at five.

I saw you out of the corner of my eye. Gray shirt, lounging, reading a book. Suddenly I was sitting for my final examination. Hadn’t I spent weekends and nights preparing? Your hair and your shoulders, the curve of your ear. A small gulp. I stood still. You didn’t see me, but you would. Your hand plunged into the jam jar, inviting me up.

Should I reach out to take it or avoid getting crushed? You looked up. As you approached

P AT

I think it would be ill-advised to name the one who hulls and crushes the fruit of my love. So, for those who do not know, I’ll do my best to evoke your jaunty gait, your crackling beard, and freckled face. I’ve typed up this timeline of my affection, though I do not know its purpose. For reference, I suppose.

We fell in love in midsummer, it’s true. And after that?

Weeks with only thoughts of you. Sewing my affection between letters in words in messages. Remembering the feeling of your chest on mine, your back, then a car-door between us, then an ocean, then an interstate. As I sweat through simmering summer nights, my dreams held you. Eyes unmoving, you instructed me on how to properly balance as I walked along the curb. I woke up, face tingling. I’d never made eye contact in a dream before. At least not that I could remember. And definitely not with eyes like yours. Kindly, amber, and moss.

When I was awake I obsessed over your occupation of my phone. I skipped, swiped, saved

in your back with a string attached. Below a tree (cut down in October), in your white buttoned shirt, you joined me on my jam-covered earth. You stammered and swayed but delivered your message: "I’m feeling these feelings, they’re scary, I’m reeling." I asked to walk and spoke for a while without saying anything at all. I tormented you with my unpracticed admission: "I like you, I do. I think I like you a lot."

I bet my face looked just like the moon. As we know, I had loved you since June. In my room I could look at you, at your eyes, your heart freshly bloomed. I offered my hand.

You took it. Your smile whispered: “we’re doomed.”

ing, you folded me up. Very, extremely, incredibly glad to see you.

And after that, we became quite concrete. You’d call me and my heart would beat. Rachel asked if I liked you. I said, “well, I would … .” I would if I wasn’t so terribly afraid that one day I’d force our heads out of this haze only to find empty, freezing air above. I shivered.

Cloudless. I decided a hug and a handshake could be enough.

I’d cling to your arm inside the jar, just above the jam. Better that than to drown in that viscous stuff.

But that night you sat at my table for hours, listening to babble, hiding your powers. That night I noticed a dart

2 E SINC

37th & Spruce • 215-222-7713 The Perelman Center @ Penn Med • 215-386-1350 www.kitchengia.com F E B R U A R Y 1 3 , 2 01 9 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E

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We're Not Dating Anymore but I Still Love Him. Just Differently.

"Sam is the best friend I always wanted and finally have, and I love him."

— Ana West — Sometimes, it is hard to make people understand that Sam and I aren’t dating. Part of the problem is that we have before—in high school, for a year or so, on-and-off one too many times. Part of it is that, a la Avril Lavigne, he is a guy and I am a girl, and while we both know how to bitch about heteronormativity and society, we probably don’t do it loudly enough. Probably the biggest issue, though, is that we still love each other. We both feel it. We both know it. And— to the eternal chagrin and confusion of whatever person I’m trying to trick into dating me at the time—we still say it to each other.

I know that it’s weird. We talk about it, sometimes, when it’s just the two of us hanging out, using language we’ve stolen from our combined years of therapy, about emotional labor and reciprocity and so-what-do-youneed-right-now. More often, we joke about it. Or joke around it. I spend a lot of time performing playful hatred for him. Our greetings over text have become, “Hey bitch,” et al. I am constantly making fun of his clothes, his shoes, his experiments in facial hair. I try to especially play it up in front of other people, especially the ones who aren’t quite sure what’s going on—as if to signal, “it’s cool now, it’s funny, it’s chill.

We’re chill. Definitely chill.”

I know a good deal about acting chill. For my entire life, I’ve felt like I’ve never been able to get close enough to anyone. I was a chroni-

cally insecure kid from the start. I waited on the edges, in the periphery of other people’s lives, first terrified that someone would come up and try to pull me in, and then—after years of feeling alone—just as scared that no one ever would. In that re-

they’re valued, even special.

When I met him, that was what I needed; we have been close for this long because I clung to that kindness and have yet to let go.

Through the ages, there have been tens of thousands of words written devoted to

The decision, somewhere along the line, to say: Screw it. Trying to keep up with the litany of new girls he immediately fell in love with—one time, wingman-ing for hours at the party of someone I hated so he could shoot his shot. Watching b-movies in

gard, Sam is my opposite. As far as people go, he is almost incomparably warm. He can win any position, breeze through any interview, and endear just about anyone to him. It runs deeper than charisma—he has a unique ability to make everyone feel seen, to treat everyone like

extolling the virtues of first love, but the romance is the dullest part of this story— even now, just a few years later, the sentimental pull is all but gone. The real love story is about what happened after.

The first few awkward weeks of friendship, both of us unsure what the new rules were.

his basement. Driving to the beach at one in the morning, just to sit in his car and stare at the water. Going to college a thousand miles away and calling him at midnight to sob. Telling him that I didn’t think that I could make it, that I felt completely alone (again), that I was scared I’d

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never make another friend like him. (And, for all the progress I’ve made, that stands. I’m still not sure that I ever will.)

I have seen enough romantic comedies to know that this sounds like the part of the story where I’m in deep denial about Sam being the person I'm supposed to be with. It seems unlikely to me—at the moment, he is deeply in love with a wonderful person that I hope he marries—but I would be lying if I said I was never jealous. Not of her, specifically, but of all his new friends.

All the new people that he meets, all of whom he will invariably treat like they’re wonderful, some of whom might actually be (and funnier and more interesting and better than me to boot).

I do also worry, though, that we are ordained to fall in “real” love—just because that would feel so much lesser than what we have going right now. What we’ve got means the world to me, just as it is. Anything else would be a step down.

Love is strange. But, in whatever form it comes in, I don’t think you can ever have too much of it. It is rare, and it is crucial, and I think you have to take what you to get. Sam is the best friend I always wanted and finally have, and I love him. Saying that might not make sense to anyone else. It might not always make sense to me. But I am grateful that I get to tell him that, and that he’s stuck around to hear it. I hope that he is, too.

I (Haven't) Met My Husband at Penn I’m still peddling that age–old excuse… no, no I’m just too busy for a relationship.

Katie Levesque

There’s a button pinned to a cork board in my dining room. It’s somehow managed to stick with me through two cross-country moves and twice as many apartments. A bland, white type-face stares out at me from the requisite red and blue background, loudly proclaiming, “I met my husband at Penn!”

It was picked up years ago as a joke. In a fit of giggles, jaded college friends and I pinned them to our backpacks—an act so painfully designed to be ironic it’s physically uncomfortable to look back on now. “Can you believe these actually exist!?”

I went through the entirety of my undergraduate degree without a single significant relationship. A victim of campus hook-up culture and a steadfast believer that I was just too busy for love. If I said it to enough people it would be true, right?

Throughout the years other buttons came into my possession: “I met my wife at Penn!”

(My heart still fills with joy when I think of my platonically beloved college spouse and go-to party date) “I met my best friend at Penn!” (Who else would I

spend the High Holidays with?)

“Quaker for life!” (lol – but also, I came back for graduate school so that joke’s on me) But I couldn’t tell you where any of those are now…

The only one that’s still pinned to my cork board, two cross-country moves and twice as many apartments later, is THAT goddamn button.

“I met my husband at Penn!”

It caught my eye the other day. I’ll graduate with my master’s degree on the same day as my five-year reunion.

And I’m still peddling that age-old excuse… no, no I’m just too busy for a relationship. I might have picked up that pin as a joke, but it’s starting to feel like curse.

Either that or I desperately need to examine my own priorities and insecurities while also calling out the toxicity that can exist around developing relationships in a highly competitive environment amid a generation with an increasingly short attention span…. Nah, that fucking pin is cursed.

Well, come all ye loyal classmen now, in hall and campus through… I’ve started to look at Ph.D. applications, and I really don’t need that in my life right now, so help a girl out? Thanks.

F E B R U A R Y 1 3 , 2 01 9 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E 1 1

TAKING THE VAGINA MONOLOGUES INTO 2019

By ALLISON WU

Photos courtesy of Susanna Jaramillo “My vagina was green, water soft pink fields, cow mooing sun resting sweet boyfriend touching lightly with soft piece of blonde straw,” Kennedy Crowner (C ‘22) sings.

“There is something between my legs,” Zabryna Atkinson Diaz (C ‘19) cuts in. “I do not know what it is. I do not know where it is. I do not touch.

Not now. Not anymore. Not since.”

sault, abuse, and women’s sexuality. Since its premier, the show has been performed at universities and theaters around the world.

“Village,” as Kennedy and Zabryna call the monologue, showcases one woman’s traumatic rape during the Bosnian War and her experience coping. There is a range of heaviness among the many monologues in “The Vagina Monologues.” But the show’s title, as well as individual monologues in the show —“The Vagina Workshop,” “My Angry Vagina,” and “The Woman Who Loved to Make Vaginas Happy”—all center on one thing: vaginas.

The word is part of what attracted Kennedy to the show in the first place. She first heard about it during New Student Orientation last August when she attended an event on the second floor of Houston Hall. Downstairs, she saw a booth with a sign that read, “The Vagina Monologues.” It was an “attention grabber,” she says.

“It was just immensely fascinating.”

When “The Vagina Monologues” premiered in 1996, the New York Times called it “probably the most important piece of political theater of the last decade.” Since then, feminists around the country have been pushing for a movement that is more intersectional and inclusive of different races, sexualities, and gender identities.

As the discourse reaches college campuses, many have started to question

“Whether it's continuing with ‘The Vagina Monologues,’ completely moving away, or something in between…there has to be a community dialogue"

— FIONA JENSEN–HITCH,

These are the first two lines of “My Vagina Was My Village,” which is one of the monologues in “The Vagina Monologues,” a play written by performer and activist Eve Ensler in 1994 that tells stories of sexual as1 2 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E F E B R U A R Y 1 3 , 2 01 9

PRODUCER

whether a show that focuses so heavily on vaginas—belonging mostly to straight, white, cisgender women—can still achieve its intended goal of “creating a new conversation with and about women.”

Shows across the country consequently have been canceled, including recently at Temple University in 2017. At Penn, “The Vagina Monologues” goes up in Irvine Auditorium this week, and critics and production leaders alike are grappling with these questions of inclusivity.

Each year, thousands of schools and organizations across the nation put on their own productions of “The Vagina Monologues.” This year at

Penn, the monologues will be performed on February 15 and 16, marking its 19th annual production. The play is produced by Penn V–Day, a chapter of the “global activist movement” created by Ensler to “heighten awareness about violence against women and girls.” All proceeds go to Philadelphia’s only rape crisis center, Women Organized Against Rape (WOAR).

Ensler started writing the monologues following a conversation with a friend about the effects of menopause on her vagina, which inspired Ensler to write a play about vaginas, according to an article by The Guardian. She then F E B R U A R Y 1 3 , 2 01 9 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E 1 3

interviewed hundreds of women of “all ages and races” about their experiences with sex, sexual assault, their vaginas, and sexual identity to create a compilation of “fictional monologues.”

“Village,” performed by Zabryna and Kennedy in this year’s production, is set during the Bosnian War in the early 1900s and portrays the traumatic rape experience of a woman refugee. It’s the story of one woman, out of the estimated 20,000 to 50,000 who were raped. Kennedy plays the Bosnian woman refugee before she was raped and assaulted, while Zabryna plays her after the assault.

This is Zabryna’s third year in “The Vagina Monologues.” In her sophomore year, she performed a monologue called, “I Was There In the Room,” which details the beauty of birth. Last year, Zabryna performed “Introduction,” a peppy, get–in–your–face monologue that starts off the show.

But Zabryna says “Village” isn’t like the other pieces she’s performed. The monologue is heavy so that Zabryna needs to enter the rehearsal space in the right mindspace. “It's very powerful, about still having power despite a traumatic experience, which is something I can relate to.”

While the monologues capture a range of experiences with sex and sexual assault, the fact remains: They are about vaginas. Claire Medina (C ‘22), who identifies as genderqueer, thinks that there should be more to the conversation around survivorship than just the physical body. “It might be worth reframing it as something 1 4 3 4 T H S T R E E T M A G A Z I N E F E B R U A R Y 1 3 , 2 01 9

bigger than ‘The Vagina Monologues.’ Anything bio–essentialist like that seems to be kind of missing the point.”

Claire is a member of Penn Non–Cis, a student group that provides safe spaces for trans, gender non–conforming, and non–cisgender people of all identities. They and some other critics of “The Vagina Monologues” agree that it should pick whether it wants to focus on the trauma of those with vaginas or the trauma of women. Brennan Burns (C ‘20), a trans woman who’s also in Penn Non–Cis, says the monologues should “connect these two ideas and focus on bringing it all together.”

Claire adds that trans narratives should be more widely included in the monologues, especially since those disproportionately affected by sexual violence are trans women of color. “You can't have a revolution and overthrow this system unless it's led by the people who are most affected by it.”

In fact, because of similar issues of inclusivity, “The Vagina Monologues” at Temple was replaced last year by “a new Temple–specific event,” according to a statement

by Alison McKee, the director of the Wellness Resource Center (WRC) at Temple. McKee and others at the WRC reached this decision following a feedback session hosted by the WRC in which student organizations on campus expressed concerns that the monologues were “not inclusive to all races, sexualities, and genders,” as stated in the article by The Temple News.

Nu'Rodney Prad, director of student engagement at Temple for the Office of Institutional Diversity, Equity, Advocacy, and Leadership, echoes these concerns.

“When we say ‘vagina,’ it's a gender piece,” he says. “It automatically right there kind of excludes, without no reason or intention, our trans population, for instance.”

Performers and critics of “The Vagina Monologues” believe the show is a product of its time. In 1996, the play first debuted as a one–woman show in a small theater in Soho, New York.

The effects of the show, which won an Obie Award in 1997, were transformative. Following the shows, women came up to Ensler with stories ranging from rape and assault to sex life and orgasms, Ensler told The Guardian. It encouraged women to “openly talk about their bodies and sexuality,” Forbes reported. At the time, a play that highlighted cisgender women’s vaginas was “groundbreaking.”

Claire mentions that their mom and her generation felt really connected to “The Vagina Monologues.” “Maybe it’s a tool that has outlived its usefulness,” Claire says.

Monique Howard, executive director of WOAR, points out that her organization faces similar assumptions about who its resources and community are intended to serve, largely because of their name: Women Organized Against Rape. Nonetheless, she emphasizes that WOAR–much like V–Day–is open to everyone.

“The organization was organized by women,” she says.

“It does not say, ‘services only women.’ It's the women organized against rape. We are an organization that was started by women that were organized against rape, and in the ‘70s, the only people who were organized against rape were women.”

Nevertheless, members of “The Vagina Monologues” and the broader Penn V–Day movement are grappling with what many see as flaws and outdatedness of the show.

Bella Essex (C ‘20), and Fiona Jensen–Hitch (C ‘19) are the director and producer, respectively, of V–Day this year. Fiona says although the show does include a story of a transgender woman, it’s “very, very specific to one experience of the individual.”

Although the show’s narrative might be “incomplete,” Fiona and Bella say specific licensing rights prohibit performers from changing the monologues. Fiona says she didn’t realize how legalized the whole process was until she received an email listing all the rules they had to follow from V–Day, the global movement started by Ensler following the success of “The Vagina Monologues.”

“Realizing that we're trying to do this work to both support an organization and also provide a space for people has been really difficult,” Fiona says. “Especially when we have ideas about how we want to improve the space or … make it more welcoming for whomever that is, and that's been really difficult to navigate.”

The national organization has tried to circumvent some of the obstacles the original script poses to the ever-evolving feminist movement. In the past, Ensler would write a spotlight piece each year “that addresses a section of the femme–identified community that hadn't previously been represented in the show,” Bella says.

“The scripts that you would look at today are very different from the original one.”

This year, Ensler did not write her own spotlight piece. Instead, each show will perform its own personal monologue written by one of Penn V–Day’s own community members.

Bella says this piece tells the story of a Penn student finding the V–Day community and auditioning for “The Vagina Monologues,” while simultaneously experiencing sexual assault. “It talks about what happened [after the assault], what they did to overcome that, the people in their life who were really important to them, and what that healing process looks like, how they were able to move past it.”

The personal monologue is one avenue to address the monologues’ problems with inclusivity. Bella stresses that Penn V–Day wants to acknowledge these problems “head–on, so really not trying to skirt around it.”

While “The Vagina Monologues” remains at the heart of the controversy, production members stress that it is only one part of a broader movement that the play “gave birth to,” known as V–Day. In response to the popularity and support of “The Vagina Monologues,” Ensler created the V–Day movement, which includes other performances and events apart from her play, to “heighten awareness about violence against women and girls.”

Recently, Penn V–Day organized events with other groups on campus, including a poetry workshop on empowerment in collaboration with The Excelano Project and a speakeasy hosted with Mask & Wig. It is also planning on hosting a coffee shop event with Osiris Senior Society in the near future, with the hopes of reaching out to students who don’t want to see the show but want to support the movement.

Like many others in the V–Day movement, Bella identifies as a survivor of sexual assault and joined because of the support and community it offered.

“Being a part of the movement when I was a sophomore and didn’t know as many people at Penn gave me the ability to kind of acknowledge myself as a survivor of sexual assault for the first time, and I felt really safe doing that and I knew I was going to be supported,” Bella says. As someone who identifies as gay, Bella also says the community provided a space for self-acceptance, self-forgiveness, and the “language to talk about my own identity.”

Similarly, Fiona says that being a leader of the movement for the last six months has “completely shifted” the way she views issues of feminism and sexual identity. “It's not even just due to the show itself; it's really due to the people in it.”

But she agrees with those who say that “The Vagina Monologues” may no longer be the most relevant part of the V–Day movement. As Penn V–Day becomes more involved on campus as both a community and a

movement, Bella and Fiona say there’s a need for community input in deciding Penn V–Day’s future.

“Whether it's continuing with ‘The Vagina Monologues,’ completely moving away, or something in between…there has to be a community dialogue,” Fiona says.

To facilitate this discussion, Fiona and Bella are planning to host a talkback a little more than a week after the show. The talkback will be a “space for people to provide feedback about how they [feel] about Penn V–Day specifically and the direction…V–Day should go, and that can hopefully inform the future board,” Fiona says.

Penn V–Day members say “The Vagina Monologues” provides more than just a community at Penn. The group also donates all proceeds to WOAR, which services thousands of Philadelphia–area survivors a year through trauma therapy, direct services, and hotline calls.

Despite the various dissenting opinions regarding the play, Zabryna says there is “power in what the show is able to do and the platform it's able to give.”

Regarding the relationship between Penn V–Day and WOAR, Howard echoes this sentiment. “[The play] aligns with what WOAR does in helping people heal from sexual assault and giving them their voice back, or giving them a voice so that we can return them to their authentic self. That's where the true alignment is.”

But the conversation around “The Vagina Monologues” extends past Penn and WOAR. Colleges around the country have wrestled with inclusivity: In 2014, Columbia University’s production team exclusively cast women of color to “center traditionally marginalized identities within the feminist community.” In 2015, women’s college Mount Holyoke canceled the production, citing similar reasons to Temple.

“Even as we recognize the many, many limitations of the show itself, we've also been talking about discussing limitations in the broader feminist movement in the United States, specifically,” Fiona says. “And I think that's been a really valuable discussion, to talk about how … the show fit[s] into that larger narrative.”

Perhaps the monologues provide a way to gauge how much taboos around cisgender bodies and sexual violence have changed since the show was first performed in 1996. Kennedy says that when the show premiered, its frankness “shocked people.”

Still today, monologues like “Village” are a heavy experience for both the actors and the audience. Zabryna and Kennedy say it’s empowering to be able to stand on stage and perform such an emotionally heavy piece.

The transformation and recovery of the Bosnian woman throughout the monologue is powerful and beautiful, says Zabryna. “You see across the monologue how she has an ownership of it and how she gains the power.”

She highlights that “Village” ends on an ambiguous note.

“You don’t need a solid answer to things,” she concludes. “But there is a power in that.”

ALLISON WU

is a freshman in the College from Palo Alto, California. She is a features staff writer for Street.

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Thinking About the Future When You're About to Leave “What if I turn on the light and you’re not there anymore?”

By Margaret Zhang

“If you’re a ghost, I’ll kill myself, and we can haunt this house together,” Wei once said to me.

It was his first time over in a couple of months—most nights, we preferred the freedom of his place because I didn’t have to sneak in, and because we could walk around, even microwave leftover chicken tenders, without worrying about making too much noise. He was older, and his family didn’t seem to mind the stranger in their house.

That night, the sky was especially dark. Wei was always jumpy when he came to see me—understandably, because Saratoga was spooky and full of strange silhouettes, made even stranger by unfamiliarity.

That night, though, he seemed especially spooked, and when he reached the frame of my window, he whispered, “Why is your city always so dark?”

I’d lived in Saratoga since I was nine years old, so the darkness of the city—how it was hard to tell where the edges of a mailbox melted into night air, where a house was no longer a house—it no longer startled me. But I remembered when I’d first moved here from brightly lit, straight road Morning Glory Lane, and how tightly I’d gripped my mother’s hand as we made our way from our new driveway to our front door because there was a heaviness in the air, a sure presence of an entity or a ghost. It was something

about the eerie stillness.

Months later, I remember pulling out of the same driveway and toward Wei’s apartment, half an hour away. He always seemed embarrassed about his smaller apartment and his car, which rumbled loudly when he drove, and whose passenger’s seat door didn’t close properly. I was still a high school student, and going to see him on weeknights felt like a secret life. Sometimes, when I wasn’t careful enough, I would let myself imagine us living in our own apartment, going to our separate jobs in the mornings, and coming back to each other in the evening. Sometimes, when I was even less careful, I would tell him this. And by the way

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he would respond, with his shy smile and hopeful eyes, I could tell he wanted it too.

Wei pulled himself into the window, and I lifted the swatch from the ground outside and pressed it back into the window frame. I slid the window shut. Even with the blinds open, the room was pitch black except for the occasional splotch of gray in the corners of the room, but I drew the blinds anyway out of habit. As I did, I felt the darkness swallow us. There was something inherent about the quality of that darkness that seemed to erase the walls of the room, that protruded to the outside of the house and into infinity. The only reminder that we were still in my room was the faint blinking of my digital clock.

We crawled into bed together, and he turned his body toward mine and wrapped his arms tightly around me, like he was afraid of something.

Finally, he cleared his throat.

“I’m scared right now because I can’t see your face,” he said.

“What if I turn on the light and you’re not there anymore?”

Wei often said things I did not understand. I snuggled closer to him, a new light flickering on and off in my head. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” he said, and suddenly, his voice sounded so uncertain. “What if you’re a ghost?”

“What if I am a ghost?” I repeated, waiting for him to go on. A cruel part of me liked an uncertain Wei—I had been uncertain for so long in this relationship that it felt good to not be on that side for once. I felt like I had entered a dream: I knew how we were talking

was bizarre, yet it didn’t feel out of place. I let myself melt into this new reality until my senses could no longer distinguish between what made sense and what didn’t.

“Are you admitting that you are?” he asked softly. His hand loosened on my torso like he was preparing himself for something.

“No, but what if I was?” I asked in a way that made the situation sound more than hypothetical, more than a surreal dream. I wanted suddenly, desperately, to understand this paradigm of his, one whose nature I might’ve understood fully if I were younger, if I were still a child.

“If you were, then I would kill myself,” he replied in a mix of pain and feigned nonchalance. “It would mean that these last nine months have been nothing.”

There was a danger, a toxicity to those words, but in the moment, I didn’t care.

Accepting them as truth meant denying that there was a place where mailbox melted into night air, where a house was no longer a house, where boundlessness still had a boundary it wasn’t allowed to cross. Where we couldn’t haunt this house together, not now, and not ever. I let myself sink into the words, dissolve into a paradigm whose ending I could already see. I still hadn’t quite thought about what would happen when I left for school—I knew he would hate seeing me living a life without him. Little did I know. I reached for the desk lamp and turned on the light.

I No Longer Feel Like I Am a Burden "He kept me afloat and, more importantly, he kept me alive in a time where I saw not even the smallest value in myself."

Content warning: The following text describes substance use and depression and can be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Please find resources listed on page 5 of the magazine.

At the start of my freshman year at Penn, I felt great. By the end of my freshman year, I had intense body issues. By the start of my sophomore year, I was in a relationship that I hated. By the end of my sophomore year, I had begun experimenting with hard drugs. And by the start of my junior year, I was extremely depressed. The start of my junior year is also when I met a person who would later become very important in my life.

From the day we met, I was infatuated. Not in a romantic way, at first. For the first three or so months, when I only knew him as a friend, I saw what he was on the surface. He had a gigantic smile, a strong voice that would carry through the loudest of rooms, and an exuberant confidence that was hard for anyone to match. I could tell he was inherently smart, which I admired.

Everyone loved being around him. After these initial few months as just friends, I devel-

oped feelings. I soon found out that he felt the same. We began dating soon after that.

I fell in love fast. I knew I loved him after a week, though I didn’t admit it until months later. This is when I began to learn about the real him. I learned that he was kind to his core. Kind in the strongest sense of the word. He cared so deeply for every single person in his life, and he valued his friendships and familial ties immensely. He didn’t have endless confidence, even though he appeared that way on the outside.

He was insecure, and he doubted himself in many ways. Though insecure, he had an admirable self-awareness. He learned more about me during this time, too.

He learned that, despite my everything–is–fine appearance, everything was not fine. I was a bit of a mess.

He didn’t have a great sense of style, he wore graphic t–shirts and sweatpants daily. Sometimes his voice got so loud that he was practically yelling. Sometimes he really acted like a child. I didn’t like these parts of him much. But I didn’t care at the end of the day.

How could I care when he had so many good parts?

In the few months before meeting him, when I really fell into my depression, my behav-

ior was erratic, uncharacteristic, and shameful. I hated myself. I sought therapy for the first time ever when it got really bad. I wasn’t consistent in going. I tried Prozac, but I hated it. I quit both therapy and medication and decided to deal with my sadness myself. I was inconsistently suicidal, which I felt was a weakness.

One day I was fine, the next day I was sobbing and wondering why I was this way. When I began to date him, my depression didn’t get much better at first, but it got easier to handle. He was there for me in a way that, at the time, my friends weren’t. My friends wanted to be there for me, but I wouldn’t let them. I pushed them away with my alcohol–and–drug induced rants, aggressive behavior, and half–ass disclosure of what was really going on with my mental health. I felt like everybody hated me, and that I was a burden to them. I felt that they were better off without me. I was the definition of self–destructive.

But I let him in, and that was the

best decision I ever made.

There were parts of me that he didn’t like. He didn’t like how mean I could act towards him, when all he did was treat me with love and respect. He didn’t like that my moods were so unpredictable. He didn’t like that I placed so little value on my own life. Yet, he understood me. He saw why I acted this way, and helped me want to be better. He was so patient and gentle with me, but he could still be firm. He told me that I had to seek consistent therapy, and he wasn’t going to let me quit. I couldn’t half–ass it with him around. Through his tough love he made me see that I needed to keep going to therapy.

He showed me that I could get better and that I didn’t have to live this way. I didn’t have to do it on my own. He showed me that even though my attempts to get help failed in the past, I shouldn’t give up.

I am still going with my therapy a full year after I became consistent with it with his help, and

I recently started taking a new antidepressant. This medication complements my therapy in an amazing way that I didn’t think it would. I have developed far better ties with my friends, and today most of my old relationships are completely restored. I no longer feel like I am a burden. My thoughts of suicide are extremely rare now.

I can’t credit him fully for pulling me out of my depression, there are so many factors that played into that. And I still have a ways to go. But I can say that he kept me afloat and, more importantly, he kept me alive in a time where I saw not even the smallest value in myself. He saw me at my worst, at the true lowest point of my life, and he stuck around.

I don’t know if we’ll always be together, but you have forever changed my life. You made me see that I can’t give up, and I can’t push people away. If you’re reading this … thank you, and I love you.

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Becoming My Own Prince Charming I know I will find someone who loves me because I chose to love myself first.

By Zoe Young Whatever love is, it confuses me. I know the warm feeling in my chest when hugging my mom, swooning after taking a heavenly bite of Nutella, and feeling the relief of sinking into my bed after a long day. But true love? A foreign phenomenon to me.

At one point, I thought I was in love. Or rather, I convinced myself I was in love because I wanted to feel it so badly. A year ago, my friend set me up with a guy who I began to really like.

Four dates, three coffees, and two movies later, I was naive enough to believe he could be my Prince Charming. As a young girl, I grew up watching Disney movies and it was ingrained in my head that I, too, would eventually be united with my prince and we would live happily ever after. The fantasy that someday someone would sweep me up off my feet and into eternal bliss stuck with me like glue throughout my adolescence.

It sounds so silly to me now,

but for the longest time, I actually believed I needed to be in love with someone else to be happy. This feeling has chased me through many love interests and made it harder for me to put my foot down when I knew I deserved to be treated better. The guy I started developing feelings for—let’s call him Jake—decided, after getting to know me for three months, that he all of a sudden and without any explanation, wanted nothing to do with me. In a flash, we went from constant conversation to a hum of radio silence. It was painful—but I kept telling myself that he’d turn around, that he’d come back for me and realize his mistake. But he never did.

I clung to false hope like a kid climbing the monkey bars.

When the radio silence began I mostly was confused. I thought it was my fault. I was angry at myself because, of course, if a guy lost interest, it was because I did something wrong.

My emotions became so po-

tent that they blinded me from processing the situation rationally; if you are mistreated by someone over and over again, you probably shouldn’t waste your time on them anymore. I couldn’t fathom why I gave one person so much power—the power to dictate my mood, to empower me, to control me. Ultimately, I acted the way I did because I so badly wanted to believe that my fantasy of finally finding my prince charming could actually be tangible.

After giving many second chances, it dawned on me that I didn’t even know the person I was falling “in love” with. Clearly, I loved the idea—the illusion—of a person I constructed.

In truth, my fantasy of Jake was simply that, a fantasy: a pristine version of him stripped of all his imperfections, of everything I wanted him to be, and for us to be. It blinded me from seeing how deceitful he actually was.

My only regret? I willingly relinquished to him the power over

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Looking back, I know I wasn’t in love with Jake. There was a void I was filling with this fantasy. When Jake wasn’t around to talk to me, my mood sunk. I felt hopeless. I knew there was a problem because if he did talk to me, I instantly went from devastated to cheerful.

The problem: I didn’t love myself unless Jake did. My self–appreciation stemmed solely from his compliments and feeling loved by him.

And that was the first time I realized that the void I was needing to fill was empty of self–love.

I used to think it wasn’t okay to really like things about myself because often it feels like real self– love is mislabeled narcissism. As a result, I waited for someone else to love me so I could love myself.

What I didn’t know is that love should not and can not act as a form of validation. If someone says that they love you, that shouldn’t be treated as permission for you to love yourself. Self–love comes from within; it stems from believing in your self–worth.

Only you can construct and control how you feel about yourself.

External validation is not a prerequisite for self–appreciation.

The issue is that self–love isn’t a norm or expected behavior in our society. We don’t grow up learning that it’s important to

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love ourselves. Even the definition of self–love is misleading because its synonyms are vanity, narcissism, and conceit. Rather, self–love is a person’s comfort in their own skin because they have the confidence and courage to admire themselves. No one is perfect, but if we can learn to love ourselves and all of our imperfections, we can eventually work towards a genuine acceptance of our whole selves.

Although imagination is a beautiful thing, constantly ruminating about the past can only lead to disappointment and self-doubt. A friend once told me that a “happy” person is one who doesn’t get stuck in the past—the happy person learns from their past mistakes and then has the capacity to move on.

It took time, but I eventually I stopped thinking about Jake every day, what he was up to, who he was with—and I felt so much freer when I ceased to put energy into someone who never had the intention to reciprocate it.

I’ve realized that romantic love, even though I’ve yet to actually experience it, can’t possibly be what I saw and wished for as a young girl who idealized Disney’s happy endings. I know I will find someone who loves me because I chose to love myself first.

I don’t need a Prince Charming and neither do you.

My Dad was Deployed in Baghdad. For a While, I Didn't Know What that Meant.

The official flower of the military child is the dandelion—for a reason. It can grow anywhere, adapt to any situation, and most importantly, is almost impossible to destroy.

By Kelly MacGarrigle “Your dad is a bad dad,” my friend Annabelle informs me, with the world– weary confidence she gains from being a whole three weeks older.

“My dad isn’t a bad dad!”

I respond indignantly, with all of the grouchiness and intimidation a short, chubby, violently blonde four– year–old can muster while wearing light–up Skechers and a stained T–shirt.

“No, silly, I said he’s in Baghdad,” she says, stopping on the stairs above me. Not wanting to admit I have no idea what (or who) Baghdad is, I continue stubbornly with the one thing I know for sure.

“My dad is not a bad dad!”

What I didn’t realize was that my father was a US Army soldier, who was deployed to Bosnia, Kuwait, and Iraq over several years before I was born and during my childhood.

While other kids had stuffed teddy bears, I had a pack of stuffed camels (including one particularly memorable camel that spoke only in Arabic and had glowing red eyes) from all of the places he was deployed. I also had a sandy colored bear in camo with a shirt emblazoned with: Somebody in Arifjan Loves Me.

A kid can’t understand the true meaning of warfare.

War is something in books and movies, for hobbits and elves, muscled superheroes and clean pressed, sharp jawed WWII heroes. The idea that my dad was in “Baghdad” meant the same as my mother travelling on a business trip, albeit a much longer one. I had no idea of the danger—or that he could die during combat.

My mother took over the role of both parents, raising me essentially on her own for my first few years.

We didn’t live on a military base, so she didn’t have the supportww network that most military families have from other military wives whose husbands are also deployed. She was on her own while raising a kid, although she did have experience with tough situations. As one of the first women at the US Naval Academy, who later became a Marine, and then entered the male– dominated world of defense contracting, she was used to relying on her own strength rather than outside support networks.

Because of the security and reliability that she gave

me, I grew up a normal, well–adjusted, and precocious kid. I played soccer, learned Taekwondo, rose up the ranks of Girl Scouts, all while making friends at my local school. On weekends, we would make care packages for my dad, which included my letters and drawings, cookies, and bootleg action movie DVDs that he would share with the Iraqi men deployed alongside him (action movies don’t need a common language). When I was very young, I would try and hide myself inside the box, hoping to send myself as part of his care package.

Every night, my mother would read My Daddy is a Soldier alongside Goodnight Moon because I liked

routine.

In a military house, few things are ever assured, and this nightly ritual added much needed stability to an unstable scenario.

As a military kid, I learned a lot of essential skills very early: how to meet new people (especially adults), becoming acquainted quickly, how to be alone and entertain myself, and most importantly, how to adapt to unfamiliar scenarios without complaint. My father was a reservist, so his deployments overseas came with little notice. I learned

through my tears that while I couldn’t control the situation, I could control my reaction to it.

The official flower of the military child is the dandelion—for a reason. It can grow anywhere, adapt to any situation, and most importantly, is almost impossible to destroy.

Life may bluster and roar, but I can always plant new roots, make new friends, and find new adventures in any location.

Today, wmy “good dad” is home, and I have finally learned what (and where) Baghdad is.

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A Bumble Date That Actually Went Right I felt like this may actually be what adult dating was.

By Sydney Gelman

I

met Adam on Bumble in September, because I’m a feminist. I was in London, and he had a British accent, and the world felt alive. It was still sunny, and to me, pounds were equivalent to dollars, and everything was flavored by elderflower and rose.

We met on a Wednesday, in Hackney, and I walked through a back alley to get to Hatch Coffee, which looked just indie enough.

Adam was waiting outside,

in a burgundy sweater and the black jeans I would soon give him shit for (why would you ever wear black when you could wear dark wash denim and maybe even roll the cuffs and actually look like an adult man?), and we made the awkward introductions. He hugged me, which I would never typically accept, but perhaps this is what people who meet on the internet do, and I, a foreigner, would give my origins away.

Inside, I drank a flat white and he drank an Americano.

This was a relief, because I have much to say about Americanos.

“Do you know why Americanos are called Americanos?” I asked.

“No, why?”

Adam looked confused and amused. I told him it’s because when Americans were fighting in World War II, they were given espresso to drink. This was too strong for them, so they watered it down and thus the Americano was born through a bastardization of French and

he tried to take my arm and pull me out of the way. But it was too late.

He groaned. “Don’t you know you’re not supposed to step on odd–numbered drains?”

I was taken aback. “Is that some backwards British bullshit?”

I proceeded to step on each trio of drains I encountered for the rest of that day, and for the rest of my time in London.

Homerton road runs over swampy canals that slither through the borough of Hackney, and we soon turned to follow one of these stagnant streams. Peering in, I asked, “How deep do you think that is?”

Adam told me, “Not that deep. I think I could probably stand.”

“That probably means I couldn’t. But I think you’re lying. You’re lying so I’ll get closer to the edge and then you can push me in and drown me. Or you might use this to dispose of my body, weigh it down until I wash

Something about the kiss on the cheek was so vintage and sweet.

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Italian coffee. I burbled this out, and continued to give him a series of other facts interesting only to me, because that’s my nervous tick in romantic settings.

The conversation continued, a braiding of my facts, exclamations about British culture, and impertinent questions. I think he was surprised by what I was.

We decided to relocate, and walked down Homerton Road. There were multiple drains in the sidewalk, arranged in squares of twos and threes, and as I stepped on a three-squared drain,

up on some unlucky shore.”

“I’m not going to do that.”

“That’s what a murderer would say...”

The conversation continued like this. I babbled about Dante, he talked about medicine and kidneys, and I asked about his favorite books, animals, foods.

He kissed me on the cheek before I left to board the train that would take me to my friends, a train I claimed was stuck underground for twenty minutes to excuse my tardiness. Something about the kiss on the cheek was so vintage and sweet.

We said nothing, but felt for each other in the slate-colored light suffusing the windown in his room.

No one had done that to me as a means of parting before.

I knew it was stupid, but I felt like this may actually be what adult dating was. Men offering to hold my trench coat while we walk, a kiss on the cheek, a career to discuss.

Some people play with my words, and I consider them brave for engaging in the game before they know what it is.

I started seeing Adam regularly, after a localized event of admonishing him for keeping me waiting all evening only to eventually claim he was too busy to get dinner. I told him I wasn’t a toy he could pick up and play with when he was bored, only to throw, rag doll-like, into a closet when he was done. He didn’t string me along again.

We went to pubs older than the United States, Ye Olde Chesire Cheese, composed of compartmentalized rooms and sloping stairs, bathed in warm light and adorned with Victorian chairs and portraits. He got

me a double gin and tonic which was his first mistake, and we clamored to the tube with me holding onto his waist as if afraid of drowning, absolutely smashed.

The Last Tuesday Club was a cocktail bar ornamented by taxidermy and fetuses in jars, my kind of place, and I told him of the pea– coated bodies I witnessed encased by glass in Dublin.

He was fascinated, and the night tumbled on in swirls of gin and British accents until I knocked my glass all over him and the table, and couldn’t help but laugh hysterically at my own idiocy.

We saw a revival of Tennessee Williams’ Summer and Smoke and stayed up late discussing the fate of Alma, whose name is Spanish for soul, while wrapped in his light grey sheets. We went out, we saw London, then returned to his apartment with its stark white cabinets and unpatterned bedding, and I constantly teased him for living in an asylum.

Adam would fall asleep and I would lay myself on

top of him, half blanket, half burden, and listen to the inhalations and exhalations accompanying my own. It was silent and peaceful and

my mind was drained of worry, of stress, of seemingly indefatigable anxiety.

One night, laying in bed, he stared at the ceiling and claimed, “I haven’t been this comfortable in bed with someone in a long time.”

Another night, he put on instrumental music on repeat; the keys of the piano and several strains of synth echoed behind me, and our lowered eyelids raised and met in recurrent succession.

We said nothing, but felt for each other in the slate–colored light suffusing the window in his room. I moved to kiss him slowly, and as I pulled back, he stared at me with wide eyes and I didn’t look away. I brought myself back to him and he held my face in his hands, and it felt

as though warm water were swirling around me, enveloping my body, the sound of waves rising to mute the vibrato of thoughts coursing between my temples. Our eyelashes formed diaphanous feathers, framing an invented gravity pulling our pale faces together. The piano still shivered softly, forming the backdrop of a moment pulled out of time.

I fell asleep with my head on his chest, his hand draped across my back like a sheath of silk.

A moment implies a chronology, something fleeting, yet something about this fell out of step with the events immediately before and after—a concrete connection rather than an ephemeral souvenir.

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Turning Feelings into Friendship And I found that you’re way more fun when I’m sharing weird Tinder screenshots and groovy memes with you than you’d be if we were anything more than friends Jackson Betz I’m the kind of person who tends to fuck everything up.

Friendships, relationships, casual dating situations—you name it. Self–doubt always creeps in—does this person really like me? Am I comfortable hanging out with them?

Why put in the effort to talk to someone new when I can have a fun conversation with one of my friends? I cut things off, I get way too sensitive, I infect people with my angst. And then, after I do those things, I lie awake kicking myself for doing them. But with you, things are kind of different.

You rejected me, my all–time fear! But our friendship survived. And I’m actually happy about that!

About a year ago, you and I both broke up with guys a couple days apart. I was full of angst, but you talked to me.

You’d already had way more experience than I’d had, but you didn’t make me feel inferior because of that. We got coffee and we talked for hours.

And then, just as I was beginning to figure out how much I appreciated you, you left for Europe for four months.

I don’t know whether it was our long text conversations or the aura that surrounded you while you were gone, but somehow I began crushing really hard. Every time you sent me snaps, I would swoon and tell my friends, “his eyes are so beautiful!” My friends got tired

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of hearing me talk about it, but I didn’t care. I was in love!

I couldn’t let well enough alone: I decided to tell you. By text. While you were still away.

I spent twenty minutes trying to write a text that seemed flattering but not too clingy, as if my exact tone would make or break whatever romantic possibilities existed. I sent it and went to dinner with friends, took a shower, cleaned my room, and ignored my phone for three hours. Then I opened your reply: Thanks for telling me all this, it means a lot, but I don’t think so.

Ahhh! I’d blown it! I’d killed my dream and almost definitely burned bridges with someone who’d become a valuable

friend (despite being across the globe). That night I got really drunk at a party and wandered around the city for several hours in the dark. I was inconsolable.

Then, the next morning, you texted me.

Hi, you said. You were at some hacking event and were looking for suggestions for music to put on a website you were designing.

Wow. Seeing your name in my notifications was the last thing I expected. I assumed you were trying to be kind and reach out, and so I thought of a couple songs and replied. Nice move, Jackson! I thought. You should have left him on read.

You don’t need him anymore!

But our relationship didn’t turn out to be about retaliation. Still, we didn’t talk that much for a while, and after the first couple days, I began to get over you. The weather was warm and my friends hung out with me in the sunshine and helped me take my mind off of you. When summer came, I looked forward to getting some time away from the city.

I’d applied to spend a month at the beach doing architecture research. You’d gotten back to the States. When I got to Wildwood, I texted you and said hi. You should come down and visit sometime, I said, thinking this invitation was as meaningful as the many lunch plans that people make on Locust every day. Your response flabbergasted me: Let’s find a weekend! I was confused—I thought you’d never want to see me again after everything weird that had gone down. But I was also excited—Wildwood is a nifty place, and I knew we could go on a hella bar crawl!

(Or ride some roller coasters or something? I hadn’t thought about it yet!)

So you came to visit me!

I was so nervous to see you that an hour before you arrived on the bus, I had two shots of vodka at my friend’s house to ease my nerves. But when you came, everything was OK! I didn’t need to worry! We rode the Ferris wheel, we talked about music, we got drunk. It was all right. Everything was in the past. Our friendship was a sunny, beachy haze with Summer Salt playing in the background.

The weather was warm and my friends hung out with me in the sunshine and helped me take my mind off you.

Except that my feelings came back, dammit. Back at Penn, the first time I saw you, I panicked. When you walked in the room, my friend next to me must have thought I was crazy.

“Oh my god! It’s him! Does he see me? I’m gonna go to the bathroom! Wait! I have to pass

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him to get there! I’ll just duck!

No, that looks stupid! Is my hair OK?” And throughout some of the fall, I was confused when we went to bars together as part of a larger group of friends. I saw all these couples getting happy hour drinks together, and I wished that they were us.

I was in a better place about you (and even started going out with other guys), but I still couldn’t figure out what I was feeling.

After a few months, though, my feelings began going away.

Gradually, but still! I realized that our personalities would never work together.

I noticed that I’m not really your physical type, and I sure wasn’t gonna go to the gym and make that happen. And I found that you’re way more fun when I’m sharing weird Tinder screenshots and groovy memes with you than you’d be if we were anything more than friends. You’re a cool guy, and it would be a shame to waste that on a relationship, which would probably have ended quickly anyway, since I’m a massive flake.

Thanks for being there for me, even when it didn’t really benefit you. Thanks for going to gay bars with me and enduring the free tater tots that super–ripped bartenders sometimes give us because they think we’re together. And most of all, thanks for not writing me off after I told you how I felt. While there’s no promises I’ll feel this way tomorrow, right now, I’m sitting here in the oddly warm breeze and feeling peace about all this, and it’s pretty groovy.

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