Labyrinth 2014 by ASWWU

LABYRINTH .

2014

Communities (Un)bound: An Exploration of Priviledge and Oppression When Personal Identities Restrict Access to Communities and Resources

address to the reader Welcome to the 2013-14 edition of the Labyrinth Literary Journal: Communities (Un)bound, an exploration of of privilege and oppression when interacting with intersecting identities and communities. It has been an exciting experience working with new content in this collection that touches on topics that have not been seen in previous Labyrinth journals. The content bound within these pages are only a small representation of the identities and intricacies a select few people in our community hold. When reading this journal remember that there are many other issues that exist out there. Labyrinth has traditionally been seen as the Feminist Journal the Women’s Center in the Resource and Outreach Programs has published since the 1970’s. With a long and rich history, the journal has grown to become a home for marginalized identities being represented in literature. Labyrinth creates a unique opportunity to pose as a stage for underrepresented people who may not be able to find a platform to speak their truths. I am honored to have read and seen the content many people from our community put forth. It takes courage to make art about your struggle, no matter what you may wrestle with. I want to thank everyone who contributed to the long process of creating this final product. This journal would not exist without the support of the Women’s Center: Sara Wozniak, Emily Hanna, and Laura Rae del Villar. Thank you to Matt Smith, the director of the Resource and Outreach Program, who acted as an emotional support throughout fall and winter quarter. The band of art panelists who kept me laughing on Wednesday nights: April Hayden, Frankie Krupa Vahdani, and Katie Hudak. The support of the volunteers in the literature panel who aided me immensely with their insight and who courageously brought their own knowledge and experience forward. Thank you to Elizabeth Peek, Rachel Broenkow, Johnna Gurgel, Jessie Ulmer, and especially Anna Ulmer, last year’s Labyrinth Editor in Chief and my mentor throughout this creative endeavor. Thank you to Jesi Maakad and Riley McGaff who designed the Labyrinth 6

posters and banner, working with Kate Nelson’s original design idea. And thank you to Kristina Huynh who carefully crafted the journal you hold in your hands and gave life to the images and literature you are about to experience. This journal would not have been possible without the help of the Publicity Center and their efforts to promote and make Labyrinth a reality. Last but not least, I give a heartfelt thank you to Caitlin Scott who did not only act on the art panel, but also set up the gallery art show and got her hands dirty with the behind the scenes work. All of these people have created a fantastic support system and I know this journal would not have been possible without all of them working together. Thank you to everyone who submitted. Even if you were not accepted into the journal, your work brought forward thought provoking ideas and interpretations about what a community means to you. I learned about identities that my own privileges had kept me from seeing before and immersed myself in the struggles of other people’s worlds. Thank you for allowing me to grow as a person and I hope the readers of this journal will learn about everyday issues in our community like I have. Overcome the odds, Logan Brouelette He, him, and his Labyrinth Editor in Chief 2014 AS Women’s Center Western Washington University Viking Union 514 as.wwu.edu/women

To the Wanderers

JESSIE ULMER - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Jessie subsists mainly on coffee and the hope that tomorrow will be better. Sometimes she writes poetry.

Learn to conceal your footprints walk silently into the woods heed the whispers of trees they know things write messages to yourself in rivers know that some riddles have no answer be patient wait let people use your name if they have none of their own they will return it speak kindly to stepmothers they almost never start out wicked remember that stories are made by those who tell them and that details are easily changed be careful heed warnings plan when you meet a girl in red tell her it’s ok not to talk to strange men she meets in the woods with teeth the color of cool iron you will think no less of her either way know that real wolves walk silently and harbor no interest in women in cabins or their wayward grandchildren remember that apples don’t hold poison and that if you’ve been told this someone is lying question morals question maps find meaning in stars 9

do not fear monsters or those that have been made to look like them know that some women live alone in castles where they tend to their gardens of brambles and sleep throughout the day and that they like it this way do not try to rescue them walk on believe in your own story feel the weight of your heel in your footprint be brave

Sister Winter

ZOE VARTANIAN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Zoe Vartanian graduated from Western in the fall of 2013 with BAs in Design and Fine Arts. These three pieces are from a recent series aiming to normalize the role of women as strong, un-objectified, independent figures within narratives, moving away from the outdated ideals of former storytellers. Many of the pieces in this series depict women confronting personal demons and overcoming hardships. 11

Demon

ZOE VARTANIAN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Candle

ZOE VARTANIAN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

The Role Models I Was Told I Should Have All Turned Out To Be Jerks (And Frankly It Relieves Some Of The Pressure) ANNA ULMER - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Anna is a queer future-lawyer who is perpetually raging against the hetero-patriarchy and existentially questioning the meaning of life. She enjoys long walks on the beach, hot cups of coffee, and not getting spoken to by strangers.

When I was young my greatest fear (apart from a reoccurring nightmare about my head getting stuck in the neck of a turtleneck) Was the idea that I might die without making my mark on the world in some way. I was terrified of oblivion (and the vast stretch of stars I could see when I pressed my palms tight to my closed eyelids and thought of space) And was petrified of the idea of being forgotten against the backdrop of infinity and the unimaginable emptiness of death. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t think I really understood the actual implications of time, at this point (or the longevity of human cruelty) But death, like darkness left me gasping for breath in a way I now remember when my vision goes black at the edges and my chest constricts into a single cosmic stretch of light. These moments when air seems to leave the room (and my head goes hot with the rush of blood) I press my tongue to frozen teeth and remember-

That the greatest feat I can accomplish in my short life, Is to die unremembered and unincluded In the pages of a book that celebrates My oppression and isolation of the people around me. If they ever write my history, tell them I tried.

APRIL HAYDEN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

April Hayden recently graduated from Western Washington University with a B.A. in Art. While working on her photography concentration she explored themes such as identity, body image, mental illness, relationship dynamics, and nostalgia. The Self-portrait Series was created during her senior year as an exploration of factors that have contributed to her sense of self.

Third Culture Kid

MONIKA ANDERSON - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Monika is a vagrant at heart whose main goal in life is to do the exact opposite of what society expects of her. A graduate of WWU with a degree in Sociology, she is currently working in youth development as a Peace Corps Volunteer living full time in Morocco, just outside of Marrakech. She lives her life based on her 156-item bucket list, has never gotten a Friends trivia question wrong (or Toy Story for that matter), and has yet to understand why she’s allowed in public without supervision.

There’s a term known around the community of travelers, professional nomads, and wanderlust addicts known as a Third Culture Kid. These are kids who have spent their childhood bouncing from culture to culture, travelling with their parents, or just raised outside of their parents’ culture. They can adopt various cultures with relative ease, but do not have one specific culture they claim as their own. They are a blend of years of travelling and interactions between different cultures, and often feel a sense of equal comfort and discomfort all at once in any country they find themselves in. I am not a Third Culture Kid. But shit, how I wish I was. And believe me, if and when I ever have my own children (don’t tell my mother the “if” part of that sentence) then they will undoubtedly be Third Culture Kid’s. Many of my best friends are TCK’s, and I like to think I at least was one in a past life. I grew up travelling all over the United States, and have always found airports to be one of the most magical places in the world. Yes, even more so than Disneyland. There’s a certain feeling in the air that you can only find when waking up at 3am, arriving at Sea-Tac in the dark, and taking off to a far off destination just as the sun rises over Mount Rainer. But it wasn’t until I turned 20, got my first passport, and spent a summer abroad in rural Kenya along Lake Victoria that my lifelong desire to be anywhere but where I currently was really took hold of me and held on for dear life. 17

Since that time, I’ve dedicated my life to the finding and experiencing the beauty and fluidity of different cultures. My passport is exceptionally unimpressive compared to many seasoned international vagrants, but it’s a work in progress. I’m on a mission to fill my passport before it expires, eat as many strange foods as possible (such as the kabob of sheep lung wrapped in stomach lining that I ate for l-Eid Kbir in Morocco), and find genuine human connections with the people I meet along the way. What I’ve found during this quest though has surprised me. It’s no secret to anyone that has ever known me that I really am not America’s biggest fan. It bothers me when I meet people abroad who immediately associate me with the decisions of my government (I know very little about what’s going on in Israel and Palestine, and an angry taxi driver telling me I’m the cause of that conflict is not a valid statement), and I try to experience each culture I encounter with an open mind and an open heart. But the most important thing I’ve learned over the course of my travels is that the longer I’m away from the great Pacific Northwest, the more I fall head over heels in love with it. The more flights I take, street food I eat, and homes I am welcomed into, the more I see how deeply rooted my American culture is engrained in me. And I’ve learned that that’s okay. I am an American. I was raised in a suburb of Seattle, Washington. I grew up travelling to Florida for Christmas, and driving to Portland for reason’s I don’t entirely remember. Up until I was 21 and spent 3 months of intensive study learning Darija, the Moroccan dialect of Arabic, English was the only language I spoke. My parents spent almost every Saturday of my childhood cheering me on in youth soccer leagues, driving me to fastpitch tournaments, or supporting me in the brief stint during middle school where I dawdled in fencing lessons (turns out, stabbing people with a sword is fun! Who knew?!). I’ve gone to school in American public schools my whole life, and until high school, had reasonably strong, though admittedly not always consistent, relationship with United Methodist Christianity. I’ve bought my groceries at large chain-stores, where my food came in boxes and bags. I recycle like my life depends on it, and can’t bring myself to show up to someone’s house unannounced expecting to hang out. Without leaving the United States and living full time in another country, I would never have even taken the time to think about the fact that this, as well as so many more things I may never even 18

realize, is American culture manifesting in me, and will, for the rest of my life, follow me wherever I go. American culture is how I talk. It is how I walk. It is how I interact with people around me. It is the social norms that I follow, and unconsciously expect other’s to follow. It is the biased lens that I will forever see life through, and, no matter what, that cannot change. It is the common assumptions and ways of thinking that are so deeply engrained within me that I don’t even know they’re a thing. And until I left America, I never really realized how much a part of me they were. Some of the things I really like, some not so much. But no matter what, I always am striving to put aside this culture of mine even just a little, so as to make room for new experiences everywhere I go. I’ll never be a Third Culture Kid. That time has come and gone, and my culture is very clearly defined in who I am and how I have grown up. But culture is also never set in stone. It is forever evolving, ebbing and flowing around my experiences and beliefs like a river. Parts of American culture will always be in me, but I also by now have pieces of Kenyan beliefs, Moroccan customs, and quite possibly a dab of Canadian… something all sharing space in my mannerisms, conversations, and ideals. All sharing space in the ever evolving definition of who I am. The ideal that I strive for is the ability to always enter a new culture with an open mind, ready to learn something new, make a connection with someone, and find a way to integrate some piece of that experience into who I am.

Christmas Double

KATIE HUDAK - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

These images are meant to reflect upon the places that I grew up and how I was separated from them when concealing my queer identity. Raised in a family with strong Christian roots, I hid my romantic and sexual identity until I left home. While relationships have mended since, when I return to city where I grew up, I continue to feel like an outsider窶馬ot quite fully in place. As I struggled with my orientation, I began to detach my actions and my emotions to better disguise how I felt. The double exposures, featuring current self-portraits and images I took when I was younger, serve as a representation of the misplaced parts of myself that existed as a child and presently. 20

The Pits

MIC M. L. SILVERLINE - He/Him/His Pronouns

My lifelong endeavor as a writer is to try to capture what I call “the purest emotions” in writing. With a baccalaureate in English Creative Writing I have come to study poetry and poetics in Germany. Since I have read poetry in Seattle, San Francisco, and New York, and self-published four chap books, I am now looking to create and publish my first book of poems.

I cannot write your poem I will never know the conviction in your eyes I cannot know the quietus in your breath, or what was written in your skin I will never be the words on your heart which weep from your veins A suffering – unimaginable cannot be partial cannot be partisan in the epitaph of your pith The living stones on which you walked The wounds of the deer – bleeding in the wood They will proclaim your ballad They will write your epic On the ceiling of the dome your moments will be A sadness – that cannot be reached with thought, nor sight, nor language Your poems – are written on the broken tick Your poems – are written on the eyes of God Your poems are yours alone

Pando (I Spread)

ALEX VIGUE - He/Him or They/Them Pronouns

Alex Vigue is a senior at Western studying creative writing. He came up with a bunch of really cheesy lines about how excited he was to be published but his significant other said they were too painful to read.

Words are carved into the trunk of a famous painting by Gustav Klimt Names left by lonesome boys with pocket knives, sentences about suckering clonal colonies of Populus tremuloides, punctuation written by sisters striking at the bark with garden hoes, once gaping exclamations, now sealed by sap and concentric rings into a shriveled period. The words, insecure like brush strokes, are weary of their own permanence but afraid to be erased by a fresh coat of paint. The fearless ones are ground up wood pulp spoken by grandmothers who sharpen them into painful hatchets and chop into the cellulose and gold leaf assembly of the Tree of Life. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clear cut by mothers who coddle branches with their pruning-shear fingers hoping to cut the poplar hangnails growing out of knots and trim away the burdens of 80,000 years of words. A forest of one individual; older and heavier than any living organism and still at the mercy of tempered-steel words. Trembling Giant tangled up in its own roots quaking like a river overflowing with tributaries, shaking aspen fingers trying to grasp onto a cradle of loose oil paint soil while scars appear like names on his pale bark.

The Girl Named Roy

ALEX VIGUE - He/Him or They/Them Pronouns

There is a girl who lives in a row house in San Francisco with her aunt. The girl had always hated her name, so she decided to change it. She liked some names like Ruth and Robin, but they weren’t quite right. She wanted a name that matched her vision of herself; brave, direct, royal. She dreamed of being a king, ruling a nation. She chose the name Roy. Roy isn’t like most girls, or most people for that matter. Her skin is tree bark. She struggles against her daphnene exterior, pulling up her roots with each step. Lichens and insects live along her branches and trunks. Birds nest in her hair. Her aunt tells her how beautiful she is. “I know. I am oak.” Roy wants to leave the city and live with the redwoods. She is so small, but her dexterous twig fingers yearn to touch the sky. Her knuckles knot themselves into fists. Her aunt is sick. Her organs bough and break, her muscles bow under their own weight. Their bodies are mirrors. Her aunt’s hair falls out; Roy shaves off her own. Her aunt gets a double mastectomy to remove the cancer growing within her; Roy has her breasts removed to lift the weight off her chest. The two smoke joints together to smooth over the roughness in and on their bodies. Roy injects testosterone into her thighs while her aunt dies. Roy isn’t like most boys. His skin is tree bark, growing thicker with each passing year.

Church Double

KATIE HUDAK - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

APRIL HAYDEN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Lola

ELIZABETH SIGURDSON - They/Them/Their Pronouns

Elizabeth Sigurdson is a frustrated, exhausted, passionate, fast-loving, loud-snoring, hard-living, ramen-eating poet, writer, student, and social justice ideologue with plans to change the world or die trying (and go out in a blaze of parachute failure). Loves: life, freedom, community, queerness, webcomics, anarchy, communism, funky hair colors, and the colors green and purple in general. Hates: divisive politics, weapons of war, and the constant struggle to confront and destroy unjust privilege (it’s harder when you have to confront it in yourself ).

Lola was lonely. She married for money, which was no great shame, as otherwise she would surely have starved. Abused as a child, she was grateful to be taken care of by someone who spoke and touched softly, someone who asked before touching at all. Someone who was compassionate and intellectual, companionable when not immersed in work. Someone who had experienced depression, and knew the endless struggle of conquering one’s own mind. But life’s work and struggles consumed them in different ways. They slept in separate beds and lived in separate worlds. Marriage is a little like death, she thought to herself. In death you no longer have to worry about bills, about finding the next meal or a warm place to sleep. You no longer have to live with your whole family, waiting to be torn down, beaten, or raped. You no longer dream of brighter futures. Lola had had a friend once. The only two losers outside the school dance, they couldn’t pay but wanted to sing, they couldn’t dance but didn’t want to go home. They spoke their own language and hid in dark corners, walking the night because the darkness of the unknown was safer. They spoke of great darkness, and Great Spirit(s), and great nothings. Is God a dream or a hallucination? They laughed like coyotes, lost miles inside civilization, the trees falling around them, hopeless but defiant.

Their parents forbid them from seeing one another because that girl is a bad influence. They had different lives now. Lola once signed up for a class on female empowerment, a class on stress management, a class on finding inner peace. Lola quit school a few weeks in, when they told her the answer wasn’t money but the spaces between their words told her the answer was totally money. So she found money but didn’t find inner peace, didn’t find stress relief, didn’t find the form of empowerment she had been looking for. Lola knew better but she didn’t quit smoking. She sold cigarettes to homeless women outside of bars. She charged the nominal fee of a moment of their time, a 3-minute window of companionship, conversation, deeply personal thoughts hastily exchanged between toxic breaths. She needed to touch souls with someone, and sharing the smoke of the lungs could be so intimate, and the only one hurting you was yourself. Lola was always hurting herself, not that she lacked self-love but she didn’t know any other way to experience her feelings, any other way to live but in pain. Lola always wanted to help others who have struggled like her. The abused, the mentally ill, the poor, the people who are referred to with a “the” to mark them as nouns, inhuman, so you can refer to them without feeling the pangs of empathic hunger, rage, and hatred. Lola always felt the hunger, rage, and hatred. She felt the cold of a home without heating and the shock of unwanted hands on her skin. Feelings linger long after a moment is past and laid to rest. But she hoped, she wished, she begged the empty stars that by helping others through the struggle, she could exorcise the darkness from her inside. Lola donated time and money to the local women’s shelter, and the local animal shelter. She relished every moment spent in kinship with mongrel dogs, but could never identify with the other mongrel women. Lola had money now, and power. Lola was not a victim of domestic violence. Lola hadn’t been raped since childhood, and had never spoken of it. She was not a part of this sisterhood. Lola remembered dancing in the moonlight, determined to feel hope and find beauty. She remembered sneaking across private property to the woods to play guitar in the most beautiful tree. She remembered 30

the warmth of a campfire in the woods, built by her own capable hands when she had run away at thirteen. She remembered her childhood friend, defiant, before both women were broken by the world. Something snapped, and Lola remembered what she was. And Lola left.

Revitalized

SADIE JULY - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

I am currently a third year Huxley student and am honored to have my photography featured in Labyrinth for a second year. While at Western I have become extremely passionate about deconstructing gender roles/binaries and oppressive institutions as well as how they relate to environmental destruction. Additionally, I hope to show through my photography the power that comes from embracing and finding the strength in our own bodies, in whatever way that may be. 32

Empowered

SADIE JULY - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

My Savior!

CLINTON KVISTAD-RENAISSANCE - He/Him/His Pronouns

Clinton is a student at Western who writes about his journey through life exclusively on his phone. He also enjoys petting cats, dancing until his shoes fall apart, and being queer in public.

My abuse and assaults Are Not For Your Sick Pleasure. I am a survivor, How dare you call me broken. You act like you care, But I can see you Getting off On the idea that You can fix me. I can hear you moan When you learn about my nightmares. You wish to fight them off Naked in my bed Sword in hand. Failing to understand That you are My nightmare. People like you are why I fear the dark. You want to be my saviorâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; My knight, 34

But did I ever ask? The romantic ideation Of “saving” me— Of “fixing” me Carries the same evil As having others Force themselves upon my body Because they wanted me. My wishes— My will— My consent— Is never considered. To you, I am merely a pawn In your pornographic fantasy. Your hands fix Like their hands bruised. Fixing is another form of breaking Because you’re forcing me To comply with your narrative— Stripping away my will Like my clothes Trying to replace them With your hands That you think look better on me. You wanna know what looks great on me? Autonomy! Fucking personhood— It looks fucking great! You think I am dressed As a damsel in distress, BUT WHEN DID THE DAMSEL SAY SHE WAS IN DISTRESS!? When did I say 35

That this body was in need Of your attention? Let me make this clear, I do not need to be saved From my trauma. I have come to terms With this fearsome monster over the years. I never asked you, another beast, To ride in, so gallantlyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;so assured, And destroy the fragile peace That I had brokered In order to fulfill Your orgasmic need for saving. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to be your charitable act All so you can brag about the pivotal role you played In your masturbatory fairytale. So put the sword down, Zip up your jeans, And readdress Your knighthood.

Hands Off!

RIVER REIER - They/Them/Their Pronouns

River is a Fairhaven student who will be graduating in the spring with a concentration called Exploring Queer Theory and Communities through Visual Culture. They spend lots of time in the kitchen and enjoy listening to the Noisettes while creating food and art. After Western, River hopes to use art as a tool for social organizing and political education.

Archetype 1

JESSICA BUTLER - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

The sculptures are exploring the subtler, less-traditionally-appreciated sexual moments on a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body. The sections removed are a reflection of what breasts represent; they are symbols of femininity and identity and have been removed for multiple reasons. The medium of metal for the female torsos relates to classical art and traditional studies and practices in the forms, but contrasts traditional ideas and aesthetics. 38

Archetype 2

JESSICA BUTLER - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Amendment After W.S. Merwin, “The New Song”

COLLEEN SCHWARTZ - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Colleen Schwartz is a poet from Bellingham, WA. She is a birth mother, a mother, and grandmother. Her writing is a reflection of this most interesting journey of the heart.

For some time now I thought there would be time, Until you called my nameand I flew to meet you, again. Beginning, and end. Your eyes. Your hands upon my hands. Our feet, touching. Your thin, fragile skin, our only separation. The sound of your voice, At last! I thought there would be time. I dreamed there would be shared features and surprise coincidences. Treasured tales, to unfold slowly. Remember the morning the birds sang? – a young child wrote. The morning your heart began to beat beneath my heart? That is our story. Our song. Now, it is another hot, August day. Now, it is a new story. A story beginning as I break open ancient scrolls - to amend the record of you, and I.

Autism and Audience

SAMANTHA MILLER - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Samantha Miller is a painter from Bellingham. She is a senior in the WWU Fine Art Department and focuses her work mostly on social and scientific issues in the modern media. Her common mediums include acrylics and oils which were used in this piece, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Autism and Audience.â&#x20AC;?

Morning Offering After John O’Donohue, “A Morning Offering”

COLLEEN SCHWARTZ - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

I offer up my fear, upon this altar, this sacred cairn embedded within the rocky slope of forgotten dreams. I offer up my doubts, and pray your spirit wrestles no longer with the deep burden of regret. I offer up my life breath, my name, my every song, as wings of shelter for your flight to safe passage. I offer up my sorrow, singed upon my spirit, in the moment your feet touched mine, beginning and end. I offer up our lost years to the compassionate heart of all mothers. Know this, beloved: You do not walk alone.

Rebecca

KATY BENTZ - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Katy Bentz is a senior at Western, studying Theatre with an acting concentration as well as Public Relations. She enjoys doing portraits of people. Every person is unique and if a photographer can catch that quality in an individual, they have done their job.

APRIL HAYDEN - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

For Sarah, In Solidarity

ELIZABETH SIGURDSON - They/Them/Their Pronouns

i went to your funeral and would you believe it they prayed the motherfuckers prayed i will never forget the tone of the priest-dude’s voice when he said “she was murdered” when he acted like he knew you when he gave fucking communion and told us all to convert your mother sang i’m telling you, bitch sang at your funeral jesus-songs and prayer and bullshit there was no sex, no drugs, no rock and roll it was the last place you’d want to be there was euphemism and silencing and i call fucking shenanigans, silencing the dead they didn’t mention you weren’t catholic i would have appreciated at least a little nod to the fact that they believed you to be in hell as they talked and fucking sang but i came prepared not for the singing not for the prayer but for the lack of booze and good music i found pictures of you real pictures of you 45

not from when you were a kid but from when you were drunk as fuck i made you a slideshow and played it in my livingroom i brought in the crowds of the dissatisfied and i did my best with whiskey and cigarettes and tales of illegal exploits and music that ripped our hearts out and made our souls soar to remember you as you were one badass bitch

House Double

KATIE HUDAK - She/Her/Hers Pronouns

Index

ANDERSON, MONIKA 17

Third Culture Kid

BENTZ, KATY 43

Rebecca

BUTLER, JESSICA 38 39

Archetype 1 Archetype 2

HAYDEN, APRIL 44 28 16

A7 A9 C8

HUDAK, KATIE 20 27 47

Christmas Double Church Double House Double

JULY, SADIE 33 32

Empowered Revitalized

KVISTAD-RENAISSANCE, CLINTON 34

My Savior!

MILLER, SAMANTHA 41

Autism and Audience

OLIVEROS, LEONA 23 24 25

Untitled Untitled 2 Untitled 3

REIER, RIVER 37

Hands Off!

SCHWARTZ, COLLEEN 40 42

Amendment Morning Offering

SIGURDSON, ELIZABETH 45

For Sarah In Solidarity

SILVERLINE, MIC M. L. 21

The Pits

ULMER, ANNA 14

The Role Models I Was Told I Should Have All Turned Out To Be Giant Jerks (And Frankly It Relieves Some Of The Pressure)

ULMER, JESSIE 9

To The Wanderers

VARTANIAN, ZOE 13 12 11

Candle Demon Sister Winter

VIGUE, ALEX 22 26

Pando (I Spread) The Girl Named Roy