FALL 2017
THE AUDACITY ISSUE 4
CREDITS
STAFF Editor-in-Chief Creative Director Layout Social Media PR Events
Erin Kuykendall Melina Perez Moses Lee Maiya Evans Emily Ruiz, Arden Frank Ebanie Griffith
CONTRIBUTORS
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS Thank you to Revival Vintage, Ermine’s, and Blue Elephant Boutique for their support in providing clothing and accessories.
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Taylor Hall Photographer (Boldly Going, Is There No Truth in Beauty?) Photographer (By the Work of Your Hands, Just a Girl, Fortune) Bethony Harnden David Spector Photographer (Leyendas de Nuestra Niñez) Maiya Evans HMUA Brian Helm Stylist (Leyendas de Nuestra Niñez) Erin Kuykendall, Melina Perez Stylist Maiya Evans Model (Boldy Going) Melina Perez, Rho Garcia, Model (Leyendas de Nuestra Niñez) Mattison Gotcher, Ebanie Griffith Sadie Lidji, Sonia Koppuzhayil Model (Just a Girl) Phyllis Gong, Kiani Dover Model (Is There No Truth in Beauty?) Sydney Smith, Alayna Enos Model (Fortune) Catalina Casar, Clarence Yuan Assistants
CONTENTS
Contents Staff Portrait 4 Boldly Going 6 By The Work of Your Hands 14 “Fruits of My Labor” 24 Leyendas de Nuestra Niñez 26 FALL 2017 : ISSUE 4
Just a Girl 36 Is There No Truth in Beauty? 46 Fortune 56 “P” 70
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BOLDLY GOING
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Boldly Going
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BOLDLY GOING
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“And Uhura, whose name means freedom. She walks in beauty, like the night.“ – Ambassador Kollos, 2268 Any fan of the original Star Trek series knows Lieutenant Uhura: the communications officer aboard the USS Enterprise, and the coldest figure cut in a red dress. Uhura was the only woman on the central command deck, and it only takes one episode to realize she’s not merely a prop. In space, Uhura runs the show. As one of the few bridge officers, she mans the helm, navigation, and main science station. As head of communications, she’s fluent in a wide variety of languages and prolific in mathematics. An invaluable member of this interspace boy’s club, she was also frequently recruited for ground missions on alien planets. She led with a clear intelligence, a sure will, and an unabashed sensuality.
Nichelle Nichols as the inspired Lieutenant did not just exist on the show to satisfy some minority requirement: she pushed plots, and was half of one of the very first interracial kisses on television. She was smart, wore short skirts, and proved the captain wrong whenever the opportunity arose. She is, in short, our heroin–boldly going where no woman has gone before. Erin Kuykendall
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As the first black woman on TV in a major role, Uhura inspired a new generation for entertainment. After seeing her performance on Star Trek, Whoopi Goldberg ran screaming to her mother that there was a black woman on TV and she “ain’t no maid.” Exposure to this role lead directly to Whoopi’s decision to join the industry. MLK Jr. was a major Trekkie. Mae Jemison, the first black woman to travel in space was inspired to join NASA after watching Lieutenant Uhura as a child.
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BY THE WORK OF YOUR HANDS
By the Work of Your Hands FALL 2017 : ISSUE 4 15
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BY THE WORK OF YOUR HANDS
“Sometimes I claim to know a guy but I can’t tell you what his hands look like.” -Gnashville, Why? Deep underground survive the oldest paintings created by humans, created some forty thousand years ago in paleolithic caves. Although the caves of El Castillo in Spain and Pettakere in Indonesia are eight thousand miles apart, separated by three seas, the images our paleolithic predecessors chose to paint are eerily similar––among them, hundreds upon hundreds of hands.
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Why have hands been such a focus for millenia of artists? Our hands can tell us about who we are––our age, religion, occupation, or our aesthetic choices––so it is no wonder they have been the obsession of artists since the beginning of a visual tradition itself. Hands give us the means to create and to destroy, to feel the unique textures and materials in our world and understand what surrounds us, giving us knowledge.
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Our hands literally contain our identity in fingerprints, but the representation of hands can tell us more than we might expect. Looking closely at the details of a figure’s hand in a painting can clue us in on who the artist was, as Giovanni Morelli theorized in what he called “the language of forms.” The way a fingernail, the bend of a knuckle, or the shape of the palm is depicted is unique to each artist, forms that have been practiced over and over until they become the foundation of the artist’s signature style. It is in their lack of importance, their mundanity that the true artist can be recognized. Unless a hand is vital to the composition, such as in The Creation of Man, the artist will likely use less effort for this rudimentary, but essential, form.
Renee Johnson
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Whether the creator or the created, hands continue to be vital to the study of art. Their centrality to our identity as humans, their agency in our creative work, and their ability to connect us to each other through touch and gesture make them the most powerful, yet simultaneously the most elegant, part of our body. What one chooses to do with their hands is up to us, and the entire world is at our fingertips--whatever our choice, we will all be known ad infinitum by the work of our hands.
BY THE WORK OF YOUR HANDS
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Art by Maryam Amjadi
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POETRY
Fruits of My Labor FALL 2017 : ISSUE 4
Last night I had this feeling My outer skin was peeling Revealing soft, sweet, sticky flesh My insides out, My wounds all fresh Vulnerable to wasps and wind The fruits of the garden I’d tried to tend I should have tried harder to help it survive To save that good orchard — To keep it alive The calendar days ticked off all erased Digging up bulbs where flowers were placed All the seeds sown now frozen and worthless Once again, once again It should take more to hurt this The winter rolls in, months before predicted The forecast didn’t know — the shifting winds had tricked it So I sat out helpless and cold on the lawn My mind far too focused (Weather’s harder with no coat on) Frozen fields, the ground hard with frost My feet are bare, but their feeling is lost And, here again, I watch my vines collapse That good green thumb withered By one fucking relapse Madi Gordon 25
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LEYENDAS DE NUESTRA NIÑEZ
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Leyendas de Nuestra Niñez
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LEYENDAS DE NUESTRA NIÑEZ
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LEYENDAS DE NUESTRA NIÑEZ
Culture is all about shared experiences and for Latinos, growing up meant hearing stories that terrified us as children. When your parents would tell you to go to sleep porque si no va venir el cucuy a comerte? We knew they weren’t playing, the Latino boogeyman was no joke, and we weren’t about to find out. We all know urban legends don’t have to be rooted in fact for them to be spread like wildfire, and most of them hold nuggets of history from the communities or countries they derive from. Fear is a funny thing, and sometimes fear can be channeled into creative escapes through story.
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Let’s take you first to the Dominican Republic, where THE CIGUAPA loves to seduce wanderers into the caves in the forests, past the mountains. The legend is thought to be of Taino origin, though many would also argue that it is likely rooted in African religious belief, brought to the island by slaves during the colonial period. The story speaks of a hypnotic, long-haired, bare-naked woman, with backwards-facing feet, confusing those who come across her tracks. In other places of Latin America, different versions of the legend have emerged from LA PATASOLA in Columbia to LA CEGUA in Costa Rica and Nicaragua. But don’t worry, ladies, she only preys on the men. LA LLORONA is one of the oldest Mexican urban legends and one of the most well-known as well. There are multiple variations of the same story, but they all end with her killing her own children because she was scorned by her lover. She then killed herself, but they say her ghost can be heard wandering in search of her children by the river. Her wailing and crying is enough to send chills down your spine. She is said to sometimes kidnap wandering children to replace her own, but misfortune befalls anyone who comes across her spirit. Other legends across Latin America similar to la llorona include LA NOVIA DE TOLA in Nicaragua and LA SAYONA in Venezuela. BRUJAS, or witches, are just as you’d imagine them. Scary, powerful women and even men who can cast spells and curse you. However, brujeria practices are often similar to that of healers like shamans or
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even pagan ritualism. Some of us grew up around curanderismo, among witch doctors; if you’ve ever had an egg ‘cleanse’ or a barrida with herbs, then you know what I’m talking about. Superstitions go hand in hand with brujeria of course and in Latinx culture many of us still swear by some of them—excuse us if we ever stare and then approach you, we’re just trying to help you avoid el mal de ojo. Now while brujeria may not be so mythical and is rooted in practice, there are still plenty of urban legends attached to witches. In Mexican culture, for example, LECHUZAS, or owls, are said to be witches in disguise. Women by day and owls by night, lechuzas are an omen of death. Ironically enough, sometimes people will seek the help of curanderas to rid themselves of a lechuza. In the Dominican Republic, beware if you come across pieces of string coming out of the ground that seem to lead nowhere, if you dare to follow the string’s path you’ll come face to face with a bruja.
If you venture off into Columbia or Venezuela, you’ll find a folktale a little more terrifying than most. The story goes that EL SILBON killed and gutted his father after finding him abusing his wife. His mother then sends for el Silbon’s grandfather who has him tied to a tree, rubs red chiles on his eyes and then has him whipped, pouring lemon into his wounds after. He’s then released and cursed to walk around aimlessly, carrying the remains of his father in a bag on his back, with only a couple of dogs as his companions. His ghost can be heard whistling a tune and they say the farther you can hear it, the closer he is. He preys mostly on womanizers, drunks, and
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Remember that boogeyman I mentioned earlier? El cucuy is also known as el coco, cuco, cuca, cucui, depending on the region you’re in. El cuco’s origins can be traced back to Spain, but the legend is famous all throughout Latin America and remains a Latino parent’s number one ally to get children to behave. There are many depictions of him but he hunts at night, in the dark, shapeless but monster-like and he preys on disobedient children. He’s even got his own lullaby: Duermete nino, duermete ya, que viene el coco y te comerá…”
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children, sucking their blood out of their navel. They say the only way to protect yourself is by keeping the items he was tortured with at hand, including a dog. (Guess now’s a good time to go adopt that puppy you’ve been thinking about.) On a lighter note we have LA LUZ MALA, bilingual pun intended. La luz mala is a myth from Argentina and Uruguay about a fluorescent beam of light that shines above the ground and is believed to be the lost souls of those who were never baptized in life. It is said that looking at the light could kill you and sometimes you can find indigenous artifacts and treasures under it, but you don’t want to get killed by the deadly gas that arises from them. This makes the legend similar to that of La Luz del Dinero from regions of Mexico and Peru, that speak of light indicating where conquistadores buried indigenous treasures they stole. FALL 2017 : ISSUE 4
But that’s not nearly as scary as EL CHUPACABRA, yes that little goatsucker you may have heard about once or twice. The chupacabra has its origins in Puerto Rico mostly, but today people have sworn sightings of it just about everywhere in Latin America, this one has no bounds. Even in the United States has there been reports of this reptile-like, scaly, gross creature, sometimes compared to a strange wild, hairless dog, who is known for sucking the blood out of livestock, leaving holes in the neck of his pray. Needless to say, farmers do not like him very much. The amount of scary tales one could recount from Latinoamerica is endless, these only barely scratch the surface. For Latinos who grew up in the U.S., these myths and legends give us just a small sense of connection to our roots, and just the same for Latinos everywhere, these stories that we grew up with never leave us; they are embedded in our culture. Though we may come from different countries, languages, dialects, traditions, and backgrounds, what we pass on through oral history can sometimes connect us all in unique ways--even if it means fearing the same monsters. Espero que no les hayan espantado tanto las leyendas de nuestra niñez. Yessenia Herrera 33
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JUST A GIRL
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Art by Manami Maxted 37
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JUST A GIRL
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JUST A GIRL
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JUST A GIRL
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JUST A GIRL
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IS THERE NO TRUTH IN BEAUTY?
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Is There No Truth in Beauty?
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IS THERE NO TRUTH IN BEAUTY?
Just A Little Bit More “Don’t start wearing makeup, or you’ll never stop”, they said. Is beauty a drug then? That first taste - a sticky clear lip gloss on naturally pink lips, a barely-brown mascara to warm wide eyes delicious, addictive. A curious voice appears, light and flirtatious, whispering: just a little…bit…more…
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Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and our greatest beholder is ourself. We write our own rules on beauty and with the adoption of new palettes and fashion trends comes assertion of confidence, a physical expression of personality, a participation in culture. No harm, no foul. But the withdrawal is accumulative. With each solo staring contest the canvas looks plainer, until last week’s paint makes no difference and the voice’s curiosity is replaced by a longing. It whines: just a little…bit…more… Yes, beauty is in the eye of the beholder, but what if all the eyes are wearing filtered lenses? The playing field is leveled but elevated to that of social media bloggers and celebrity selfies. Ideals of beauty areinflated, where even understated looks aren’t understated unless they are the most understated. No foul, until there’s harm.
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IS THERE NO TRUTH IN BEAUTY?
Maybe that tighter body con dress will accentuate the best curves, maybe a more dramatic smokey eye will bring out the green? The needy voice solidifies and drops into the stomach, bubbling like a insatiablehunger and pushing up on the chest when it’s disappointed, begging: just a little…bit…more…
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And when the paint and style can no longer scratch the itch: Just a hundred more squats, just four more laser hair removal sessions, just a thousand more dollars of injections, just an hour more of micro-bladed pain. Harm is necessary, it’s foul to look human. With no memory of it’s innocent beginnings and waiting for the next high, the voice feeds on the dull pain of perceived inadequacy and hopelessly hisses: why can’t you be just a little…bit…more… The most recent flavor - matte lavender lip stain to make your words less boring, falsies to give your eyes life, exquisitely blended contour to fix your incorrectly shaped face - sickening, and so, so addictive. Lindsay Stewart
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Fortune 56
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There’s lots of untruths to these write-ups; they’re not as ruthless as that. their nature is raw; they hate all the law, the stool pigeons, spotters and rats. ------
In 2016, women working full time were averaging only about 80% of what men were paid. In Texas specifically, women made 79% of the male average--something that calculates out to about a $10,000 difference in annual salary. It goes without saying that this numbers changes among racial groups. In 2016, Hispanic women were paid a mere 54% of what their male counterparts earned. For AfricanAmerican women, that number rises only slightly, sitting at 63%. Asian women experience the closest difference, receiving 87% of the full amount for their fields. However, ‘close’ is not good enough for us or our sisters. At the rate we’re progressing, white women are slated to reach pay equality in 2119. Hispanic women will wait until 2233, and black women will wait until 2124.
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But the law fooled around; kept taking him down, and locking him up in a cell. Till he said to me; “I’ll never be free, so I’ll meet a few of them in hell” -Bonnie Parker
FORTUNE
We don’t know about you, but we haven’t got the time to wait for change. We’re coming for our money. On the level of broad reform, women, encourage your companies to perform salary audits to monitor gender-based inequalities. Tell your representatives to take action, and mention the need for an update to The Paycheck Fairness Act (last modified in 1963). On a personal level, let’s learn to be stronger negotiators. Take a hint from two of America’s favorite outlaws, Bonnie Parker and Clyde Barrow.
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Bonnie Parker was more than a rebel--she was a poet and a lover bent on a life of glory and game. The stakes were high, but she played to win. Hers is a cautionary tale (we can’t quite condone murder), but she’s a figure we can’t help but to admire. While she’s not the proverbial Robin Hood she’s often made out to be, she’s a woman in history who made a name for her rough and rambling ways. What we can take from Bonnie and Clyde are the determined, anti-establishment attitudes that won them infamy. Women, feel empowered to take what’s yours when the taking gets tough. Love recklessly. Change the narratives around what women are and what they deserve. Take your money, and make sure you make plenty of it. Erin Kuykendall
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There was a time when I had you in the back of my mind. Our little talks were etched into vinyl, And played over and over again until I believed you meant every word. You became the trapeze swing of my memory. Reckless but memorizing. I know now, No matter how much I practice, Flying through the air will always feel like magic, but falling will somehow always remain a surprise.
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There was a time when you had me in the palm of your hand. I looked up at you and saw everything. Everything that was, everything that could be. Everything that wasn’t and could never exist. Still, I made a home at the tips of your fingers. Your love line became my lifeline. I wanted so badly to be your favorite.
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There was a time I had you close. You won’t ever admit it, But there was a moment, I had you at the heel of my platform shoes. Our backs to a door, When a few days before, You swore you would never forget about me. This time, You had me closer. Separated only by pavement, And poor timing. You still made it feel like the ocean that was once between us.
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There was a time, I would’ve cried about it. Would’ve wondered why you didn’t love me, And couldn’t be there for me. A time I would have begged my brain to break our vintage records, spill coffee all over my mental hard drive, short-circuit the pain and erase every memory of you. This time, I’ll smell the rain hit the asphalt between us. It won’t remind me of you. I won’t think of how we started and where it all began. I won’t think of monsoon season. Instead, I’ll remember everything else that is good, and fleeting. Even scars fade, because nothing lasts. Not you, not the rain, Not even forever. Catalina Casar
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