Bossier Issue 9 by Bossier Magazine

BOSSIER ISSUE 9 | SPRING 2021

Dumplings Editor-in-Chief Creative Director Managing Editor Layout Director Art Director Head of People Head of Marketing

Leina Hsu Joyce Yang Rose Dallimore Neilah Rustemi Emily Hardy Fran Mbonglou Lily Yamagata

Contributors Abigail Eastman Alanna Cronk Ava Rossides Christian Joseph Clara Ganz Ella Kay Emily Hardy Francesca Donovan Gina Kang Isabelle Toutounji Jane Cai Jess Shannon Kai Isaia Kaitlyn Wood Kate Barranco 2

Kristin Turner Lily Yamagata Maddy Langan Madeleine GibbonsShapiro Madeline Wasson Mathilda Zartman Olivia Lebo-Planas Peris Lopez Rose Dallimore Rosy Lin Sofia Kuusisto Sophia Sanchez Stephanie Leow Tara Petronio

The B-Team Editors Alex Seitel Amber Nguyen Anna Ferrazzi Emma Trone Grace Weiand Jenny Linares Jess Highland Maddy Langan Madeline Wasson Rose Dallimore Stephanie Leow Layout Designers Ava Rossides Ava Stepan Clara Ganz Gaby Gura Geritza Carrasco Ina Quadrio Curzio Jesse Fields Joyce Yang Madeline Wasson Neilah Rustemi

Residential Creators Emily Hardy Francesca Donovan Kate Barranco Mathilda Zartman Olivia Lebo-Planas Sofia Kuusisto Marketing Alexandra Giorno Kassidy Angelo Lauryn Reynolds Lily Yamagata Rebecca Glickman Outreach Fran Mbonglou Kayla Zamanian Pauline Charlot Ria Gaur Sophie Allan

Cover Art by Tara Petronio

TABLE OF CONTENTS 2 Masthead

30-31

by Ava Stepan

3 Table of Contents

32-33

by Emily Hardy

4 Letters from the Editors

34-35

by Ava Rossides

5 Issue Playlist by Neilah Rustemi

36-37

by Jesse Fields

6-7 by Geritza Carrasco

38-39

by Jesse Fields

8-9 by Clara Ganz

40-41

by Geritza Carrasco

10-11 by Ava Rossides

42-43

by Madeline Wasson

12-13 by Jesse Fields

44-45

by Joyce Yang

14-15 by Joyce Yang

46-47

by Clara Ganz

16-17 by Madeline Wasson

48-49

by Clara Ganz

18-19 by Ava Stepan

50-51

by Neilah Rustemi

20-21 by Ina Quadrio Curzio

52-53

by Francesca Donovan

22-23 by Geritza Carrasco

54-55

by Gaby Gura

24-25 by Ina Quadrio Curzio

56-57

by Madeline Wasson

26-27 by Ava Rossides

58-59

by Ava Stepan

28-29 by Gaby Gura

60-61

by Gaby Gura

Content Warnings:

racial violence, bodily harm

eating disorder, self-harm, abuse

abuse

The opinions expressed in Bossier Magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Georgetown University unless specifically stated. All content is submitted freely by individuals and may not express the views of the Bossier Magazine Staff.

Letters from the Editors It has been a frustrating and devastating year. For many, whether having lost a loved one, faced job and housing insecurity, suffered mental health problems, or rallied against racism, life will not return to “normal,” if it ever was. To the one reading this, thank you for your strength. I wish you love in all things so that you will never have to brave life without it. Many of the works in the following pages were created from uneasily introspective spaces. Give them the room to move you. You may be surprised by the polyphony of voices, where words, images, and ideas come to mirror and complement each other. It makes me feel connected when I have often felt lonely these recent weeks. Goodbye for now, though I will see you soon. Let me play you out to some Arlo Parks— We're all learning to trust our bodies, making peace with our own distortions You shouldn't be afraid to cry in front of me. I promise. Love,

Watching this issue come together has been a whirlwind. This semester has felt like a weird mix of successes and failures, of catching glimpses of a hopeful future before quickly being reminded of the harsh realities of the present. While so much has continued to happen in the world, our issue and our community has continued steadily growing and changing as well. Each piece that you're about to read or see is a reflection of a piece of someone during this unusual semester. It’s a reflection of those in isolation, those in mourning, those in periods of immense growth. These pieces come from all over the place, from childhood bedrooms to the apartments of newfound co-artists. This issue is a living reminder of how our community has fragmented, but how each fragment has simultaneously continued growing, shifting, and changing shape.

When we all come back together, we'll no doubt take on a different shape too. What that will look like? We likely won’t know for a while. Yet despite all the uncertainty, I know that if we’re able to continue creating art, joy, and beauty under such strange and uncertain circumstances, I’m excited for all the art, joy, and beauty to come. With love,

Leina Hsu, Editor-in-Chief

Joyce Yang, Creative Director

Laura Beth sits up straight on her sofa, chestnuts buckling back down her spine in a cacophony that startles the dry silence. She trades in her weathered eyes for a yellow coat; the color is of pale marigolds that had too once smiled vibrantly. Wearing the same tepid expression, she snaps the door behind her. Rubber soles crunch into snow like teeth into ripe watermelons- why even bother trying to think of anything else? She walks with a clacking jaw, and her tongue brushes violent against chattering teeth. All but her voice snuffed out in this imaginary conversation.

Sundrops spill into the cavities of the wicker veranda ceiling like clumps of egg yolk leaking from the sky. A waiting Laura Beth crunches her teeth cold into another cube of crisp watermelon, trying to contain the giddy lift in her cheeks as she chews, embarrassed though no one is watching. Soon enough, she hears old bike tires crunch into hot black pavement and she rushes out, snapping the door behind. Together, they carry out the walk like always (a promised forever that now feels forsaken). . Snorting laughs, awkward hands, flushed with innocent youth. Their silhouettes tell stories, and darken as the cotton white clouds in a powder sky fray into dark wisps in a nectarine terrain. In simplicity, there wears this reliable joy in the gritty sidewalks and in the zigzag gnats and in the humid heavy air. They round five bends. His hand points to two foreboding trees, and he flowers in a toothy, most comfortable smile. These two trees swelled with effulgent green leaves by the hundreds- so much that they, on opposite side of the road, intertwined in the median. Laura Beth had never noticed these trees in her own neighborhood (he noticed much about her she had not). They stood there in silence for a moment, adjacent to the trees, fingers grazing past each other like leaves as a summer wind picked up.

Laura Beth knows the spot, by the mailbox number two-thirty three on the fifth bend round the neighborhood if you start left, the second if right. With dry eyes, she looked up to the two twin Trees with remorse and, with a stomach so heavy with its emptiness, speculated their looming greatness: from formidable foundations branching out in crooked twigs in a confused geometric web. But yet, there stood dead air between the tips of the two thinnest hairs on the opposite Trees. So close yet so far away, the gap only about a hand’s width apart. Her sigh mushroomed up into skyward pillows of air, perhaps mingling amongst the jigsaw arms of the Trees, desperately trying to make sense of what went wrong. Winter is peeling away at Laura Beth’s lips and she drifts into a scene. The same one anyways, again, as always.

trees

Collecting a drooping neck back into fixture, Laura Beth, with eyes stinging against the buffeting morning, looks up at the Trees again. Her gaze runs in shaky tremors along their naked frame, the raw skeletons of Earth. Most of all, fixated with disparity, on the unforgiving gap: only a hand’s width apart in between. How many silent months fit in this gap? How many unspoken words that flickered off her tongue on walks like this? How many hollow nights did she spend craving the summer, when the leaves of the trees gently embraced each other? Clinging to the fading memory, she was reminded in the dry December air, of the hand that was no longer holding hers.

by Gina Kang

New Growth

Maddy Langan

“Mariama illuminata” by Peris Lopez

“Untitled” by Gina Kang i poured out my heart, mama into my cereal bowl, in the shape of a broken babe's cradle in a casket in your eyes again our teeth, they're aligned in perfect, broken lines nearly wrong, still this weak so i might lose myself a little each time in inhaling your blurry penchants smiling so terribly on the extremes but then the dead air swallowed my intentions and rumbled like hungry oceans as if my lungs refuse to fill with oxygen for your and me both i'm leaking through in catacombs-only overcompensating in apologetic echoes and took to an ego, swollen: the left of my ribs no longer shakes at your cries because my head's bound at heaven but my hands search for hell the words always tumbled grossly through this orthodox paradox of awfully absent minds (tangled like used rosaries) the moon falls out of my mouth and i'm stuck on crescented replies stirring something kin to nothing but emptier existence, untitled.

LILY YAMAGATA

To all The pe

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To all The pe and as a Tee

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To all The pe

leT me jusT sa and excITed. I ThInk abouT fe world and mys Those of you I’m Them. I learne wITh me as a s on so TIghT, I w ImagIne my lIf of my frIends, love me and Th of you wIll lea good. even Thos fresh and brIg

To All The PeoPLe I hAve MeT Before by abIgaIl easTman

eople I meT when I was young,

To all The people I have meT In The pasT year,

xygen on my flame necessary To Turn IT InTo a uT wITh glowIng embers, buT for many, Those dIe y ever even see The lIghT. you InsTIlled me wITh ou InsTIlled me wITh love, and you InsTIlled me d laughTer. even my gymnasTIcs coaches, oughT so awful, TaughT me To be sTrong and challenges To see success. To all The people ld, Thank you for TeachIng me values, and courage; I am glad you goT To ITely lIttle gIrl I was. I feared oved all.

I am so sorry. I don’T know who I was, buT I know I wasn’T me. I was lIvIng a double lIfe, and despITe TryIng To keep up appearances, many TImes I faIled. you meT me as a mess. Those of you who knew me from before saw me Turn InTo someThIng you dId noT recognIze, for I barely recognIzed myself. I was an unconTrolled foresT fIre, and I dId noT care whaT I burnT In my wake. some of you saw me as a happy, crazy, lIfe of The parTy frIend, an enjoyable, chaoTIc enIgma. I am so sorry. I know I hurT people, buT I dId noT mean To. some of you sTayed wITh me, and for ThaT I am Thankful. I hope I can make IT up To everyone. I wanT To erase ThIs Image of me ThaT I Truly can no longer see. I was scared, I was losT, I was unaware, I was noT myself.

eople I meT In adolescence eenager,

ou. a loT of you were awful To me. I was everyone Is aT ThaT age, buT I leT you my InnermosT fears and drIve Them InTo orry If you meT me durIng my crIpplIng rIed To remaIn as cheery as I could on The was sad and I losT The spark ThaT carrIed me ung. fuck you To The people who I ThoughT were my Ted you and you almosT ruIned me. I lurked In The g my frIends, only able To see myself as The besT Tv show They sTared In. a few of you ThaT have saw In me whaT I couldn’T see In myself. you goT of me, The sIlly one. Thank you for drIvIng ouT or showIng me ThaT I had and deserved whaT my Told me I dId noT. Thank you for helpIng me laugh Ing me despITe my awkwardness and all my lows. sTIll very awkward, buT I embrace everyone one of Tead of hIdIng from Them.

eople I meT aT The begInnIng of college,

ay, you are lucky. you meT me when I was renewed wanTed To explore and I had no TIme To even ear. I was curIous; I wanTed To learn abouT The self. There were defInITely some lows, buT even m no longer close wITh held my hand Through ed how To be my own; I broughT my InsecurITIes sTrengTh, noT a weakness. some of you have held was suffocaTIng In The besT way possIble. I can’T fe wIThouT you. even Though I’ve saId ThIs abouT all There Is jusT someThIng dIfferenT. The way you he way you supporT me runs deep. I am sure some ave my lIfe, buT for now our frIendshIps TasTe so se of you I am noT close To, every encounTer feels ghT. Thank you for brIngIng ouT The lIfe In me.

To all The people I have meT In The pasT Three monThs, IT has been hard, buT I am fInally here. you waTched me sTruggle To fInd myself agaIn. you waTched me reIgnITe Those embers ThaT were burIed so deep They were pracTIcally coal, makeshIfT fabrIc flames. Thank you for helpIng and supporTIng me, even If IT meanT waTchIng me sTruggle. I was searchIng and fInally found a lIghTer.

To all The people I meeT now, I am fInally okay agaIn. I am happy lIke I used To be. I am confIdenT and full of laughs and love and I know who I am. The flame Is burnIng so hIgh, lIke a beachsIde bonfIre. There are momenTs where I am anxIous and scared, buT I wanT To be open abouT Them, work Through Them InsTead of lettIng Them consume me. I am no longer scared, no longer walkIng In The dark. I am my own maIn characTer, and I am lovIng and lIvIng IT.

To all The people I have noT meT, I hope you meeT me In a good perIod. I hope you conTInue To feed my flame. I wanT To remaIn The maIn characTer. I wanT To sTay Truly happy, so ThaT you don’T have To see The dark sIde of me. If you do, I apologIze In advance. IT’s someThIng I can’T conTrol and I don’T mean To hurT you. I don’T wanT To lean on you for supporT, buT someTImes I wIll noT be able To help IT. Thank you for hopefully undersTandIng ThaT I am noT always easy. lIke you, I am fInally meeTIng myself. I wIll be okay, no matter whaT. I can handle ThIs.

Art by

Lily

ta aga am

17 17

BY BY OLIVIA OLIVIA LEBO-PLANAS LEBO-PLANAS

SA AN NA ALLP P--O OB BE ELL A AIIV VIILLO OY YB B S

“Working History”- ollage y o hia anchez

cw: death of a loved one

from 9-10pm by Stephanie Leow

lifeline pulled at nine of nighttime

let’s peruse the news of which side will lose: bad news, sad news, nothing new, they knew the right would decline saving lives with a little money in people’s pockets for lost jobs, the endless dearth of nose swabs-but, oh, did you hear that uncle got it? that thing on our tongues killing our lungs? bad news, they pulled his lifeline at nine of nighttime, maybe we knew, with his empty pockets and that infected hospice care nothing new, no one really cared for him or us and back in the city they sit and discuss while he’s heaving through the hour of nine, a virus seals the end of another lifetime

sad news, it’s ten, and your uncle died

Every day a piece deteriorates, But who truly was Did I do enough? Was it too little to I hope for the bes I expect the worst

Breathe in, Breathe out. As the sun rises In comes another day of doubt. Clouded is my mind, Permanently scarred– Will life ever be better? How did I make it this far?

e of me

s I?

oo late? st, t.

My heart shatters thinking; If this chaos will ever stop, ever change? Engulfed in my mind are fear and sadness At the end of every day. I close my eyes to end this madness. This is not typical of my human nature, But this life has shown me enough danger. The world acts as if I asked for this, But this isn’t my living wish. I fear for my loved ones, fear for myself, Another day of moving on, I suppose– When can I leave this hell? Breathe in, Breathe out. Another day, Barely surviving on this earth. What a price I must pay.

Poem: “Chaos of the Internal Struggle” by Christian Joseph Artwork: “awhile ago” by Maddy Langan

LESBIAN COWGIRLS It’s 95 degrees today and I’m sitting outside trying and failing to read a book about Lesbian Cowgirls the one where the cishet male author showcases his laughable lack of knowledge about my body So instead, I’m thinking of you and how we danced in the sand at Coney Island sweaty and smiling I’m freaking the fuck out because I don’t usually think of you I promise That when the leaves fall the autumn air never speaks your name In its whips and whispers

The winter does not smell of you but maybe that’s because my nose is so cold and so red that I have become numb to your scent Your face is not in the puddles that pool on the curbside during the damp days of spring But today it’s 95 degrees and I’m wearing that same dress that I wore that day in Central Park the one you lifted up Do you remember how your fingers felt against my body? Because I remember the way you made me blush. And now I wonder if Your touch will haunt me forever in the heat A Poem by Jess Shannon

Paranormal Activity

PHOTO SERIES BY ELLA KAY 29

by Sofia Kuusisto

Petrified.

“reflections” by Madeline Wasson i am from the feet of a twelve-year-old teddy bear, from party city hats and off-brand sandals. i am from flexibility, tradition, resilience. i am from carpenter bees. the bees which used to scare me, now some of my oldest friends. the bees that follow me. i am from driveways that turn the soles of your feet hard, homemade meatballs with homemade red sauce on top. i am from climbing trees and hearing the branches snap underneath you. I am from forgetting how to remember. even here, i’m from movement and stagnation, change and consistency, the buzz and the calm. i am from the bees, they’re still there, following me. i see myself in empty potato chip bags and black television screens; cobblestone streets, inconsistent; disco balls, reflecting sunlight on the walls. i see myself in shipwrecks, in skee ball, secret handshakes, stolen time. when I see a sunset, i see myself. i see myself in pride and indulgence. i see myself in lines still needed to be drawn. passing an empty storefront window, i might catch a glimpse of someone who looks like me. but if i were to watch a leaf float gracefully, stuck in one of those swirly breezes, or should i drive past that cathedral on the way to my cousin’s apartment -so demanding of awe i’m still unsure how it was constructed -there i am.

“Garden Portal” by Tara Petroni 35

Manic Pixie Dream Girl by Abigail Eastman What is a manic pixie dream girl? It’s a phrase coined by Nathan Rabin to describe a fantasy figure who exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures. The one big difference between Rabin’s manic pixie dream girl and me, is that Rabin’s girl helps the male character to discover something bigger than himself, the key to life. My existence as a manic pixie dream girl solely applies to the sex lives of boys who I have stumbled upon or who have stumbled upon me. I started a class at the beginning of this semester called Women and Sexuality in the Middle East. We talked about the Orient, and how westerners’ desire for its extreme otherness sensationalized and sexualized the Orient. From the first time I read this, it resonated with me personally. With every person I have had sex with, it seems that I am to be explored, as if I truly am from an otherworldly realm, something curious and exciting. I am not 36

one of those relationship girls who constantly has a boyfriend. I am the girl who boys use to live out their fantasies and maybe entertain for a few weeks, before moving on to the next, leaving me behind, stuck in my own reality. I don’t think I help any boy with their character development, just as an outlet for libido and a desire for exoticism. I am a fever dream of eccentricity meant to be tasted, not savored. But the more I think about it, I know that I am not an agentless body who just so happens to give off the vibe of a sexual nymph; I both subconsciously and actively portray myself as this. I wear glitter every time I go out knowing that people will stare; I physically transform myself into a fairyish dream. I enjoy being desired, being objectified. I like when boys look at me curiously as if I am something they don’t quite understand, but want to. I realize that the enjoyment of objectification could be due to some perverse idea society has ingrained in me, but nevertheless I still like it. I know how to be seductive, and in order to be seductive you must be effervescent and

elusive. I put myself to be sexualized and my own hidden more. I want to a boy to stay because they let myself be enlighten me

in situations to be explored; I allow myself just out of reach. I even use them to serve purposes. Yet many times I end up wanting be the manic pixie dream girl that enchants in Neverland with me. And when they leave, always do, I end up sad and feeling used. But I used knowing that that will be the case. Brain, on what you are trying to accomplish.

There is part of me that enjoys meaningless sex. I’m 20; I’m having fun; I’m exploring myself and pleasure and partners, and it does not always have to mean something. Sometimes a moment of passion is just that, a moment. Other times, I wish they would stay. I wish I was more than an exploration, that someone would want to know everything that’s going on in my world. But then again, I don’t let them. I allow myself to disappear back into a reality far away. I guess this is some mechanism. I overly sexualize somehow come to believe that a boy’s attention. I crave the even, that comes with sex. emotionally intimate with someone. level of intimacy, that it should who has seen and touched you at a block in opening up about who wind within my head. Maybe because who you have only had sex with. If then decide to leave? It would be from being hurt, the unintended just in a slightly different way.

Artwork: Paranormal Activity Ella Kay

sort of defense/coping myself because I have is the only way to obtain closeness, and serotonin But I don’t know how to be Sex itself is such an intense be easy to open up to someone your most vulnerable. But I have I am, the mazes that twist and it’s easy to get over someone they truly know who you are and unbearable. By protecting myself consequence is still getting hurt,

y t i v i t c a l a m r o n a r a P Ella Kay

By: Madeleine Gibbons-Shapiro College taught me that Everything is a Construct, woven lies and Systems we are forced to adhere to, destined to fail that Truth is not objective someone else’s fuzzy lie could be my fuzzy reality that Depth is rarely a sign of Longevity, or Loyalty, or Security that Love takes work, and no matter how much armor you erect, your mind will unravel sometimes, that you can drink all you want, stay up those extra hours in lau, dance with that stranger, do everything right, but Regret is inescapable. that 2am is early. so is 10am, in its own way.

that your Body is just as precious as your Mind, and Gentleness and Care are often empty words.

that 2am is early. so is 10am, in its own way. that your Body is just as precious as your Mind, and Gentleness and Care are often empty words. that Laughing, even just for a few seconds, can remedy days of Silence. the Best parts are: Writing something profound Absorbing new knowledge Loving who you are Being who you want Smiling easily, even just for a few seconds, Walking those same uneven cobblestone streets, Sitting in those same musty burgundy chairs, as the trees change and the air grows clearer The cycle of us here, in this city of Music, power, prestige, history Revolves again, and we are expelled, Ushering in new minds, for their version of this Convoluted beautiful masterpiece,

Modern Loneliness by Clara Ganz

College may never be the same again. But I am grateful for every last sip of its Sweet nectar I got to taste, even the bitter parts And for all of the times I have been broken down, I have healed and grown back, battered but stronger. I take with me the joys of youthful innocence, the tools to examine everything with a bit more clarity, And best of all, the family of love and warmth and passion, that I always knew was out there, but couldn’t quite believe existed until I was steeped into its soul.

by L t r ily Yamagata A

1/14/21

by Rose Dallimore lately i have been struck with moments of mourning for my childhood. i was making coffee yesterday at 7:30 AM and listening to Morning Edition and Frying an Egg and My Mind Was drifting thinking about how shitty the wifi is here and when my next paycheck will come and i was stopped cold by memory, shocked into that past reality when not everything was warm and peaceful but it was mostly soft and chance, opportunity, potential to do and be anything, creativity, imagination, and laughter were coded into my mornings and then i became Independent Young and the things i crafted for myself have been lovely sometimes and sometimes. astounding . sometimes shit. sometimes self sabotage and when i was making coffee yesterday at 7:30 AM and listening to Morning Edition and Frying an Egg and My Mind Was drifting thinking about how shitty the wifi is here and when my next paycheck will come and realized im growing up For Real i had a moment of utter vulnerability longing and then gratitude. because i have grown up ok maybe a little weird but pretty good and i write poetry to some folks’ liking ....

Ella Kay

PARANORMAL

activity

God is a Night Owl

God, would it be okay if you held me up?

Propped my limp body with crutches and twine, Even if I am too human to recognize you are there. Will you love me even if I may never admit you are present? Would you still watch me even if I will not exalt your name? Could you be my companion, and love me as your creation? Could you be there when I cannot understand the day’s unceasing trauma?

You left the light on in the church last night. My friend told me, “God is a night owl.” Were you there? Do you know? Could you have seen how decrepit my soul had become? You hold me in these moments where I am utterly untethered. Even though I deny you, there is some hospitable quality to these encounters, And I feel you guiding me, offering respite.

Could you keep doing that for me? Could you be there? Really be there. Not a pastor, preacher, priest, and especially not a man But you. Could you sit in the lonely, tempestuous night with me? Could you leave the light on?

by Alanna Cronk

Azn Glow

Jane Cai

Artwork by Lily Yamagata 50

(magic isn't real) cw: eating disorder, self-harm, abuse I do magic Protect Remove Numb myself Dissociation Mental defect Emotional walls An issue, a curse Take scalding showers Fuck those I shouldn’t Love those I shouldn’t Ignore others

Poem by Anonymous

I take hits Punches Drugs I shouldn’t Physical, emotional over-exertion Under eating Over eating Abusing my body Saying nothing Feeling nothing Abusing my mind

The author of this work included the following resources to accompany their piece: National Sexual Assault Hotline: https://www.rainn.org/about-national-sexual-assault-telephone-hotline Suicide Prevention Hotline: https://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/ Self Harm Crisis Text Line: https://www.crisistextline.org/topics/self-harm/#what-is-self-harm-1

Physically numb, magic Emotionally blank, magic I do magic (magic isn’t real) Protection fades Walls crumble suffering, burning Empty mind, empty stomach, empty soul

I search for the magic the numbness I need it The numbness nothing like the pain I avoid rip me apart So I do magic (magic isn’t real)

Phot o by

Washing You Off dd a M

gan n a yL 55

Letter to Lady Bitch Ray By Mathilda Zartman

Dr. Reyhan Şahin is a German-Turkish linguist, author, and journalist who also raps as her stage persona, Lady Bitch Ray. She recently released her newest book, Madonna, as print and online copies and as an audiobook on Spotify. In it, she reflects on the influence of Madonna on her life as a person, musician, and feminist. While making her respect for Madonna clear, Dr. Şahin also problematizes her work, explaining how whiteness has privileged Madonna in her music-making. While this book is a reflection and critique on society, Dr. Şahin explains how her music also serves as a feminist and anti-racist critique and as an outlet to vent her fury at the inequalities plaguing society. Named after a popular Azerbaijani song, one could say Dr. Şahin was born to be a musician.

Brief an Lady Bitch Ray Sehr geehrte Frau Doktor Şahin, Thank you for writing Madonna. Even as someone who wasn’t raised to feel shame for human sexuality, it’s still been difficult not to absorb the constant subliminal messages from society that debase people, women especially, for simply being human. I want to thank you also for a significant theme in Madonna. This theme is one I often come back to: the dangers of operating with a binary lens. You mainly focus on this theme during your discussion of the Heilige/Hure dichotomy imposed on so many women and nonbinary femmes. It’s imposed on Madonna, you, and me too. When a woman or nonbinary person embraces their sexuality or is even remotely sex-positive, they automatically become a wh*Re B*TCH sl*t or some other term from the wide range of them used to vilify femme-presenting people. It’s always presented as an either-or. Either too much of this, or too little of that. Either too attractive, or not attractive enough. This double bind plays directly into why the political meaning of your artwork goes unacknowledged behind a flurry of scandal accusations. As though art can’t scandalize and meaningfully comment on society. These extremes can be found throughout your piece, as observed in your critique on white feminism. Specifically, you mention white feminism’s marginalization of Muslim women, in that Muslim women in Western countries are only allowed to belong to two categories. Either they wear a headscarf and are oppressed by their community and religion, or they’ve been emancipated by the West through assimilation and do not wear a headscarf. There’s no room for nuance in each individual woman’s situation, they aren’t allowed in some of these--ironically democratic--countries to elect how to outwardly present their identity by themselves, for themselves. The racism and xenophobia in this thought process is so clear, too. Could you imagine an American woman of European descent wearing a purity ring, travelling to a Western European country and constantly having to face accusations of being oppressed? Would she be met with anger and hatred for her personal choice? Would her appearance be censored? The answers ring so loud and so clear. I also want to mention my appreciation for your acknowledgement of Madonna’s influence on feminist movements, while also holding her accountable for cultural appropriation and using her whiteness at the expense of people of color. Madonna’s racism and perpetuation of white supremacy are inexcusable, but in presenting her as both problematic and a contributor to feminism, you’re helping to break down the either-or, zero-sum binary so many use as a framework for viewing the spectral world around. You’re clearing the way for more people to be viewed in shades of gray, holistically and uncategorically. Accepting the nature of humanity to be contradictory, to occur in spectrums, will be the way to keep society’s progress in forward motion. A slow rage has been building inside me concerning what you’ve written about in Madonna, but with it, a worrying and perhaps faster-growing cynicism as well. Your words and thoughts have fed my fire and snuffed out vegetative pessimism for me, and I know for others as well. Vielen, vielen Dank für Ihre Kunst. Mit freundlichen Grüßen Mathilda Zartman 59

BY: AVA ROSSIDES 60

three generations Ruth, Greta, Michelle