jar a zine
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! HUMAN / Summer 2016
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! Cover Art by
Adeli Loya
The Summer Issue:
human. I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am. -Sylvia Plath
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photo by Laura Hutchinson
Artists: Adeli Loya Kyle McCarthyZenith Farin Nomi KligerLuna JorgeKaleb Davies Anonymous ! Claire Schermeister Hazel Dunning Dan Bui HuiMaya Roe Clara Chin Laura HutchinsonTodd Potter Taryn O’Connell Sebi Mendoza Michael SunLayla Michalopolous Kithumini Jayasiri Haseeb Khan
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Enter Here
Introducing new voices and remembering the best of Frisson,
Let’s celebrate Art. Ideas. Hope. Youth. Culture. Expression. Bravery. Speaking out.
The things that make us human.
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I!am!activist! I!am!wanderer! I!am!lover! I!am!artist! I!am!human.! ! ! ! ! !
jar
Inquiries: cchin.contact@gmail.com inkgriots@gmail.com !
In “Keep Your Head Up,” Tupac remembers Marvin Gaye, in “Famous,” Kanye excerpts Nina Simone, and in “Mortal Man,” Kendrick samples an interview with Tupac. Yes, it is important to pay homage to teachers, gurus, and inspirations. One of my greatest happens to be Sylvia Plath who, of course, wrote The Bell Jar. I recognize that it is strange, dangerous territory to say you look up to Ms. Plath. It’s a little bit like being a poet who looks up to Edgar Allan Poe, a composer who looks up to Beethoven, or a guitarist who looks up to Jimi Hendrix. Plus, much of her life was wrought with tragedy. But this is not why I admire her—the fame, the tragedy, or because she’s THE feminist icon. All in all, I have found Sylvia Plath to be a very brave person. Known for being quiet, her literary voice is bold and unique. Exhibiting sensitivity and isolation, her writing nonetheless celebrates the beauty of the world, and her narrator often emerges from horrific situations with a refreshing sense of idealism. Sylvia is not afraid to be an artist or an outsider, necessary qualities that create beauty or spark change in a sometimes dull, unfair world. In addition to its literary meaning, “jar” is also a verb. In the Cambridge English Dictionary—“To give a sudden shake,” “If a noise jars you, it shocks you,” “To cause action or activity, or to have an effect.” Art, whether its written, visual, or performance, generally creates an electric effect on the observer. In addition, many of our pieces focus on political events, thereby calling readers to take action. In regards to this issue, I would like to apologize for taking so long to release it. Nevertheless, it was time well spent. After finishing my first year of college and being away from home for an unexpected internship, I learned a lot of impractical yet fun intellectual things, and practical (but boring) things like doing Excel Spreadsheets. Yes, even artists need to get off their high horse and create Excel Spreadsheets; it did wonders for this zine. I also looked for inspiration in other magazines, like Lucky Peach, Kinfolk, and Pitchfork. For the pieces, I considered this question: What makes us human? What aspects of humanity did my fellow artists capture? In them, I saw activists, wanderers, and lovers. And what better way is there to express the body electric than through art? I have decided not to contribute my own writing, other than the editorial pages, and to only create supplementary illustrations where needed. Finally, I am very proud of what we have created together. After watching the movie Captain Fantastic, I started thinking a lot about utopia and lost paradise. Isn’t it sad that paradise is always lost? But there’s a good way to think about it too, one that I hope Sylvia Plath would agree with—as artists, the best we can do is use our imagination to create our own paradise. Clara !
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Table of
Contents
1/chapter 1/activist 2/art by sebi mendoza 3/morsel by kyle mccarthy 4 overpriced coffee by zenith farin 7/selma sixteen editorial 9/illustrations by clara chin 10/photography by laura hutchinson 13/chapter 2/wanderer 14/trees of light by todd potter 15/losing fate by haseeb khan 18/how to be by kaleb davies 19/for the plane editorial 21/photography by claire schermeister 22/story of the shooting star flower by maya roe 23/love at first by michael sun 24/the long walk by layla michalopolous 25/photography by kithumini jayasiri 27/chapter 3/lover 28/salt point by maya roe 29/other women editorial 33/feelings: part 3 by anonymous 35/golden girl by hazel dunning 36/sinking girl by hazel dunning 37/dear life by anonymous 38/the diner by luna Jorge 39/a day in the life by claire schermeister 42/ photo by claire schermeister 43/conversation#47 by nomi kliger
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ACTIVIST
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art by Sebi Mendoza ! ! ! ! !
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Morsel 3
Kyle McCarthy
I just need a pinch of luck Something to flick the flopping dance That frolicks in the sun's glint Oh how I feel stuck in the shine My poverty has taught me of the perverse Or perversion of self worth A soul is naught but a dollar The leaking lips inflection is mere commerce How will I scale the crystal spire? Pain reflects and breeds artistic beauty I vomit on my own steppings Looking down through my mess and the transparent stone I've created The double helix binds me to these droppings Of fear and stress mixed with sickness Hours bleed into quickness All of this madness is just a second Behind the blackened pastel iris Of the homeless !
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Overpriced Coffee 4
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Zenith Farin
Like millions of Americans and other creatures of this world I am a victim of... Coffee addiction Stained yellow teeth Jittery nights, loud outbursts Seventeen and naive I spend...let's see‌90% of my allowance on overpriced coffee Hit up that Starbucks Maybe a Coffee Bean But I need that Venti Mocha Frappe Notice this, notice where all these coffee places are in this city Those underground cafes in Downtown where you get your $5 coffees Preoccupied by your drink and the rush, Do you notice the man in rags holding a used coffee cup to collect the spare drops of coins? People walk in and out of coffee shops Spending $5 for a cup But across the street a man hasn't ever seen so much money Let alone enjoy a piping hot cup of coffee Which you do every morning We are constantly faced with class differences in this society Yet what do we do? !
cont. ->
The juxtaposition of the city places the rich and the poor next to each other on the bus But no one wants to admit it Take the $5 you spend on your coffee Deduct let's say $3 Use $2 for a McDonald's coffee and hand the rest to a man in rags or stuff it in the cashier's tip box Don't get me wrong, I'm no saint Heck I admit to have cheated on some tests But when I remember the woman holding the "will do anything for food" sign by the freeway entrance is just as human as you and me and our children's children I think I have the time and strength to reach into my Gucci wallet and hand her some change Please, oh dear lord, please don't give me those excuses She's faking it He could take advantage of you They will use it on drugs They should just get a job First of all, if a stranger seems dangerous on the street you should be smart enough to identify such and stay away Second, you don't know their stories What got them there or their troubles But you have eyes to see the cart they push around And the dark bags under their sullen eyes Third, they are people, too. Basic necessities of human life are Oxygen Food Water, maybe some Netflix Here in America we use so much resources we go over the Earth's carrying capacity YET in America, the land of the free and the home of the brave, 5 !
one million seven hundred fifty thousand mouths go unfed Maybe even more No roofs on their heads Instead we place spikes on their havens Arrest them for misconduct or look straight ahead as they ask for bus fare How can we be called a humanity When children in developing countries Swim across a river wearing their sibling's hand me downs just to get to school While teenagers of this modern society throw a fit cause they didn't get that IPhone 5s, excuse me, IPhone 6 plus I am ashamed to say I'm part of such a humanity I am ashamed to say on more than one occasion I have been stopped from handing a dollar to the poor man in the wheelchair I am ashamed to say I forget at times the homeless are humans too and poverty is as real as my skin Humanity is unity When are we going to unite To make equality real Where are these billionaires with their "helping hands"? So you with your overpriced coffee What are you going to do for humanity?
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Selma Sixteen !
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If you don't stand for something you will fall for anything. – Malcom X
The United States is now a “minority-majority” nation, according to the U.S. News and World Report. Roughly half the country’s population consists of racial minorities. But what does this really mean? Cities like Los Angeles are extremely diverse, and towns like Garden Grove and Torrance may even be majority Asian—but many towns in states like New Hampshire are 95% white. In some areas, some people hold close to their racial identity and bond over a shared heritage, while elsewhere, race is not an issue or a consideration. But regardless of personal ties to racial identity (or lack thereof), it’s undeniable that race plays a role in politics on the national level. In an America where we’re diverse yet homogenous, interconnected yet isolated, the words of activists from 20th century activists resonate with our current issues.
As you know, Martin Luther King Jr led a march from Selma to Montgomery, leading to the passage of the Voting Rights Act. The act expanded voting rights not only for AfricanAmericans, but also for other racial minorities, women, and Americans with disabilities. In Shelby County v. Holder in 2013, the Supreme Court struck down parts of the Voting Rights Act that it deems no longer applicable. Our 2016 general election will be the first time that new restrictions will come into effect. Yuri Kochiyama, Asian-American activist who gained prominence for her ties to Malcom X and her anti-war activism during the Vietnam War, said, "The legacy I would like to leave is that people try to build bridges and not walls.” Her words build resistance against presidential candidate Donald Trump, who said, “I will build a great, great wall on our southern border.” This is one of many examples of Trump’s anti-immigrant, racist rhetoric.
Recently, five police officers were killed in Texas and two in Baton Rouge, while African American civilians were killed by police in Minnesota, Louisiana, and most recently, in Maryland. Black Americans are 2.5 times more likely than white Americans to be shot and killed by police—and more likely to be unarmed. Nevertheless, the words of Barack Obama, support from both sides of the aisle (think Newt Gingrich and Paul Ryan), as well as the convening of unlikely allies (think Bloods and Crips) show a glimmer of unity, togetherness, and hopefully, change.
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Yuri Kochiyama Martin Luther King Jr.
Malcom X
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10 for Pictured right: A man rests against his sign made Albany's Break Free protest, one of many protests worldwide that aimed to draw attention to the injustices that the oil and gas industries create and perpetuate. Albany's event in particular illuminated the health impacts resulting from the antiquated and explosion-prone trains used to transport crude oil through the city; the rails are immediately adjacent to low-income housing developments (May 2016).
10-12 photography by Laura Hutchinson
illustrations by Clara Chin
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Protesters chant and carry banners as they march through Albany as part of 'Break Free' (May 2016)
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Protesters organize on the Green following Divest Dartmouth's Big Green Rally (April 2016)
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WANDERER !
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photograph by Claire Schermeister
Trees of Light !
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Wind whispers softly to the trees of light, As I wander through the forest barefoot, Dancing to the gentle ocean breeze, Salty yet serene like swelling seas, Ready to bellow their perish song, So I listen and sing along. Leaves crunch and twigs snap, But I cannot go back I say, For it will be fifty years before I return To the land of the lost, land of living, It's time to be forgiving. Static bloats the potent air, So I strum the guitar you gave me And play the perish song, Like it was meant to be played, I raise my voice like you raised your glass, "For what?" I ask, these trees of light, Twenty years later and I think I know, It was not to love and leave, Like I used to believe, Or go, go and see the snowy globe, It was to dance with your eyes closed, And sing your lungs out, So I stand here under this tree of light And sing your perish song.
Todd Potter
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Losing Fate - Haseeb Khan
They say it’s darkest just before dawn, but you don’t realize just how right they are until you discover it for yourself. 15
The Pre-Dawn Darkness crept around me as I inched forward. The concrete structures in front of me seemed to be engulfed in an ocean of shadow, with only the street lights giving way to the path I stood on. But perhaps the most menacing part of it all was the air. With each breath I took, I could feel myself falling to pieces. It was as though it was slowly killing me. I could hear him taunting me. “Brilliant, Haseeb. First you think it’s a good idea to stop taking your Thalassemia pills for three straight days. Then you decide to sneak out of your house to go run at 4 am. No pills means no iron, no iron means deformed blood cells, deformed blood cells meant no oxygen intake. That, plus the harshly cold air around you, is a recipe for success. You know, if your plan is to end up dead on the street.” Now I’m not suicidal, stupid, or crazy, but I am brash. I like to remind myself that my life isn’t scripted, that fate doesn't always dictate me. That I can choose to break patterns and the monotony of it all. But sometimes “defying fate” screws me over. Something snapped. I started coughing, and it turned into a fit. I bent down, both hands covering my mouth. It felt as though I had daggers in my throat. I sturdied myself and looked down at my hands, painted red in blood after my bout with the toxic, cold air. I need to get home, now. I started running. Bad Idea #2. I started off fine. It was a regular sprint and I was making good time, but my good friend, the air, wasn't going to allow that. I started coughing, again. Ignore it. Keep going. I kept pace. More coughing. This time I saw a red glimmer. Ignore it. Keep going. I sped up. Now I was coughing profusely. Ignore it. Keep going. And then it hit me. My lungs couldn’t take anymore abuse. Fate threw me a well-timed blow. I tripped and fell. Hard. My head crashed on the sidewalk first, and the rest followed suit. I screamed. No one came to help. Screams dont mean anything if no one is around to listen. “Look at you, even the sidewalk is kicking your ass.” I stopped coughing. I guess the air decided I had enough. The sidewalk had been merciful—only a cut to the temple, which took over the job
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of wasting whatever blood I had left. I looked up, the night sky above me, but it was blurred, and I couldn’t tell if the cause was the fog or my new concussion. “This must be what hell looks like...” And then I saw it. My eyes widened. My heart raced. My mind filled with rage. I started laughing. Loudly. I must have looked crazy. To random passersby, I was just a 14 something year old boy laid across a sidewalk in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night, with blood on his clothes, dripping from his mouth, and slipping from his skull. Of all things, laughing. I spoke to the nothingness around me. “You think you’re funny, don’t you? A Shooting star? Really? That’s the best you could do? A police car. An ambulance. At this point I would settle for some dude who actually goes for runs at this hour. Instead of all that, you give me a shooting star? In all of your divine wisdom, this is the best course of action?” And then it came to me. This wasn't a blessing. It was an insult. “You’re nothing more than a child,” he was saying, “and this is what children wish on, right? So go ahead. Make a wish. Let’s see what good it’ll do you.” No. No one was going to come save me. Not a police car. Not an ambulance. Not some dude who actually goes for runs at this hour. And certainly. Not. God. I got up. It didn't matter that I couldn't feel my legs. It didn't matter that I was still losing blood. It didn't matter that my lungs refused to revive me. It didn't matter that every force in the Universe kept screaming at me to get back on the ground and fail. I made it happen. I blazed forward. I shook the Earth with my might and I didn't look back. You think you can mock me? You think you can insult Haseeb Khan and get away with it? You’re wrong. I got home safely that day. And I’ve gotten home safely every day since. Because I don't wait for shooting stars—I make them myself. !
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Kaleb Davies !
- How to Be -
I’d like to start over, Like the sea, The tide has a new chance, On every shore and every beach, And a new opportunity. Perhaps I’d be cold, And perhaps I’d be warm, I may be a man, set on fire by a woman’s scorn But I wouldn’t be him, For he is friends with me— I’m just hoping, if things were different, I’d be happy. Or at least, just learn how to be. !
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For the Plane
As summer ends and the school year draws near, many of us will be enjoying last minute vacations and traveling to a school across the country. These are great reads for the plane. ! This book is perfect plane reading because of its sheer suspense. Nguyen can be a bit wordy at times and, obviously, the subject is nothing light. Nevertheless, he maintains humor and page-turning drama that’s great for a grueling 6-hour plane ride (though you might have to finish up after you reach your destination). And Nguyen’s going on a journey of his own, just like you—although you’re probably not a Communist spy traveling to the US for the first time.
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Short stories are also great to read while traveling. With frightening turbulence, seatbelt announcements, and intermittent snack carts, there’s bound to be a lot of distractions. I actually told my parents to send me my copy of this collection for my plane trip back to California. Reading her diary entries reminds me to write in my own journal, and her magical, yet down-to-earth stories about the tragedy of everyday life is enchanting when you’re in a melancholy mood. !
Plath’s short stories can be fairly long. Many of Murakami’s short stories are just six or seven pages. For shorter trips and shorter attention spans, this may be a good choice. If you ever wanted to explain the ‘economy of language’ to someone, he’s the guy to reference. The language is very simple and very precise, and Murakami infuses everyday city life with a little bit of magic, strangeness, and sometimes horror. My favorite story is “The 100% Perfect Girl for Me” because it’s about a happenstance meeting. It’s a love story, but sexier, shorter, and more thought-provoking. While his stories are not difficult to read, they do give you a lot to think about—you could spend hours mulling about a six page story. 19!
! ! I read this short novel on a plane to New Hampshire from LAX. It’s nostalgic and meditative—a perfect literary mood for the weary traveler. The main character reflects upon his life prior to World War II and wonders whether he made the right decisions then, both artistically and politically. For the Western-oriented reader, it’s the Lost Generation/Hemingway novel of Japan (for the non-Western-oriented reader, Hemingway is the Lost Generation/Ishiguro of the West). !
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! It’s a bit like a dystopia, and it deals with femininity, gender roles, and the concept of freedom and journeys. It’s a short one, but gives way for deep thoughts on feminism. Since it takes place in a future dystopian North America, it also has the reader consider parallels between the present and the future.
Racial disparity is a hot-button topic in American politics. A lot of people don’t get it or don’t see the importance of race. Some hold close to their identity. For both, this book is perfect. It’s a great way to step away from argumentative pieces that may not, in the end, help people understand these issues. Instead, this pulls at the heartstrings and, in effect, demonstrates the necessity of empathy. And, since it’s written as a letter to his son, the book will cozy one up despite sitting in an uncomfortable airplane seat. 20!
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Claire Schermeister Venitian Masks
Maya Roe
The Story of the Shooting-Star Flower The story goes or so I’m told That when the earth was not so old A woman of a noble birth came down to rule upon the earth Her beauty would make all men swoon And they named her a goddess of the moon She taught the stars to shine so bright And push away the dark of night The stars they loved her every one Except the god who ruled the sun He feared she would usurp his day By sending the dark of night away He planned to kill the lovely moon By making daylight come too soon But he heard the people of the land Crying for mercy by his hand. Although his love for us was great He still shone down his brilliant hate And thus the dying goddess knew So down on earth her stars she threw But as the stars grew near the earth The sun surrendered its endless day And the stars rested above the ground Waiting until the goddess came and found The stars had turned to flowers gold, and in the earth had taken hold.
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Love at First Michael Sun
Hello, beauty in my eyes, we haven't met before, But I must know you. The beat of the drum you strike Reminds my blood you're the one I move in time with. Dance, beauty, in my eyes I follow you across The floor until we find our space. Just us, our space To sway and enjoy the brilliance of smiles. But, beauty in my eyes, our feet don't move quite right. I tried to spin you, but it wasn't the silver Screen I previewed in my head. Funny the truth is. Goodbye beauty, in my eyes we don't meet again, But now I will know you. The chord you pluck reminds My lungs to breathe joy with the person in my eyes.
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The Long Walk Layla Michalopolous !
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he stands in front of me disapprovingly, hands on hips. She studies me half in
awe, as though she hadn’t expected to see me again. There’s something different about her, something that wasn’t there before. Frankly, she’s pretty badass. Her hair cut fashionably and futuristically; mine long, tangled, and growing like a weed. Her expression one of confidence, defiance, superiority; mine one of insecurity. “You’re going to make a lot of mistakes.” Her voice is lower than it used to be, older, that of someone who speaks easily in front of crowds, someone who is not afraid to say what she thinks. I look down. “I know.” “I mean, a lot.” I don’t respond. She sighs, shaking her head. “It’ll get better… don’t worry.” She says this as though she’s not used to giving comfort. A slow, hesitant grin creeps up one side of her face.. “And the future is pretty awesome.” I look up, smiling meekly. Suddenly, her expression turns to one of worry. “Just… Don’t do what you’re thinking, okay? I know, it’s hard, but… Don’t give in. Please…” She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot as I escape her gaze, intently studying a patch of ice. The cracks run through it like veins. “I remember how hard it was, hearing myself say all this stuff… wow, weird sentence. But you’ll be okay. Just, you know,” she sucks in her breath. “don’t do it.” She walks slowly towards me, hesitantly. I flinch as she reaches into my jacket. Her hands are like ice. She pulls the knife out of my pocket and drops it onto the ground. It makes a cold, hollow noise. “Don’t.” Placing her hands on my shoulders, she looks pleading. Everything around me freezes and just sort of… poofs out of existence. The biting cold of december, the scratchiness of my wool sweater, the aching of my feet from the long walk in my dad’s boots, and the smoke of our breath. I can’t tell if my eyes are open or closed; everything is dark. Then, it all rushes back into sight. 24! The cold, the sound of traffic in the distance, all sweeps into my mind like a current. She is gone. All that’s left is the knife on the frozen pavement, shining ! with the white of the sky. !
photography by ! !
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Kithumini
J a y a s i r i!
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LOVER
photo by Laura Hutchinson
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Salt Point
Maya Roe
First you must understand the wind. Sometimes a jester, pushing clouds across the horizon sometimes a meek breath, barely moving the fog. The fog. how it creates mystery of even the simplest forms how it mixes with the salt spray and seems to seep into everything. Bare board fences like teeth of a troll grey and lichen. Wanderers may come here, stumble and fall in the soft sand, wondering why am I here? where am I going? And every day the sea will carefully remind us that we are needed somewhere, so we must rise and try to blow the fog of worry away with frail breaths. And the lonely wanderer will begin the long journey home to a place they once knew, and the ocean will wait, and recommence it’s ever loving waltz with the wind.
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OTHER
W!O!M!E!N! 1. XXXO / MIA 2. Everyman‌Everywoman / Yoko Ono, Blow Up 3. This is What Makes Us Girls / Lana Del Rey 4. Kool Thing / Sonic Youth
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5. Stronger Than Me / Amy Winehouse
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I just wanna know, what are you gonna do for me? I mean, are you gonna liberate us girls From male white corporate oppression?
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SNL’s parody “This Is Not a Feminist Song” captures the sound of mainstream female empowerment—a bubbly, happy, not too radical jingle to represent all of womankind. But with this playlist, I want to highlight women musicians, first and foremost for musical merit, but I also want to highlight women who are NOT your typical cotton candy feminist (i.e. Taylor Swift). When we talk about feminis,, we often celebrate women that maintain image of infallible strength and happiness. This playlist, while it celebrates female independence and doesn’t shy away from calling out the patriarchy, also acknowledges vulnerability, sensitivity, and feminist cognitive dissonance. Let’s not pretend that being a woman and/or a feminist is simple--let’s embrace its complications. Songs like “This is My Fight Song” and “Brave” make femininity look easy, but not these. Not all of these women are ‘role models,’ but this only exemplifies that society is only comfortable with a certain kind of feminism, exiling those who challenge it to dark places (hate, drugs, etc.). In addition to the lyrics, the unconventional sound of many of these artists (especially Hole and Sonic Youth) captures the uncomfortable truth of feminist complexity. 6. Tears Dry On Their Own / Amy Winehouse 7. I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel to Be Free / Nina Simone 8. Doll Parts / Hole 9. Bad Girls / MIA 10. I Want a Little Sugar in My Bowl / Nina Simone
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Feelings: Part 3
Anonymous
! I write this on a love stricken, lonely Friday night, surrounded by family. Whether I write this to look back and remember what a strange kid I was, or just to vent my emotions, I don’t know. But I am writing it, and that’s what counts. I called this “Part 3,” not because there are two others before it, but because I think every good story starts in the middle. The development is in the beginning, where the characters are sure of themselves and know what they are doing. However, it’s the middle where they become unearthed, where they change. That cataclysmic metamorphosis that is on the brink of chaos and perfection that is such a fine line to walk. Where if they do it right, they will be! forever rewarded with knowing their true self, and learning an unforgettable repertoire of knowledge of themselves. But if they don’t, they may end up as one of billions who never finds their way. Of course, the characters in the stories always walk that line with scripted brilliance. Which is no surprise; if they didn’t, then Harry Potter would have gotten a job as a government worker for a large company taking phone calls from angered customers and sending faxes to angry employers. Life is great, it really is. People always complain, but deep down they know it’s great. I truly believe people do not understand what they say when they say “life sucks.” But I’m convinced they don’t mean it. Nobody ever does. Not even people who have a right to say it. Every so often, you meet someone who changes your opinions. Completely flips everything you know around. I have been told that I have been that person, many times to be fair, but I have never been on the receiving end of this until last year. Freshman year, I met this person. I was in class sitting at opposite ends of the room when I first saw her. As a freshman, I was eager to jump into a relationship and I didn’t fully grasp what a relationship even was, as I had never even kissed anyone, or knew anything about my emotions. But, I saw her and instantly knew something was different– the way she looked, dressed, acted. She was unlike a normal high-schooler. She was just...Different. After “x” amount of class periods looking at her through my peripheral vision in hopes that she may return my glances and acknowledge my existence, I finally had the courage to talk to her. Our first conversation was brief. It was not a particularly exciting conversation, or a bonding one, or really all that memorable. But for some reason, I remember it. We had one date not long after that. It went well and ended well. But, by the end of it, one of us friend zoned the other one. I don’t remember many conversations with her after that. I know they were had, but none spring to mind. It was not until the end of freshman year that I started having more conversations (that I actually recall) with her. They were not on the greatest subjects. In fact, she was undergoing massive amounts of stress, and I was being a self-absorbed little twat. But we still talked. 33
By the end of the summer, we were full-blown friends again. When the school year started I was in an interesting situation. Despite my self-centeredness, I was going through issues, mostly with the passing of someone in the family. I still had a need to help the mentally stable, despite not being in the right mind of my own. But then one night, I snapped: I had had a massive collapse in emotions one night and I felt different. I felt like I had awoken from a nightmare that I had created. But, the important thing is that I realized that I had been on the wrong path, and realizing this opened something up to me. I was enlightened. I was new. I was me. I started talking to the girl. But this time, it was different, because at this point in our lives we had both recovered from our strange phases, and we were both different people. Eventually, one night, I told her that I had feelings for her. Those damn little emotions that pop up from time to time, taunting you, driving you forward, controlling you. That conversation did not go my way, to be brutally honest. But, that may be a good thing: if it did, I would not be writing about this true story from the depths of my being. If it did go my way, I may have taken it for granted. Deep down, I am glad it didn’t. But now, there is something else–facing countless rejections from other girls. Meticulously planned out, clever ways to tell a girl how I felt were crushed. And I was bewildered, alone, and just all-around crushed. But then, recently, the last week, I felt different. Then I thought back. I thought all the way back. And remembered. I remembered how this girl made me feel the first time I saw her, nervously looking out of the corner of my eye, just to see her face look up and smile or look indifferent or scowl or do anything at all. I remembered that this person, who I can honestly call my best friend, made me feel different. And through the years, made me who I am. This week, this day, I feel more pressure to express this feeling than ever before. This may seem like a random love story between me and a random person. Which I suppose you could see it like that, but I wrote this to be more. If you ever question who you are, and you are ever confused on which way to go, think. Remember that person who changed you. That person who is different, unique, new. And if you have not met them yet, find them. Because they are out there, waiting. Tonight, I walk the line, along with others. No one is alone, and no one will be alone forever. And I must say, I and everyone else going through this need to take that step out, to take the chance. If it goes your way, you are one step closer to your real self. And if it doesn’t, don’t fall. Because you and I both are NOT going to become government workers sending faxes and making phone calls.
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Golden Girl by Hazel Dunning
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Sinking Girl by Hazel Dunning !
A waterfall cascading. Uncontrollable and vicious It beats the rocks with relish. Bipolar it seems. A child splashes through its shallow, calm depths. Dwell far from us creatures of darkness lurk through limitless territory. The worlds tears pound upon us without mercy. Our fuel. hydration is key to brilliance.
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endure Adjusting and unreliable unfit to befriend It eats at solidity threatening to tear it down. An unrivaled hiding place lost forever with the flinch of a hand. The reflection of a mood almost independent risks overcoming all.!
Seized from safety an inexplicable force draws us elsewhere. My rain falls slowly the taste of salt disappearing at leisure. The girl sinks dreaming of air fighting panic. No recognition for its importance it is loyal but unable to
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Luna Jorge
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The Diner
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I'll see you at the diner, meet me at three We will see each other later When we are both free. You'll see me at the diner, sometime at 2 I always show up early I always wait for you. We'll be at the diner Long after midnight A visit only until 9. I guess we lost track of time Later at the apartment Both too drunk to leave Better stay inside, we are both content. I stayed the night Why not? Better to wait for light. Later that day It was no mistake But it's better to move on Keep our feelings at bay. We will see each other later Like we do every day But later at the diner It may not be the same.
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A Day in the Life Claire Schermeister
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I was a piano student. But wasn’t everyone? It seemed to me that in third or fourth grade all of my friends were seized by the irresistible desire to tickle the 88 keys and enrapture their fellow classmates by playing “Chopsticks” or “Heart and Soul” on any piano they could find. Needless to say, they all quit after a year or two of lessons, but that’s beside the point. The point is, everyone has been a piano student. Including me.
Of course, I wouldn’t be writing this story if I had been one of those try-it-for-ayear-and-stop kind of students. I journeyed on, often participating in small youth music festivals and exams, but with all of the indifference my loathsome middle-school self could muster. I often look back in amazement on how I could have been so careless with such an art for so many years, and one of the most important things I overlooked was my teacher.
He was a funny old man, Mr. Kraus. He would always greet me with a smile and shake my hand while somehow managing to be as awkward as I was. However, as many a time I came to my piano lesson fearful because I had not practiced, the calm environment that was created in his quaint little studio with two grand pianos was enough to make me relaxed and confident in my abilities, at least for a little while. Praise from him did not come often, and when it did my eyes shone with gratitude and reverence. What did come often, however, were stories. He served in the military for much of his life, hence the deafness in his left ear. There were stories about playing on a piano missing two octaves at the top. There were stories about performances and funny mishaps and even about seeing a piano hanging from a crane 200 feet in the air over the Pacific Heights district of San Francisco. !
There was a great deal of work to be done in the studio, however, and when I became more passionate about the piano in high school he worked with me for hours and hours on end. Even though I paid for a 45-minute lesson, I would be there upwards of three hours, working and reworking a piano concerto or listening to a story about a performance gone wrong in Boca Raton, Florida. He always held a special kind of care for me, and he thought I could go far. Even in my first lesson he had confidence in my abilities, even when I did not. “At the rate you are going,” he told me, “you could go to the San Francisco Conservatory when you are 18.” I never forgot that, and I often traveled back to that moment when I felt discouraged about my practice habits or technical abilities at the keyboard.
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I once competed in a contest that I spent months and months preparing for, and he guided me every step of the way. I practiced for hours and hours each day, and when I encountered a problem I would call him and we would spend no less than half an hour discussing how to fix it. When I received the letter informing me that I had won the competition, I called him to inform him of the good news. He cried on the phone with me. “I’m so proud of you, Claire,” he told me over and over. “I’m so, so very proud.”
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But perhaps I am no different than my Chopsticks-playing friends in the third grade, for I, too, came to the end of my career as a pianist. When I told my teacher of my decision, he was shell shocked and begged me to reconsider, but I was set. As a naïve freshman in highschool, I knew what was right for me and no compromises were to be made. So I walked out of my last lesson one day in early August, reflecting on my experiences as a pianist. Perhaps my journey has made me better, I thought. I have learned many skills and life lessons from playing this instrument, but everything has it’s time, and my time for piano has come to an end. But I never contacted Mr. Kraus. I had vowed to come to his house and play something, anything on the piano for him, but a year went by and I never bothered to call him or simply ask how he was doing. I figured he would be alright, but with the onset of Alzheimer’s he may have fared badly without my knowledge. Still, day in and day out, I carried on with my daily life, thinking nothing of the keyboard and nothing of the person who helped me get to know it inside and out.
Time passed, and I forgot about Mr. Kraus altogether. Out of sight, out of mind. And then one day when I was a junior in high school, my bus route changed. No big deal, I thought. But on the first day of the route I was surprised to find it traced through the neighborhood where my old piano teacher lived, not ten minutes away from my house. As we passed the street he lived on, I glanced up it and saw his house, perched up on the hill like it always had been, warm and welcoming and ready to spend hours and hours at the keyboard if I ever wished to. But out of the corner of my eye, just before the street whizzed out of sight, I saw something else in his beautiful, perfectly groomed front yard. Just a flicker in the wind, but the sight of it made my stomach drop to the floor as my world came to a screeching halt. It was a flag at half-mast.
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42 photo by Claire Schermeister
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ConversationNomi #47Kliger “I miss you.” “I know.” “Did you hear about the cats?” “Hm? The cats?” “We’ve had a cat invasion down here.” “I don’t quite know how to respond to that.” “You say: Oh dear! A cat invasion! Tell me more!” “Oh dear! A cat invasion! Tell me more!” “Well, if you insist.” I snort into the phone. “So,” she continues, “No one knows where they came from. The other night, they just, appeared.” “Weird.” “I know! They’re everywhere. Eating everyone’s food and making a racket. And everyone’s gone on a rabies shot rampage.” “Are you jumping on the bandwagon?” “’Course not. I don’t think cat rabies even exists. And, most important news of the day: I took one home. I’m thinking he’s a Milo.” “I like it.” “Good. But I’m worried my heart won’t be able to stand seeing all the other cats without homes and I’ll take them all.” “I have a feeling that wouldn’t end well.” “Me too. Just a hunch.” A pause in the conversation is filled with an onset of emotion. She breaks the silence. “Tell me about your day.” “Hmmm.” “I’m waiting…” “I’m thinking.” “Think faster.” “Well one thing’s to be sure. My day wasn’t anything as exciting as cat invasions.” “That’s okay. We can’t all have such thrilling lives.” “Please. I’ll have you know that I invented a new recipe today.” “Wow.” “It’s like that one you like, but new and improved.” “You’ll have to show me sometime.” “Yeah, when I come up. And I also caught up on my reading and went to the park. So, pretty boring.” “It sounds nice.” I smile at the phone, “Did you know that I miss you?” “Yeah, I know.” !
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