VOL VI NOVEMBER 2016
CONTENT WARNING: SEE TABLE OF CONTENTS
WELCOME TO Welcome to VOLUME VI of F WORD, a feminist collective based in Montréal, QC. Through our publication, we aim to provide a platform for the marginalized feminist voices that are underrepresented in our community. Our notion of feminism is not limited to gender politics, but rather extends to all anti-oppressive perspectives. With this intersectional framework in mind, we aim to separate ourselves from feminisms that refute such values. We want our content to reflect these goals and to be a space where people feel safe sharing their experiences. As well as being a platform for our contributors, we hope F WORD will evolve as a community resource in Montréal and stand as a meeting place of feminists. We are currently working to partner with other groups and organizations that share our anti-oppressive values and interests. If you or a group you are involved in would like to collaborate with F WORD, please e-mail us. As always, we have the greatest appreciation for all of the support that we receive from our contributors, allies, and readers. Lots of love from the collective!
F WORD seeks to explore feminism in its present-day cultural context as a unifying, anti-oppressive, intersectional force. We seek to provide an accessible community resource through inclusive, constructive multi-media content. Through our collective’s non-hierarchical structure, we aim to challenge and move away from existing systems of oppression. EXPLORE: fwordmtl.com COnnect: facebook.com/fwordmtl FOLLOW: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl INSTA: instagram.com/fwordmtl CONTACT: fwordpublication@gmail.com SUBMIT: fwordmtl.com/submit
Content warning: As a feminist publication, some of the content in this zine discusses traumatic experiences. Please read the table of contents and the accompanying content warnings carefully.
F WORD acknowledges that Montreal/ McGill is on traditional Haudenosaunne or Kanien’kehá:ka land
BIENVENUE à Nous avons le plaisir de vous présenter la sixième publication de F word, un collectif fondé à Montréal. À travers nos publications, nous nous sommes donné pour mandat de fournir une plateforme aux féministes marginalisé(e) s qui sont sous-représenté(e)s dans notre communauté. Notre vision du féminisme ne se limite pas à l’aspect politique, mais s’étend plutôt à toutes les perspectives anti-oppressives. Dans ce cadre multidimensionnel, nous visons à nous dissocier des féminismes qui rejettent de telles valeurs. Nous voulons que le contenu de nos publications reflète ces objectifs et assure un espace accueillant où toute personne puisse se sentir à l’aise de partager ses expériences. En plus d’être une plateforme pour nos contributeurs et contributrices, nous espérons que F WORD évoluera en tant que communauté ressource à Montréal et pourra servir de lieu de rencontre pour les féministes. Nous tentons présentement de nous associer avec d’autres groupes ou organisations qui partagent nos valeurs et intérêts anti-oppressifs. Si vous ou un groupe dont vous faite partie souhaite collaborer avec F WORD, n’hésitez pas a nous contacter par e-mail. Comme toujours, nous apprécions énormément tout le soutien que nous recevons de nos contributeurs et contributrices, allié(e)s et lecteurs et lectrices. Nous vous envoyons plein d’amour de la part du collectif!
F WORD cherche à explorer le Féminisme dans son contexte culturel actuel, en tant que force intersectionnelle, anti-oppressive, et unifiante. Nous voulons créer une ressource communautaire accessible grâce à un contenu multimédia inclusif et constructif. Grâce à une structure non hiérarchisée au sein de notre collectif, nous désirons nous distancer des systèmes d’oppression existants. EXPLOREr: fwordmtl.com COnnecter: facebook.com/fwordmtl nous suivre: fwordmtl.tumblr.com tweet: twitter.com/fwordmtl INSTA: instagram.com/fwordmtl nous joindre: fwordpublication@gmail.com Soumettre: fwordmtl.com/submit
Avertissement sur le contenu: En tant que publication féministe, certains éléments dans le contenu de ce magazine font référence à des évènements traumatisants. Veuillez lire la table des matières et les avertissements attentivement.
F WORD reconnaît que Montreal/McGill fait partie du territoire traditionel Haudenosaunne ou Kanien'kehá:ka.
Table of Contents Fire by Akira Chaita 1 Holy by Francesca Pastore.......................................................................................... Flower Power by Kelsey Whyte....................................................................................2 Pastel Goths by Daniya Sayed....................................................................................3 The First Time I Heard Brown Girls Read Poetry by Briana Naseer (CW: Islamophobia )....................................................................................................4 Shave verb. to cut outer coverings off by Emily Hoppe................................................5 Lover’s Quarrel by Briana Naseer (CW: disordered eating)............................................. 6 Carrion by Erika Kindsfather out of trance by Noa Levin.........................................................................................7 give and take by Madi Bod Bathtime by Sloast .................................................................................................... 8 Fucking Jim by Leona Nikoli´c (CW: sexual harassment).................................................9-10 mother by Leora Alcheck ...........................................................................................11 mamm’align by Fiona Glen she thought it was love but it was a panic attack by Isobel van Hagan.........................12 Girl’s Club by Maiko Rodrig........................................................................................13-14 Marked as Safe by Briana Naseer 15 (CW: Orlando shooting, homophobia, transphobia).......................................................... Chicken Arms by Eliza Prestley 16 Resentment by Hugo Sivov.......................................................................................... Very-Ends by Siena Colombier....................................................................................17-18 hourglass by frances maychak 19 Study of a Woman Reclining by Mariah Lamont-Lennox............................................... Dreamscape by Kelsey Whyte...................................................................................... 20 to: my husband by Emily Hoppe (CW: infanticide, anxiety)........................................... 21 [modest] nourishment by Emily Hoppe ......................................................................22 Alexithymia by Lija Eme-Lis (CW: sexual assault, emotional abuse)................................. 23 24 Gnosis by Grace Gunning............................................................................................ Bind by Megan Guysinger (CW: gender binary) 25 Wolf Lake by Hani Abramson ..................................................................................... I’ll cry if I want to by Michaela Jones 26 Dear Girl I Loved in High School by Briana Naseer....................................................... can you see this body too? by Michaela Jones seashell, seashore by Michaela Jones.........................................................................27 Front and back cover: Wine Ghost by Emily Curling
ARTIST statements Holy by Francesca Pastore My poem’s a reflection on accepting sexuality throughout my Catholic high school experience, where I explore religious imagery in order to make it construe my own definition of what “holy” means. Flower Power and Dreamscape by Kelsey Whyte These are two collage works made from 1981 Hustler magazines turning this misogynist publication into images celebrating female sexuality with no males present. Shave verb. to cut outer coverings off by Emily Hoppe A bouquet and a garden— sublime. [Pick flowers if you want to. Let them grow if you want to.] Carrion by Erika Kindsfather 2016 - acrylic, gouache, nails, and embroidery floss on canvas This work is me processing womanhood in Christianity. I was raised in a really Catholic household with biblical rhetoric that placed women under men with the only purpose of bearing children and serving a husband. This fucked me up and now I make art about feeling trapped/predestined for a certain life trajectory b/c of my womanhood. I am interested in traditionally feminine modes of creation aka the embroidery and I wanted to create a web with it that expresses feeling stuck. out of trance by Noa Levin I wrote out of trance to capture the frustration of trying to get close to the truth of something— in this case feminism— but struggling with embarrassment, artistic clumsiness, and the fear that your voice will never be able to say anything more than what has already been said. Of course, this problem is multiplied by our society's views on women writers. To me, trance is the feeling of only being able to write in a burst of inspiration. Snapping out of trance means writing on my own terms. Bath time by Sloast Polyamorous alien lady lovers bathing in the blood of their enemies as they plot to take over the universe. Need I say more. mamm’align by Fiona Glen Here's a drawing I did this summer. It's
about the metamorphic, fertile and fluid nature of femininity. It's also about boobs. to: my husband by Emily Hoppe Female infanticide is the intentional killing of infant girls, which over time has accumulated to be a group of people that surpasses the appropriate use of the word large. The practice is deeply rooted in patriarchal structures that devalue the worth of the female gender and is an ongoing issue in many countries. The integral problem is not the missing women, but rather the reasons behind why these women are missing. We need to elevate the status of the girl in society. [modest] nourishment by Emily Hoppe Here is a woman giving life to her small child / bare-breasted, the source of food / she looks into you / there shall be no shame placed on a mother Gnosis by Grace Gunning Seeing male artists draw their ideal of the "female nude" is getting old, and it feels exploitative. I wanted to repurpose their imagery and make it weird and inaccessible to the male gaze. Bind by Megan Guysinger Since coming out as a lesbian, I imagined my life to be sunshine and rainbows (oh, I was very wrong). This a short poem about navigating my gender dysphoria as a femme feminist lesbian. I’ll cry if I want to by Michaela Jones I was told to control my “female emotions.” Instead, I cut out this girl from an old picture book and began to draw. She doesn’t control her emotions either; she controls the cosmos. can you see this body too? by Michaela Jones I find proliferated images of the idealized body can cause one to feel as if an invisible weight is pushing down, obscuring one’s perception of self worth. Here, I combine cut & paste with pencil crayon to give a sense of a distorted reality that can live in the mind struggling with body image. Wine Ghost by Emily Curling This is just a collage from various magazines I found on the street.
Fire
Holy i believe in sadness. i believe in hurt. i break — so much like religion but softly, (no creaks) and so violent (ALL CRACKS) my claws create the tragic and my lips leave their marks: “hold me like salvation disown me like the devil stress me like absolution forget me like sin”
we were born with fire in our hearts our souls are ablaze we thrive in the flames our fire is everlasting when they try to silence us we grow only louder when they try to weaken us we grow only stronger we will not be extinguished we will not stop until we have set the world on fire
(because that’s what we are, isn’t it?) but all i hear is the scripture in your moans — the divinity on your breath “slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl” yes, she has
and no — i’m not scared anymore
Flower Power
Pastel Goths Daniya Sayed
The First Time I Heard Brown Girls Read Poetry I’ve sat in a mosque many a time, always sure I was the odd brown girl out, too busy hiding in the corner, fidgeting with the sleeve of my shalwar, too ashamed at my skin to hear the imam’s words– but here in this tiny room with its wooden floors and backless plastic chairs, I finally feel the divinity that everyone else in that house of God must have. I hear not only a brown girl like me, but the daughter of an immigrant like me, a Muslim like me, Pakistani like me, Punjabi like me. These brown girls are reciting their verses but when our eyes connect, I swear they’re speaking only to me. “Sister, I see the hunger in your eyes, your starving need for knowledge on how to exist in your brown body in your racist country that hates your brown body.
Sister, I know your heritage is born of bloodshed and bigotry, I know of the shame you carry for your ancestors, the even heavier burden you have to bear when you laugh with your Bengali friends, the way you hope they don’t hate you. Sister, I remember the way I spoke Urdu under my breath whenever my parents came to pick me up at school, how I wish I shouted it then so I could recall it now. Sister, I share this struggle of claiming the nation of my father and the nation where I live, the fight over the word ‘American’ which everyone always demands of us like we don’t deserve it. Sister, I too am learning how my faith and my identity do not cancel each other out, that no one can take my deen away from me. Sister, I relish this graceful existence we get to live with all of its triumphs and all of its sorrows. Sister, I see you and I love you and I am you. You are not alone, ameen.”
Briana Naseer
Shave verb. to cut outer coverings off
Lover’s Quarrel I think this fight started sometime in the second grade, when I looked in the mirror and accused my body of being too big for a seven-year-old. I tugged at embarrassed it clung to that I only
my belt, at the way my waist saw as inflated,
demanded of her in only the way a child can, “Why are you like this?” I don’t seem to have aged with any kind of grace as we’ve been arguing ever since. When I was seventeen, I was glad that I got sick enough that part of her got cut out because the doctors wouldn’t let me leave without eating, and when I got and got on the (were they the I’d still lost
home scale same?), weight.
A few days before my eighteenth birthday, I remember trying to convince her that she could subsist on bananas and green tea
I get it now. If someone were starving me, I’d fight back, too. I always thought I was good at listening, but never to my body. She was screaming, but I covered my ears, hummed over her, drowned her out though I could feel how right she was in the rhythm of my heart. Now I am older, and even though I know better, we are still always arguing. I try to understand that she’s just trying to do what’s best for me– I know that she loves me, and I think she knows I’m trying my best to love her, too. I think my body and I are meant for each other; how else could we hate the other so fiercely but never leave?
so I could be skinny that day and eat my cake, too. So she fought back, just as stubborn as the girl inside her, refusing to shrink, to have her strength Stolen.
Briana Naseer
Carrion by Erika Kindsfather
// o u t o f t r a n c e //
always the same half tear pooling in the eye genetic. in sunshine or wind; how do you write about something as obvious as breathing? authentic— icity is a question a variable you can’t solve for. a place you can’t find. you think you have something to say but you can’t say it. you think you know how to write but you can’t do it out of trance. you think you are brave and loud and unafraid of taking up space and then you try to do it. Ok, so it doesn’t work like that. Stop overthinking. Be plural. Be multiple. Come at the problem from a different angle. Look at everyone who has written before you. You keep trying to get into their room but you’re confused and you have no sense of direction. There are no shortcuts or road maps in this house. you keep going down staircases and finding yourself in the sky instead of the basement. you keep wandering through tunnels, looking for a light. you keep listening to their voices and waiting waiting to speak.
i need not apologize, although i’m taught i should. SPEEDUP, they shriek. slowdown,
give and take
they harp. urged to the brink, the heart will crumble, a fractured mind trailing childishly in its wake... waterlogged cardboard. but i have nothing to give— nor to take— because i’ve given what i could, and taken what i could not. ink, despite its material abundance, ultimately falters, but blood forever boasts—brilliantly—red. glides consistent. and as such, will i, in perpetual conflict with a stoneset template and my own constructed misgivings. upon our final utterances, who, in all sincerity, is left? ourselves. so an advice, i volunteer: proceed, feet beneath, and withdraw the moment that even the slightest of toes mistakes its earthly root.
Bathtime
Fucking Jim
It was Sunday morning and fucking Jim was making waffles. He stood at the waffle station smiling like an idiot. Sweat glistened on his forehead. Sunday morning was his thing. I hated Sunday mornings because it meant I had to get up too early to serve breakfast to a bunch of tourists with bad taste. Fucking Jim didn’t even work here. He only came by on Sundays to serve waffles. Like I said, it was his thing. It doesn’t matter what fucking Jim looked like no more than it matters what I looked like. But I’ll tell you anyway: he had a red, round face and a red, round body. He was old enough to be someone’s grandfather, but I’m not sure that he was. If he did have grandchildren, he probably wouldn’t be serving shitty waffles every Sunday morning to strangers. The other server girls had warned me about fucking Jim. They described him as “a nice guy but a little creepy.” Which is probably an accurate description for most men that do shitty things to women – they’re okay guys until they fail to see the barriers between themselves and the women they sexualise. One of the server girls told me he would regularly ask her to switch on the high ceiling lights, which required climbing a small ladder, just so he could look up her skirt. I asked her why she still did it. She told me she didn’t want to offend fucking Jim. He was the restaurant owner’s best friend, and it would look bad for her if she displeased him. She didn’t want to offend a man who was looking at personal parts of her body without her consent. She didn’t want to offend a man who was sexually harassing her. I mostly ignored fucking Jim and did my job of pouring coffees and clearing tables. He was extra friendly to all of us server girls in a transparent, not-so-nice way. He smiled at us when we were looking just so he could leer at us when we weren’t. He insisted we have some waffles to eat during our shift just so he could tell us how good we looked when we were too busy to react. He gave us extra whipped cream and strawberries so we would think his unwanted advances were all just a part of his nice guy act. I talked small talk with fucking Jim when he talked to me. I ate his goddamn waffles when he offered them to me because I was hungry and it was morning. Otherwise, I stayed the fuck away from him.
I was still new when fucking Jim decided it was a good idea to touch me. I was standing at the computer punching in orders when he slid up next to me and put his hand on that space between my lower back and my ass. I froze for a second from shock. Then I stepped away from him, not daring to look at his red, round face. And then fucking Jim had the nerve to ask me what was wrong. I had offered him a free pass to let the incident go unnoticed and forgotten like the good oppressed girl that I was. I wasn’t planning on confronting him. I looked up at him and simply told him that what he did was inappropriate. Fucking Jim apologised quietly and walked away. He didn’t look at me or talk to me for the rest of the day. In the following Sundays, I had ceased to exist. Fucking Jim would not respond to my greetings, and he would not acknowledge my presence, despite my attempts to maintain normal workplace interactions with him. He never offered me waffles again. Because that’s what happens when a woman refuses to be sexualised – she simply ceases to exist. I was no longer useful in fucking Jim’s revolting game of Nice Guy because I didn’t want to play. By the Sunday morning after the incident, most of the other server girls had heard about what had happened. I had told one of them, and I guess she told the rest. They all told me no one had ever said anything like that to fucking Jim before. No one had ever opposed him. I was happy they knew what I did and what I had said to him. I told them they shouldn’t take fucking Jim’s shit. I don’t know if any of them ever listened to me because I quit pretty soon after. Not because of fucking Jim – it would take a lot more than icy disregard from an old creep to make me leave a job – but because of better things in better places. I like to think now that if I had known more about feminism and systematic patriarchal oppression and men feeling entitled to women’s bodies, I would have yelled at him right then and there. But I don’t know if I would have done that. I don’t know if I would do that today. Because there is a moment when somebody takes away your agency as a human being and you simply freeze, unable to react. There is a moment of complete and utter fear and hope that if you just stay quiet and don’t do anything, it will go away. There is a moment of total paralysis when you realise it could be much much worse.
mother there is no sleep to be found in beehives reverberating in my pelvis
the feminine architecture is vulnerable to sensation, tremble shake my scaffolding to tumbling back to Ground, Maker, Creator of all that is Good He saw and was in awe of His creation my toenails are crying in elation lamenting towards ecstatic contraction at His thought, I wonder if there is valour in a woman-fearing God I wonder if He too, crumples at my divinity queen my queen of all queens weep to me on sacred bedroom floors consecration of sanctity my arms hold orthodox incense mollifying trachea, mourn holy yearning to devour forbidden fruit, teeth tearing tender pale skin temptation is tidy in conception, return to all that is earth born from her ribs, marrow to sediment to body to soil blossom from her plasma into sturdy stock once-virgin femur wound by etiolated roots, immobilize her from the waist down, collide with the earth and writhe upon contact absorb her absolution into your pale pigment, white cells bleach dark soil as they encounter ephemeral petal and bloom, mother is hostage is wailing, tearing, rending skin, when will you stop feeding from her? -Leora Alcheck
mamm’align
Girl’s Club. 1 individual and their own right to create safer spaces and communities around them. Girl’s Club is in opposition of a club of only girls who must all think the same. A girl is anyone who harnesses the power of femininity. To us, femininity is a force that can be wielded by any sex, gender or orientation. A girl is anyone who occupies unsafe territory and, against all odds, rises. Girl’s Club is driven by the need for a community, its not for everyone but it can be for anyone who identifies with us. Girl’s Club represents visual solidarity - more space is being claimed for us, by us.
If you want to be in the club, you’re already part of the club.
Marked as Safe When I am ten years old, my oldest cousin, sitting in the car next to me, says, “I hate gay people, I wish they would all die!” and not one adult Objects. I know little about Islam, but it has never taught me to hate. When I am thirteen, my closest cousin and I are sprawled on the floor; I’m gushing to her about my school friends and when I mention that one of them is bi, she looks at me so wary, as if my skin carries disease, warns me to be careful of who I hang out with. Doesn’t God love all of us? Isn’t He Merciful? When I am sixteen and she asks me if I’ve had my first kiss, I lie a lie that hurts on both ends because I want to tell her but I don’t want her to hate me for kissing a girl.
I tell myself that God would not see love in any way as bad.
When I am twenty-one, I run away to Chicago with pride flags hanging at every head turn.
When I am eighteen, we are walking arm and arm through the mall of my small central Florida hometown, giggling at the mannequins decked out in lingerie.
Here I find more people like me, and I finally feel like I’m not lying to myself all the time.
She promises me that she’ll throw me my bachelorette party, and though I smile, all I can think is, “Not if there are two bachelorettes.” I wonder where the rest of us are; if we are all silent like I am. When I am twenty-one, gay marriage becomes legal in all fifty states, and my father complains that all gay people are men trapped in women’s bodies and vice versa, that queers should die rather than get married.
When I am twenty-two, a Muslim kills 50 people at a gay club not an hour away from my childhood home. My heart goes weak, my brain gets stuck on, “But it’s Ramadan.” As if that can undo death, as if that can protect those of us who were reminded we need to be quiet. I do not know where I can exist, if I can exist in a space where my pride is louder than my fear.
I hide in my room. I make myself a ball because I cannot leave.
Briana Naseer
Chicken Arms by I have chicken arms now normally this would be okay normally this would be good because I am girl and girl has skinny skinny chicken arms but no it is not good it is not okay because somewhere along the line someone decided that I am not girl because I am gay I am gay and gay is supposed to have bulky arms right? gay is supposed to punch holes in walls with gay’s bulky arms because gay is annnnngry ass lesbian gay is supposed to punch holes in girl to prove gay is man but gay is not man gay is boobs hidden under loosely fitted flannel gay is little feet in big combat boots ready for the war in which gay will fight to be seen as woman without having to paint the label on gay’s face in eyeliner and lipstick gay is no it is not a compliment for you confused straight girl to say you like masculine girls because they’re like boys but without all the drama gay is no there is no duuuuuude in the relationship gay is no I am not confused I just don’t like to wear dresses see somewhere along the line someone decided that who I am is defined by the clothes
on my back and the people who I love they say silly gay just because you dress like man does not mean you are one just because you want to be man does not mean you will be but gay asks does gay want gay to be man? or do you want gay to be man? when the government in Iran funds for gay people to surgically change their sex so that their love complies with their religion gay thinks gay knows the answer to this question because if gay does not exist within the proper boundaries of what is woman then gay should not exist at all they say gay is a decision that should not have been made they say I should not have been made but gay asks if your god did not mean to make me like this then why would he have made girls so damn gorgeous and flannel so damn comfortable gay says I am woman I am human but I’m not quite sure you know what that means gay says this is dictionary and there is no definition that states I am worth less than you
Resentment by
Very-Ends
I wanted you so badly I thought the wanting would break me, I grasped at your back with the slippery, sweaty very-ends of my fingertips, because I had bitten off the nails during the desperation that came with waiting for your call, but you took too long to call, so by the time you came, and then I came, I couldn’t hold onto you, I couldn’t hold onto us, to what we used to be, to what we were trying to be, and we tried so hard, so hard, I tried so hard, to put meaning back where there once was, to make our time together matter, to make sense of why the wanting wouldn’t go away, to make sense of you, but I never could, even now, now, with you perched on the end of my bed, pulling your jeans back on, pretending to look for your shoe, your phone, your keys, stalling, wondering, if you should stay or go walk-of-shame your way back home, or maybe you’re contemplating if you should kiss my forehead like you used to, before anything bad happened, like my cheating and your general horribleness, or if you should pat me on the back in a sort of congratulatory gesture, a way of saying good job, you’ve learned some new moves since last time kind of thing, or maybe you’re yearning to do something else entirely, but I can’t tell, I’ve never been able to tell, and even now, at 4 am, when the world is quiet and still, you’ve still managed to find a way to make me feel uncomfortable, even in the sweet privacy of my own room, so go—please go, I need my sleep, I don’t need you here now, making stupid jokes about the book on my desk, the album we used to listen to, the things we used to do together, when you were my person, but now, you are not my person, I mean you still are a person, you haven’t ceased to exist, but sometimes I wish you would so I could only deal with you on these terms, in that secret time of night between 3 am and 5 am when you feel slightly stale, in that half-conscious way, that way that makes people do secret things, the kind of things they don’t want people to know about, and for me, you’re my secret thing, my hidden thing, I hide you deep within myself, under bundles of shame, under shots of tequila, deep inside the darkness of my room,
inside of me, but now that you’re here I can’t get you out, out from inside my room, inside of me, your forehead still touching mine, sweat to sweat, fingers touch, toes touch, everything touching, but it’s too much, I want you to leave, I need you to leave, but I want you again, I need you again, always again, but I need this time for myself, I need ten minutes of replaying everything in my head, I need ten minutes of hating myself, and then ten more for trying to convince myself that that now almost empty bottle of tequila is half full because if it is, then I didn’t take seven shots tonight, and if I didn’t take seven shots tonight then I wasn’t drunk, and if I wasn’t drunk, then I didn’t touch your hand, your thigh, your face, and you’re not really here, oh god, why are you still here, when I am now in pajamas, glasses on, lights dimmed, ready for bed, do I need to physically push you out the door, or open the window, ask you to look at the stars and tumble you over the ledge, but I just don’t have the energy to push you out of my window, my room, my mind, my body, from deep inside of me, where you were five minutes ago, I don’t have the energy for it, I don’t have enough, I don’t have enough to even remember, just remembering the wanting is exhausting, remembering the secret time of night, the secret things, the hidden things, again, again, always want to want to stop, want, don’t stop, but it’s hard so hard again so hard, wondering why is so hard, wondering why I didn’t ask you to stay and why I told myself I wanted you to leave when what I really wanted was to talk, just talk, to stop the wanting, the wanting that broke me, that broke us, that’s what I wanted, words, not wanting, talking, not doing, but I couldn’t say it in the sweet privacy of my little room, not out loud to you, so now I’m still wondering, still re-playing, even though by now, you must have forgotten all about me and the things we did, I’m sure you’ve forgotten it all, the looking for your shoe, the jokes about the book, I’m sure it’s all gone, except for the little things, like the wanting and the feeling of the slippery, sweaty, very-ends of my fingertips on your back, because those are the things I can’t seem to forget too, and while I’ve tried to erase everything else, it all comes back to those slippery sweaty very-ends, even now, older and wiser, weeks, years from this night, I still remember the wanting, and I still remember that I couldn’t hold onto you. Siena Colombier
I’m sorry that as time has stealthily slipped through our bodies as an hourglass I have become confused as to what is us and you and what is solely me and my own a strange and persistent penchant for autonomy, at least in name. still I allow us to weave our lives together like so many well-travelled fabrics each fresh stitch adding to the last until we have no longer just a few loose threads or even the beginnings of a vibrant pattern but suddenly the beginnings of an entire elaborate tapestry: scenes of your past and my past and our past life together (although that part is not so clear, muddy lines running out from each other, seemingly to nowhere, and then beginning again) a beautiful surprise I was yet unprepared for. I think of all the bedrooms I have been a ghost in I think of all the love you have poured into me I think of the fullness in my body I think of the blankness of the past all its lovers seem immaterial
h o u r g l a s s
would it be so easy to start again what is it that I am looking for I lose myself in all the careful handiwork
- frances maychak
Study of a Woman Reclining
Study of a Woman Reclining
p e c a s m e a r D
to: my husband
pregnancy is supposed to be such a beautiful thing, I was told well I had swollen ankles that morphed my feet into unrecognizable travels and 9 months of morning sickness that came not only in the mornings throwing up anxiousness into the sink and the toilet anxiousness because I knew that all of this pain might not even be worth it I knew what they really meant was that there is a 50/50 chance of this being a beautiful thing depending on how the x and the y chromosomes choose to establish his wonderful future or her terrible fate and it doesn’t matter if I don’t agree with it because it’s not up to me and the less number of girls being born each year only contributes to the cultural misogyny and as our population shrinks our value doesn’t grow it shrinks with it holding your child for the first time and seeing it open its eyes I have heard someone describe this moment to me before before the sweet lullabies of midnight moans and screams that escaped my mouth and the wetness falling from in between my thighs as each cramp intensified and I experienced this moment for myself slowly and starry it’s cloudy and cozy you know when something happens and it makes you lose all of your breath and suddenly there’s a knife that’s being shoved into your chest and your heart drops but it never quite hits the bottom because it can’t find it even though it needs to as time keeps passing this is how I felt when I heard the words “it’s a girl” dripping of hate they held her up high in the air and she glowed in the dark but I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to watch you snap her bones like flower stems who never had a chance to grow and as the smell of rain mixed with the smell of blood my stomach did backflips
and I tried grabbing you like fistfulls of dirty water like dandelion wishes that float and shimmer and kept slipping between my fingers and I tried grabbing you but you threw her into the sea and the waves cradled her and rocked her back to sleep like I’M supposed to do and I tried grabbing you but I could already hear her gasping for air that wasn’t there and then there was silence because you can drown a baby girl pretty easily if you didn’t already know this and fear like horizontal lines kept running back and forth and back and forth and back and forth crossing out all of the things that I wanted to say that I should have said to you because my throat burned with all of the words that kept erupting into flames but when I opened my mouth to scream in protest my voice disappeared into steam and rose up, up and away and maybe it’s a good thing that you grabbed my throat so I wouldn’t be able to throw up hot guilt all over both of us and let it cover us with third degree burns that would scar and be a lifelong reminder so instead I have to hide it in the words I haven’t said, and the nights I haven’t slept since you killed my daughter but now my unsaid words need to be spoken not only for her and me, but for the girl who isn’t allowed to go to school tomorrow and the one who was married off at the age of thirteen and the one who can’t walk down the street alone without the fear of being raped because it is far too dangerous so I mean, I need to say this for the one who gets beaten every day and thinks that it’s okay and the one who had acid poured on her face and was thrown down a flight of stairs with nobody around who really seems to care listen to my voice, because I care and I breathe in clouds and I exhale rain and right now it’s a thunderstorm and a hurricane and it pours for all of the other baby girls who will die before they reach two days old
[modest] nourishment
Alexithymia He looks at me Just to see The weight of the baggage he’s left me, Just to check That the marks he’s left on my naked body Are only there for me to see He doesn’t stop and look to see if I can breath Then he moves me aside so he can pee.
If only I hadn’t put down that water bottle, If only - but why me? I don’t remember much, thank GodOr should I be angry? We met at the bar, It ended in the bathroom Two laughing girls; Headache; Boom.
He wanted me to beg and scream But all I could do was close my eyes and respire. “It’s not okay but I’ll live”, “It’s just a faze, she’ll get over it”, “It’s probably just her period”, “Ignore it, she’s just being dramatic” Some want me to cry - but why? Why can’t I just breathe? Why must this now become me? I’m fine, yes, I’m okay - thanks for seeing me! :) :/ :( He left me there to find another me, Probably one who would kick and cry; Satisfy those dirty, ‘manly’ needs He liked to quantify the ways we feel, Measure out thoughts and feelings, Find formulas that prove that our worth isn’t as great as his He was a maths major: John, Matt or Steven? I don’t remember much...
It’s easier to speak because I can’t recall what happened to me: “Arts Frosh 2015, the best experience, we guarantee!” I can’t explain what I see, At night, in the arms of my love, Cat’s got my tongue Or maybe I just don’t feel. I want to speak, Want to add a narrative to the flashes I sometimes see Projected on trees, eyes, skin, lips, and feet
I’m okay, yes, I still breathe, Cat’s got my tongue Or maybe I just don’t feel.
Lija Eme-Lis
Gnosis
Wolf Lake
Bind Being completely at odds with two definitions Of physical, of identity Society and archetypes Anxiety All triggered By the simple insidious, bubble your answer: M/F Sometimes I just feel other Sometimes I wear a dress and put on lipstick Sometimes I’ll wear two sports bras because the tightness in my chest seems to be my only reminder to breathe that day You’ll never see me without cherry red toes underneath worn white socks peeking from my converse But I won’t ever wear polish on my nails It sets of a swirling wave of tendrils that prod at the back of my mind all day from a pit behind my stomach Until one by one I chip at the pale pink coat before it can pick apart me I don’t understand this ambivalent binary I wake up confused Worrying If the clothes I pull from my new closet will reflect my self Or serve to constantly remind of the war I’m fighting with the creeping discomfort wearing the back of my mind thin Young Me Quiet Me Lesbian Me Turquoise haired Me What clothes will I wear today? Before I even think about who I’ll be tomorrow.
Dear girl I loved in ninth grade, I don’t think your nose is too big, I think it’s perfect for your perfect face; you have taught me to love parts of myself I never thought I would without saying a single word.
Dear girl I loved in tenth grade, I’m afraid I’m stepping on your toes because I’m trying so hard to get you to notice me, to get you to like me. I have no words for what I feel other than “you are beautiful” and “I love you,” but I let them dissolve like candy hearts on my tongue because I am afraid.
Dear girl I loved in eleventh grade, I know I don’t talk to you now, but it’s only because I don’t want to show how into you I am. how I think the Trojans sent the wrong woman to launch a thousand ships.
Dear girl I loved in twelfth grade, I hear you talk about eating only yogurt and wishing you could be smaller than you already are. I thought I could never be with a girl who was tinier than me, but for you I will bend all of my rules. I want to tell you, You are infinite in your perfection. You are the most gorgeous girl I’ve never seen; Looking at you is like having my eyes burned, but still not being able to turn away. You were the start of all my sun metaphors.
-Briana Naseer
seashell, seashore I. a seashell cried to the moon the moon couldn’t hear so the tide urged forward a wave broke enveloped the cries the sea sunk a seashell deeper. II. I hear you throw a stone in the sea each time you think of me now I see love songs in ripples and waves.
can you see this body too?
meet the artists Hani Abramson is a first-year student and first-class patriarchy smasher at McGill University. She likes photography, intersectional feminism, and spooky things. Leora Alcheck is from San Francisco. She once told her Jewish Studies professor his personal theology was inadequate, and has an affinity for brussel sprouts. in her free time, she contemplates a world without celiac or burger records, and someday hopes to own a velour tracksuit. She has never consumed PBR. Madi Bode is a U0 student in the Faculty of Arts at McGill. She has always enjoyed creative writing about feminism, emotional pain and identity. More specifically, her interests lie with poetry and songwriting. She is very excited and grateful to have the opportunity to share this passion with others. Akira Chaita is a feminist, queer grade twelve student who is passionate about art in all its forms. She enjoys literature, poetry, and really loves The X-Files. Emily Curling is in her third year of Chemical Engineering at McGill University. From Houston, Texas, she moved to Montreal with a weird gut feeling that there would be plenty of cool things going on here & she was right. Emily is a commissioner on the engineering equity committee and is currently planning a conference on diversity in engineering in MTL this November. Emily enjoys talking to strangers and collaging with materials she finds around Montreal, especially in the trash. Fiona Glen is an exchange student currently dabbling in a mashup of McGill Arts departments. Hailing from Edinburgh and following an undergrad in International Studies in The Hague, she is swithering between applying for postgrads in Gender Studies or Fine Art. Her art tends to deal with bodies and boundaries, particularly the anatomical and ideological ‘skin’ which contains and divides, yet which is contested and
constantly metamorphosing. This is closely tied to her more general preoccupation with destabilising gender and sexuality expectations. Meghan Guysinger is a U0 Nutrition student. While they submitted to F WORD on a late night whim, they have been writing drably poems ever since their early love for Emily Dickinson and Sylvia Plath. Meghan's goal is to fill a beat up journal with (almost) daily poems this year. Emily Hoppe is a songwriter and visual artist cultivated in Barrie, Ontario. With a strong belief that artistic expression can actualize genuine cultural change, she seeks to contribute to flowering social movements. Her accustomed mediums include watercolour, oil, and printmaking; her sound is that of soft folk; she has lots of feelings. Michaela Jones studies English literature, communications, and film at McGill. Both her poetry and visual art hope to dance on the threshold of reality and the imaginary, often radiating from a meditation on nature or the cosmos. She is thankful for finding a space to develop her feminist voice with the F WORD collective. Erika Kindsfather is an Honours Art History student at McGill University. She is from Philadelphia, PA. Her interests include feminism and visual culture, the relationship between text and image in graphic novels/manuscripts/comics, and fiber arts. She is currently writing her honours thesis on collective grief and materiality in works of contemporary women artists (with a focus on Wangechi Mutu and Kiki Smith). Mariah Lamont-Lennox grew up in Cabbagetown (Toronto), Canada and currently lives in Montreal. She participated in several student art exhibitions throughout high school, specializing in life drawing. She is in her first year studying Art History at McGill University. She loves interpretive dancing, snax, and Frida Kahlo.
Meet the artists Noa Levin is a very caffeinated first-year McGill student who is just trying to do her best. You can find her looking for chocolate, getting emotional over art, or @nvalevin on instagram. frances maychak is a writer living in toronto, ontario, with a large piece of her heart still marooned in montreal. her current poetry engages with memory, history, femininity, and embodiment. she currently works in the family law courts and can be reached at francesmaychak@gmail.com, or found on instagram @thefrannable. Briana Naseer is a Pakistani-American poet living in Chicago, Illinois. She is originally from Lakeland, Florida, and graduated with a bachelor's degree in psychology from the University of South Florida. She is currently pursuing a graduate degree in school psychology. She has a cat named Boo. You can find more of her work at briananaseer. tumblr.com Leona Nikoli´c dreams often about being a cloud. Sometimes she doesn't dream at all. Last night she had an unpleasant dream but it wasn't real so it's okay. Is Leona real? TBD Francesca Pastore is a U2 philosophy major with a double minor in English Literature and Music Technology. Eliza Prestley is a poet, student, and doggy daycare teacher based in Philadelphia and Montreal. She produces both spoken word and written work focusing on all things weird and somewhat angsty. Currently she studies at McGill University and participates in the school’s student spoken word association McSWAY as VP Social Media. Daniya Sayed is a 20 year old Floridian who was born in Mumbai, India. She’s lived in Jacksonville,
FL for the past 15 years, which she has no clue why because she hates the humidity and southern racism. Although her studies explore the sciences, she considers herself a very strong and passionate creative individual. Her creative outlook on life started when she was very young; however it sparked after she graduated from high school. She began receiving many anonymous messages on Tumblr from various individuals asking how she managed to stay so confident in her covering. It was then she came to realize that many other young Muslim women worldwide struggle to find courage and poise in their covering and religious exercise. She started many photography projects which revolved around her big group of hijabi friends and still continue to work with them to this day. Hugo Sivov is a self-taught artist in his first year at McGill University, studying at the Faculty of Arts and Science. His work primarily consists of sketches, both pencil and digital. He might have taken to painting had he the patience. Sloast is a full time Art History student, part time street artist, who uses feminism and spirituality as inspirations to her artistic process. You can find her slapping her art onto the streets of Montreal, or doodling her life away in class. Isobel van Hagen is in her last year at McGill University studying international development and political science. Kelsey Whyte is a Toronto based artist holding a diploma in photography from Sheridan College and a BFA in photography from OCAD U. Her work parodies societal standards of women while celebrating female sexuality. She won the Project 31 photography award in 2016 and has been shown in galleries across Toronto.
F WORD COLLECTIVE Hani Abramson Tiffany Le Leora Alcheck Devona Lean Kara Anderson Noa Levin Caroline Copeman Emily Levine ÇaÄ&#x;an Diken Anna Ma Delali Egyima Aria Malhotra Gina Fung Hannah Taylor Emma Galarneau Jeanne Mayrand-Thibert Fiona Glen Casey Osborne McKenna Glorioso Francesca Pastore Maddie Gnam Evelyne Perron Emma Hignett Charlotte Scott-Frater Emily Hoppe Sophie Schaffer-Wood Judy Huang Kara Sacks Smith Michaela Jones Kristen Wesselow Mariah Lamont-Lennox Moizza Zia
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