vol. 6.5 august 2019
A WORD
ON THE ZINE
The zine - a publication and a radical movement. Originally made by sci-fi fans in the 1930s, zines soon morphed into a symbol of independence. Gaining popularity in the ‘70s with the advent of punk, zines became grungy, dirty. Riot grrrls of the ‘90s grabbed on and made them political, femininst, an ethos. Zines have always been made by the subversives, the DIY-ers, the dissenters. And now, we are making Foolish. Traditionally, we are sponsored by the University of Iowa Student Government, the School of Journalism and Mass Communications, the Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing, and the wonderful community that surrounds us. We acknowledge these entities, for giving us the chance to start and continue Fools Magazine. Yet now, Foolish has given us the chance to be fully unrestrained, and this edition is, for the first time, supported solely by readers, contributors, and editors. We hope to foster an environment for artists who have yet to be heard, who are aching to make that change. Foolish stands to be our own radical movement.
The ideas and opinions expressed in this publication are not representative of the University of Iowa.
LETTER FROM THE EDITOR Dear Reader, Welcome to foolsmag.com; to summer 2019; to volume 6.5; to Foolish: our first-ever online-only digital magazine. We have repeated our mantra time and time again: print is not dead. It certainly isn’t; but alongside the two print volumes we publish per year, we work tirelessly to put just as much love into our website. Online print is important to us for a number of reasons: sustainability, timeliness, access— precisely why maintaining our website is 50% of what we do. When we met as a new team onlooking the 2019-2020 year, we knew we wanted to push boundaries previously set for and by us. Summer was the perfect time to start, and our website became the birthing ground after first suggestion. No questions, no headshaking, we wanted to share this new volume entirely and exclusively online. We are so excited for you to read it, to share it, to read it again. Foolish is special for many reasons— our first illustrated cover, our first comic strip, and our first zine entirely. While we celebrate the end of Hot Girl Summer with volume 6.5, we hope you’ll stick around for 7 and 8; readers like you are why we keep going, how we feel able to. As always, we hope when you look inside, you find a bit of yourself. Yours truly, Ellie Zupancic, Editor-in-Chief
E D I T O R S Ellie Zupancic
editor-in-chief
Skyler Barnes
lead writing editor
Grace Oeth
managing editor
Vivian Le
creative director
Hannah Gulick
Kenzi Rayelle
Gabbie Meis
design editor
web editor
writing editor
jr design editor
Katie Sailer
Gabby Estlund
Nicole Pagliari
Hayley Anderson
Seth Moffitt
writing editor
photo editor
web assistant treasurer
CONTRIBUTORS Anna Nelson
Hayley Anderson Lauren Arzbaecher Rebekah Hallman pg. 14,19,25
pg. 27
pg. 17
Brett Shaw
James Hirsch
Lucy Rahayiroyi
Sage Anderson
Cailin Hall
Janiece Maddox
pg. 13 pg. 7
pg. 17
Cameryn Berridge pg. 7
pg. 3
pg. 25
Katie Sailer
pg. 1,17,27,38
Charles Peckman Kaylin Butterfield
pg. 3
Lydia Waheed Shannon Mulligan pg. 31
pg. 1,24
Madalyn Whitaker
Tian Liu
Mara Smith
Tyler Stercula
pg. 13
pg. 38
pg. 33
pg. 5,49
David Petersen
Kenzi Rayelle
Mary Mathis
Elizabeth Janey
Lindey Carlson
Philip Runia
pg. 21 pg. 1
pg. 7,13,21 pg. 38
cover art
pg. 45 pg. 19
pg. 14
pg. 21
Vivian Le
pg. 3, 33, 39
1 Headliner 3
House Un-American
5 Dream 7
My Hot And Dangerous Hero
13
Naked Fruit
14 01. 17
Grandma Jean.
19
Breanna Renae
21
I Almost Ate the Sun
24
Some Days I Do Not Feel Well
25 EVERYTHING!!!IS!!!DEAD!:)!! 27
Ice Cream at the Cathedral
31 Nude 33
A Day Along Dixie Highway
38
Can You Imagine Falling Naked
39
A Reflection On Growing.
45
Meet Mary
49 Flow
1
by Elizabeth Janey
I am a twenty-yearold, five foot eight and three fourths inches tall. Born March 10th, an underwater fish swimming against the current astrology. I am she/her/ hers a woman. Pale skin and brown eyes with a face that turns bright pink every time I blush. A woman, unpainted fingernails and a scar on my left elbow from where I scratched myself on a pine, I was eleven. Riding a fourwheeler and crashing I am a writer, I am a writer, I am a writer repetition helps the frontal lobe believe in abstract thoughts. My roommate, Danie, said “you are a writer” (Danie). I’m not quite sure I believe I am a soda pop avoiding water drinking No Need to Stir! Skippy Natural Peanut Butter
Spread with Honey Creamy lover and eat 15oz jars by the plastic spoonful, in my large sized room. I am a student studying epigenetics, genetics, the way extrinsic/intrinsic factors can affect the NS. Peripheral vs. Central (the spinal cord and the brain are the only structures within the central). I have an odd fascination with the ocean and the way it can kill. Drowning is one of the most painful ways to die and if a body is found with foam bubbles around its mouth it means that person was trying to breathe I have a weird obsession with the way blood flows in veins, if I were to step out in front of a car it would flow out. I was taught in drivers ed that cars are 5,000lb
Illustrations by Shannon Mulligan
weapons and that if you don’t wear a helmet, you’re more likely to crash, I wear a helmet when I drive. Wine is my favorite alcoholic drink. Preferably a red, slightly dry, sweet, in a crystal glass from my parents’ house, no longer my house, but my parents. I’m clumsy and frequently trip ovr over words when I’m speaking, especially to myself. I lose my balance at least twice a day and frequently miss the first step on the stairs in my building, that are seafoam green tiled and remind me of foam and the ocean.
Design by Katie Sailer
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H O U S E UN-AMERICAN by Lucy Rahayiroyi
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As midnight pours on, she wonders if I will go to college because people like me usually don’t. The indignation curls up in my throat; it threatens to come out in tufts of smoke. But I repress my enmity for the sake of co-Christianity. Every month, she maneuvers her bulky vehicle by the side of our house and drops off a physical representation of Stuff, etc. She wants to see us tear through the plastic garbage bag like rats scavenging for scraps. She slinks off like a predator. Later, she states: from the looks of it, your brother will grow up to be a good-for-nothing degenerate. She smiles proudly at her own son. She chooses to identify with my mother, hinting that we should appreciate her secondhand goods because we don’t know the struggles of single-motherhood. A thought flies to my mind: The thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. Right now, I would rather be an animalistic animist with no moralistic impediment. Instead, I tell her: wedontneedyourcharity. But black lips should have no backlash; they should always stay grateful.
Visual by James Hirsch
Design by Vivian Le
Italicized text from “The Cask of Amontillado” by Edgar Allan Poe, 1846
4
DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM DREAM KAYLIN BUTTERFIELD
5
6
BY BRETT SHAW 7
Hot and dangerous. That’s how the flashy, audacious pop icon formerly known as Ke$ha lives her life. Growing up on explosions of glitter and raunchy beats, I yearned for a similar reckless freedom of expression.
Throughout my entire life, a hyperawareness of my surroundings has both helped and hindered me. This first manifested as curiosity and eager learning. Gallivanting around my basement in my sister’s boas and mom’s high heels with underwear on my head was a typical Wednesday night for toddler Brett. We had a spinning plastic disco ball that shined colored lights around our unfinished basement. Blue, pink, and yellow dots transformed every grey brick into a club floor as I danced around to Kidz Bop CDs. I often threw the boa over my neck, pretending to be someone much older and more important than I was. Other times, this awareness took form as insecurity, which became prevalent during my adolescent years. Sixth grade was especially fragile. My only friends were cool boys from my football team who were forming overtly masculine identities. I studied their conversation patterns and clothing choices in a desperate attempt to keep up. It was gross and I was bad at it but tried my best at talking about girls’ boobs while wearing my finest cargo shorts. Usually, I was just quiet. Sitting in the back of a school bus, on my way home from another socially exhausting day of sixth grade, one of the popular girls --- a pretty one with long blonde hair and a loud voice -- turned to my section of seats and started playing her favorite song, “Tik Tok” by Ke$ha. Before
then, my only familiarity with popular music was the Kidz Bop CDs and whatever 80s rock my dad had on the radio. This Ke$ha song was whiny and feminine and bright. She sang of brushing her teeth with Jack Daniels and flirting with boys who looked like Mick Jagger. It was messy and humorous and gave the back of that bus a taste of the wild party-girl life that we’d only seen flashes of in TV commercials. I sat at my family computer and watched the music video over and over again as soon as I got home. Dirty, blonde hair hung over Ke$ha’s face. Smeared eyeshadow and three hours of sleep gave her an air of carelessness and confidence. Adorned in daisy dukes and cowboy boots, Ke$ha strolled out of her nuclear home and into the bright, sunny world. She traded her golden bicycle to some kids for their boombox, hitched a ride with a hot boy in a ridiculous crop top, and made her way to a sweaty house party. Tossing her hair and body around with the allure of a
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woman and ferocity of a man, Ke$ha knew who she was and showcased it to the entire world, no matter how unconventional. She possessed this exciting energy that both embraced and defied expectations of femininity. She was obsessed with boys, partying, and shiny things. It was a life I’d hardly known existed but was so entertained by. The summer after sixth grade, I met a girl at my brother’s baseball tournament out of town. She was a teammate’s older sister (two years older than me), and I was starstruck by her blonde badassery and her obsession with Ke$ha that equaled mine. We spent the entirety of our nights in the hotel memorizing “Your Love is my Drug” before writing a parody song on the back of a Starbucks wrapper. “Maybe I need some rehab, or maybe just need some sleep” turned into “Maybe I need some Pringles, or maybe just need some cheese.” We then sang the song to our parents in a desperate plea for them to buy us snacks. She was my first female friend since preschool, which was such a pleasant change in pace from my feigned interests in violent video games. Around her, I was free to gawk over Ke$ha’s outfits and dance on beds to pop music like an idiot -- a happy, carefree idiot. Going back to school, I would join show choir and make many more female friends who I could dance and sing with as well. I became much more confident in junior high. I starred in school plays, hung out with a tight clique of girlfriends, and got into trouble for talking too much in class. I told loud jokes and wore bizarre outfits on school dress up days. I didn’t completely
9Illustratrions by Cameryn Berridge
abolish contact with men either. With the courage to finally quit football, I joined the swim team where the friends were much less problematic (on most days). They actually enjoyed the trashy pop music that I played on the underwater speakers, and when they attempted to shave my head as a freshman, I had the audacity to say no to the tried and true tradition of boys who were three years older. Nothing could bother me. The problem was never that I didn’t get along with men. The problem was that I was surrounded by men with tighter concepts of manliness that I didn’t have the strength to challenge. I can’t pinpoint when, but at some point, I lost this fearlessness. Things were stirring within me that I couldn’t quite fight. I realized I liked boys my sophomore year of high school. My first crush was actually a boy on my swim team. His playful smile and tousled hair drove me crazy (he also looked great in a speedo). The realization was challenging, not just because he was one of my best friends, but because I wasn’t ready to be gay. Growing up around stinky middle school boys calling each other faggots and Christian threats of eternal damnation had given me an odd idea about what being gay meant. Being gay was shameful and
Design by Kenzi Rayelle
isolating and a sin, but only in the private comfort of my closest friends. Every time I thought about the boy on my swim team or a cute celebrity, guilt washed over me to the point where I resented these men and myself. Withdrawn and lacking the consistent confidence that drove my later middle school years, I quit theater and choir and anything else that drew too much attention to myself. I was still funny and adorable. Worst of all, I tried listening to music with muffled male voices and calming guitar notes in attempt to be a cool alternative rock guy. This was also the time that I set up a Tumblr account after numerous recommendations from my girl friends. The site allowed you to follow your specific interests like Ke$ha or fashion in an anonymous setting rather than building a public persona for you peers. My page was for complete strangers and two of my trusted friends. Many of the accounts I followed were run
by boys with a similar sense of humor and interest that allowed me to keep up with pop culture on a much deeper level. One account posted a clip of a Ke$ha interview captioned “fuck the haters” that particularly resonated with me. With jewels and tears around her eyes, Ke$ha said, “I’m just trying to make people happy. It’s such positive, fun music. Why are people so angry?” Ke$ha was never universally adored. She was trashy. She was a slut. She was corrupting children. She was crazy. She couldn’t sing. She made shitty music. Tabloids, stuffy moms, and dumb boys wouldn’t let the internet hear the end of it. Ke$ha saw these comments, and they hurt her, but she had more to say. This interview was during the television promotion cycle for “We R Who We R,” a song about unapologetically partying with her weird friends and being proud of who she is, a song that would later be reclaimed as an anthem to her gay fans. Many of the people I followed on Tumblr used their large following to share their stories of coming out and offered support to their followers going through the same thing. Among this support were more clips of Kesha at her concerts speaking against homophobia and proclaiming her love for the LGBT+ community and anyone else who felt like they didn’t belong. Reading testimonies from strangers I related to and watching the self-assured icon I had worshipped since the sixth grade proclaim her unconditional love comforted me. My guilty, lonely thoughts associated with homosexuality dissipated with each message of love and understanding. I got braver on the site and let myself be who
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I was. I followed more openly gay accounts, watched gay TV shows they recommended, and reposted pictures of hot boys. Being gay on the internet prepared me for accepting it in real life. I came out the summer after my junior year. The first time was on top of a parking garage to my two closest friends. Sitting on the hood of a car, surrounded by concrete, staring up at the stars, I blurted out that I was gay. They were warm and accepting and gave me the biggest hugs in the world -- it was very cinematic. Then I told my lifeguard friends. And then my mom. All of them were so accepting with such similar reactions that I just had them spread the news because I had been exhausted by the whole ordeal. My gayness wasn’t news to me and coming out was not the attention I wanted. The fact that straight people didn’t have to have a large declaration of their sexuality was annoying to me. Coming out was the means to an end of being my audacious self again without worry of judgement or the uncovering of some secret. My truth resparked the airy confidence that I admired in Ke$ha and the boys on Tumblr. I kissed many boys, rejoined the theater program, snuck into public pools with my best friend, and started to give less of a shit again. It was chaotic and beautiful. By this time, Kesha had dropped the dollar sign from her name and was in a public lawsuit with her producer who had abused her throughout the entirety of her career. She wasn’t allowed to release new music and went to rehab for an eating disorder that he pushed on her. A fan-launched campaign called “Free Kesha” involved protests at her record label and mass tweets of support to get her out of the
11
horrible situation. My heart ached for Kesha. She motivated me through so much with her uplifting spirit and love for the world. Seeing her so broken made me angry. How could this bright light of a human be threatened by such hate? I tweeted support to her over and over again, hoping desperately for her to come out on the other side. After a year or so of silence, Kesha picked up odd show dates around the country to see her fans again. One of these dates landed her at the Dubuque County Fair, a small carnival only two hours from my house. I went with the two girls I had first come out to. Love and excitement consumed me as I convinced them to show up eight hours early to guarantee us spots in the front row. With time to kill, we quickly made friends with the people surrounding us in line, all of whom are just as devout fans (some scarily more so). We called ourselves the Core 13 and numbered each of our hands so no one got any ideas to cut us in line. A community of trust was established as we played scandalous games of “never have I ever” and painted our nails with gold shimmery polish. Some of us bought short shorts that said “taters” on the butt from a nearby french fry stand. Leave it to Kesha to foster such open and silly relationships among her fans. In our final act of friendship, as the doors were about to open, we commenced the ceremonial Kesha initiation of dumping bottles of glitter all over our sweaty heads. I secured the best spot in the whole venue, directly in front of the center stage microphone, and began jumping as high as I could. Preparing to see Kesha was already so surreal, and I could no longer contain my excitement. Screams echoed as
the lights cut out and fog rushed over the stage. Single lights, each of a different color, took turns illuminating the yearning faces of a sea of young people covered head-to-toe in glitter. The first notes of “We R We R” began playing when a figure stepped out from behind a curtain, and it might as well have been God to me after all this time. Her shining rainbow leotard and feathery cape flying behind demanded every eye in the room. Kesha performed with such fun and raw energy that took form through belted notes and provocative movements. Each song overswept me with waves of nostalgia and awe as I sang along. In the middle of the concert, Kesha slowed down and thanked everyone for showing up and being here for her during this difficult time in her life. The audience and I chanted her name in response, which made her cry, which made me cry. I was so happy to support someone who had been there for me my entire life. She then sang “Animal,” a song dedicated to her fans whom she called her Animals. The first lyrics of the song go, “I am in love with what we are, not what we should be.” It was a song about individuality and acceptance that guided me through some of the scariest times of my life, and it was unfolding right in front of me. People often forget that Kesha was more than a weird party girl. She loved everyone unconditionally. She loved me when I desperately needed it. At one point in the show, Kesha came down to take selfies with her fans. I was a complete wash of stunned smiles and teary eyes as she told me she loved my shirt, a tank top that read “Free Kesha.” Our selfie was blurry and we were both so sweaty, but we had the biggest smiles in the world as we embraced.
In that moment, we had a mutual understanding for each other as two people putting our brightest selves forward through love, support, and having a blast despite life’s hardships. Kesha’s final number was the same song that had been played to me on the bus many years ago. Confetti raining down from the sky, I reached out my hand to grab the shiny piece of magic. I twirled and I twisted, beaming like the rainbow disco ball that danced around my basement. Each light shined off of me and reached out to every other person in the room.
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pulled out my teeth one by one, by one, by one by seven weeks lying in a hollowed out bed running my tongue over my teeth over my gums over my wounds in my chest that i built myself leaving holes where i knocked the bones down, digging through the rubble counting coins in my palms saving up enough to place my hands on something stable slide them up the bark, up the trunk up to the fruit in the trees my legs wrapped around the branches picking the fruit at the stem to sink my teeth into flesh, the sticky juice sliding down my chin to rest where my collar bones meet i look down so i can watch you make your way up just to get a taste of me
13 Embroidery by Anna Nelson Design by Kenzi Rayelle
01. Photo Essay by Tian Liu My inspiration comes from the complex realities in Chinese society. As part of the generation born under the “One Child Policy” in China, I grew up wondering “what if I had a twin?” When the government changed the policy to allow each couple to have two children in 2016, my family was too old to have grown up with a second child. Although the law lasted for 36 years, within those 36 years, half of the parents in China were allowed to have a second child. My parents were of the other half who were only allowed to have one. This photo story is a reflection of my thoughts on the law and the impact of being the only child.
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Design by Hayley Anderson
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In the leaving memories were left unwrapped, bows long wilted and string left to hang. After the funeral date was announced I tried the traditional stages of mourning, but it is hard to grieve over what was never there. You were simply happening, then happened. I’d wonder at the final moments, if you sensed the rot whispering sulfur through your ribs gas curdling your lungs. Could you feel tumors kicking for more room? Loved ones haloed over you linked writ to wrist whimpering hymns of comfort? Bleached sheets hiding the smell of your carnage once plump skin turned rancid as vultures in white coats await puffy breaths and glazed pupils.
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The funeral was puckered attendees dripping over your casket. Only the most treasured were given allowance to sit at the front, heads bowed lines memorized each sniffle orchestrated in time; You would’ve been so proud. We sat boxed, little sardines sweltering in their oils between paper doll women and wicker men. The priest spoke on how compassionate you were. But where was that compassion when siblings became soldiers their children bullets? When family was pitted against family how am I to learn forgiveness when you are maggoty and vile? I cannot weep for a stranger.
Illustrations by Cailin Hall
Design by Katie Sailer
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Breanna Rena by Philip Runia
The cheep-cheep of the bird outside is rapturous. Not quite a joyful song, but as if it were demanding or anticipating that something happen. Though I don’t have my glasses on, I can tell by the gray shade of the sky and the cool smell coming through the window that it rained last night. Spring has arrived, without the sunshine. With my turn to the other direction, the bird’s thrill disappears into the rhythmic ticking of the clock. It’s strange how one tick seems louder than the next, and then it cycles back. Like TICK, then tock. The tick seems to tock in my right ear, and the tock seems to tick in my left ear. That’s called stereo sound, I think. I’m in her living room on her futon. In approximately forty-five minutes she’ll wander out to squint through bleary eyes at me before smiling out an offer for coffee with whipped cream, just like clockwork. I’m outside of her room this time. At university she has a twin bed; we’re practical cuddlers, Libra and Virgo. Back home, waking up in her room made one feel as though they’d fallen down Carroll’s rabbit hole — curious. Having forgotten where I was, I’d orient myself to decide I was still a part of this world. The door’s closed, but the sounds of her family rustling themselves awake pour through the roughhoused holes her brothers had made. Ladybugs dance and die on the windowsill in 19
between refractions of light that pass through old glass bottles of Arnold Palmer. I allow my eyes a lazy snoop, knowing she won’t mind. There are posters of chic Vogue women, lilting their bodies to balance the negative space of her wall. A rack of clothes combining a colorful mixture of vintage, hand-me-down, and trend stands opposite of a dilapidated dresser. Atop the dresser, pink perfume bottles sit next to the bent spoon used to pry open the dresser drawers. A wooden head poses as a jewelry stand, holding numerous necklaces around its ears. Its hollowed eyes stare inquisitively back at me. He asks, “What are you looking for?” Taped to the dresser mirror, there are photos of her brothers, of Elise, of me and of her. She keeps her memories here. We love photography, and our muse is beauty. A familiar bang on the door announces the beagle and blue-heeler mix’s arrival. Penny jumps on the bed, commanding us fully awake, ordering me out of my inbetween. The nostalgia spurs a smile, and I know that the photos I took of her are hanging posted to the bulletin near where she sleeps now. My lens always catches her when she’s unaware. Like on the boat at Lake Okoboji where she sat in front of me in green, or at Bob’s in Arnold’s Park with ketchup and salt in between her fingers. Or like the one I took of her last year at the museum, after she touched
ae that painting of the ghostly little girl and got yelled at by that old man. She’d lost herself in that moment. She was a painter and knew she shouldn’t have touched it, but was entranced by its magnificence. I was the same way with my camera. At one point the flash went off and the attendant looked at me as if it was the tenth time it had happened. Relax, I thought. I’m just appreciating beauty, is all. The futon I’m lying on is quite ugly and uncomfortable. College housing is not the most conducive to nice furniture. She and I have to file through the door one by one to enter her apartment the first time I visited. The futon has more things poking me than cushioning me, so I have large pillows under my stomach to lift my hips off of the contraption, and lessen the pain. I put two blankets over my body to shield from the morning chill. The blankets are soft and warm, and when I move it’s like petting an animal. I rub my face on the fabric, back and forth, tactile with the textile. I used to not have the futon. Back home, her mother preferred me to sleep on the floor instead of in her bed, to keep up appearances and tradition. I honor our platonic love by sleeping in the living room, but refusing to arise until she emerges from her bedroom. Then we’ll begin our ritual, our art. In my photos, she’s usually not looking at the camera, which I like. Or she’s looking toward it, but not into it. I always show her the picture afterward, and it makes me proud or happy or I don’t know to see her react to the photo. She smiles, is surprised at her beauty somehow, and then holds it for a lingering second before setting it down or handing it back to me. She never asks, but I always hand it back.
Photos by Philip Runia
Design by Hayley Anderson
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BY TYLER STERCULA 21
I started with a marble, In it, a salamander’s eye. Next was a tulip, And the bee that flew nearby. Then came the days, Each a different color: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Diffusing shades of arborea; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Neon marmalades and bad ideas; The last and first without its namesake, A grayed-out waste filled with just my mistakes. I did not with them eat their nights; They hid behind my back. So instead I turned to the seasons, Certainly a bigger snack. But before I clutched them in my claws, They begged me listen to their reasons. “We are spring, We are summer, We are they who already know. “We are fall, We are winter, We are they who always know “The summer court swings, The winter court stings, We are they who bring tomorrow.”
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Then they danced their courtly dances And sang their merry songs, And I ate the seasons four, one by one. Spring with a jump, Summer with a twist, Fall with a dramatic “You will be missed,� Winter came slowly, but it did not blink, I wonder at its end, what it started to think. Wonder turned to hunger, and hunger to the sky; A marble is fine, a tulip, and a bee, Not the days nor seasons could satisfy me. I wanted something greater, something that hid itself from view. I wanted to eat the sun, but all I knew of was the moon. So I dragged the sunken valleys, Combed the golden peaks, Strolled through darkened alleys, Paved over gardens of teak. I found her in a pond, In a glen in a wood. I found her in a pond, Crying as she would. She asked for forgiveness, For the flowers and the trees, For the days, and the seasons, For the courts and their misdeeds. She asked for forgiveness before pouring herself in.
I ate the ants, the birds, the trees, the leaves, The wind, the rain, the sleet, the snow, I ate hurricanes and tornadoes, monsoons and volcanoes, Islands and continents, plates of tectonics. I drank lava, lapped up fearful rock, and more. I bit down on iron and stopped it spinning A core no more. I ate everything there was, is, or could be, Except the one thing that mattered to me. The sun hid behind the upright throne In my starry court; All that was left was my shadow, Curiously connected to my feet. I ate that too, then my toes, and my seat, My legs and my torso, my arms, and my head. I almost ate the sun, Instead of two marbles. I almost ate the sun, Which hid at my back. I almost ate the sun, But ended with a warble. I almost ate the sun, And made myself a snack.
23 Illustrations by David Petersen
Design by Kenzi Rayelle
SOME DAYS I DO NOT FEEL WELL
BY SHANNON MULLIGAN
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ev
er
hi
yt
er
ev
yt
ng!
!!
ng!
!! s! !
i is!!!is!!
hi
de
Design by Hayley Anderson
!!!
25 Taxidermy by Janiece Maddox
!:)!!
is!!!is
ad
!!
D E A D
!!:) i s ! ! ! 26
Ice Cream at the Cathedral By Lauren Arzbaecher
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Notre Dame is on fire and all I can think about is ice cream. Melting chocolate dripping down the front of a white t-shirt. My small frame laughing at my sister’s embarrassment while my mother frantically wipes at the stain on the previously clean garment. Fellow tourists watching with pitiful eyes. A memory conquered by a frozen treat rather than the ancient cathedral we were waiting in line to enter. When my family traveled to France, I was in kindergarten. Back when I still had blue eyes and my biggest concern was what weekend I was taking care of the class pet. The only responsibility I had on the trip was to write down something we did each day in a journal to show my teacher, Mrs. Marx. Safe to say the entries were less than novel-worthy.
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The only French that I can recall is the word for apple juice—jus de pomme—as it was my drink of choice as a kid. I remember getting souvenir coins at practically every place we stopped, spending nights in the hotel room looking over the gaudy tokens. I collected coins at all the typical tourist destinations: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, and of course, Notre Dame. One isn’t usually remiss for forgetting something that happened when their age was in the single digits, but when I opened my phone to the horrific videos of Notre Dame engulfed in flames, I wanted to find my younger self and scream at her for focusing on the ice cream. My heart sank as I watched live coverage of the steeple collapsing onto the street where I had once stood. I was certainly not the only one to look back on their visit to Notre Dame. Social media feeds were flooded with old photos of in front of the famous western façade. Grainy snapshots of slightly awkward stances blocking parts of the stained glass, all finished off with an Instagram filter and a message of remembrance or sadness.
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I’m not sure if I would even have had a photo to post, the only pictures from the trip stuffed into a photo album somewhere at my parents’ house, but social media posts adorned with heart emojis seemed like a disservice to Notre Dame. Of course it was a tragedy, of course we want to remember the cathedral before the fire, of course there are different ways of showing grief, of course we are in a digital age where online is the first place we go to express ourselves, of course there is not much more any of us could have done. Though there is something I could have done. At least my kindergarten self, though I think the idea applies to those past age five.
To take a moment, and look away from the ice cream or any other non dairy-related distraction
and really live. 30 Illustrations by Mollie Phalen
Design by Katie Sailer
NUDE ILLUSTRATION BY LYDIA WAHEED 31
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A DAY ALONG D
by Charles 33
DIXIE HIGHWAY
s Peckman 34
It is 7:30 in the morning, and the engine of my grandpa’s 1929 Ford Model A roars to life. The sky is dark yet auspicious, and we are armed with a brown cooler full of water bottles and cans of Pepsi – it is the Saturday before Father’s Day, after all, which means it is time for Drivin’ the Dixie.
received our itinerary for the day, along with a small ‘swag bag:’ brochures, a magnet, and two bright yellow pencils. As my brother and I stuffed our faces with free, homemade donuts, my grandpa began conversing with some of his friends. There was Martin, an older man wearing a yellow jacket and a ‘Korea Veteran’ hat, and Jim Wright, a member of my grandpa’s car club and author of books about Dixie Highway.
This annual event, which I have been participating in for as long as I can remember, takes attendees along Dixie Highway, which was first planned in 1914 to connect the Midwest to the South. Although In previous years, Drivin’ the Dixie attendance larger interstates have been constructed since then, has ranged from 80-120 cars, give-or-take a few Dixie still holds a special place in the hearts of the stragglers who either show up late or break down small Illinois towns throughout the day. that were fabricated “Although admittedly trite, This year, however, along the 5,000 56 cars registered. imagined driving with “It’s sad to see the mile stretch of I asphalt. dwindle,” my grandkids along this numbers my grandpa said, If you were to stretch of Dixie Highway. while he looked stumble upon out at the desolate the caravan of Even though the ‘vintage’ stretch of land we Drivin’ the Dixie car I would probably be were driving on. participants, you Despite the dip (in this possible in would think you driving attendance, had traveled back future) would most which my grandpa in time – aside from attributes to vintage my grandpa’s ‘29 likely be a 2008 Prius as car enthusiasts Model A, various getting older or opposed to a 1929 Model A.” characters showed dying and the up in a diverse inclement weather, sampling of cars from the last century; to your left, the three of us still enjoyed every stop. a beautifully-restored 1957 Chevy, to your right, a bright red 1977 Corvette. Although I do not These ‘points of interest,’ as they are called, included consider myself an especially masculine person, the Beecher Train Depot, a now-defunct train station there is something about the sight of vintage cars that serves as a museum, and Flossmoor Family that excites me, unlocking my inner ‘little boy’ as Auto Repair, a family-owned auto body shop I ogle at the pristine paint jobs and fuzzy dice where older men clad in Hawaiian shirts discussed hanging in the window. their latest restorations. Perhaps more interesting than any scheduled point of interest, however, was We began our day in Momence, Illinois, a sleepy hearing about my grandpa’s history of the area. 3,000-person town, 55 miles south of Chicago. It was at a minute, brick community center where we After all, he was born and raised in this area. As
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we drove along Dixie, he pointed at a dilapidated, one-story structure: “that used to be a Studebaker dealership, and that’s where my dad bought all of his cars.” This brand, I later learned, was completely manufactured in the U.S. and closed its doors in the 1960s. To our left, there was a large abandoned building that somewhat resembled Arkham Asylum (the fictional hospital from Batman). “That used to be a shopping mall with a huge J. C. Penney,” my grandpa said. “They filmed part of The Blues Brothers there in the late ‘70s.” Although my grandpa admitted it is, for lack of a better word, depressing to see these sites reduced to piles of rubble, not all of the unofficial points of interest were negative: in Homewood, we drove by the first house my parents bought together in the early ‘90s, and in the same town we toured a former funeral home-turned science center, which boasted interactive exhibits and a ‘learning laboratory’ stocked with computers and a small gift shop with science-themed t-shirts. By the time we reached our final stop, Blue Island, a steady (albeit light) stream of rain coated the forest
green exterior of our car. Once we parked and momentarily conversed with Martin, we made our way to a large field. Scattered on the matted, wet grass were men clad in anachronistic clothing; this, I gleaned, was a ‘vintage baseball game.’
Without mitts, helmets, or any of the modern amenities now commonplace in ‘America’s Pastime,’ the players in the vintage baseball league play according to the rules from 1858; the pitcher,
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for example, is referred to as the hurler. The catcher is the backstop, and the batter is the striker. Standing beneath a hastily-constructed tent with my brother, we watched the Brewmasters face the Grinders (in case you were wondering, the Brewmasters won 14-8). With the 18th annual Drivin’ the Dixie under our belts, we drove along barren roads towards my grandpa’s house – along the way, we passed miles of corn and soybean fields and an elderly man smoking a cigarette outside of a Dollar General. As the conversation faded and the only sound was the comforting roar of the engine, I began thinking about the 68th annual Drivin’ the Dixie (that is, if a. Dixie Highway is still around and b. if the event is still running, no pun intended). Although admittedly trite, I imagined driving with my grandkids along this stretch of Dixie Highway. Even though the ‘vintage’ car I would probably be driving (in this possible future) would most likely be a 2008 Prius as opposed to a 1929 Model A, I thought about the familiar sites I pass on a daily basis and take for granted. The thrift store where I buy records, the brewery where my family has enjoyed countless dinners, and the coffee shop where I spend hours laughing – and crying – with close friends. Thinking about the future of these places – and the memories housed within them – can lead to hours of postulating and emotions ranging from wonder to intense melancholy. Regardless of the fate of these structures, however, I know their memory will stay alive in the minds of those who inhabited them. After all – along Dixie Highway, a dilapidated brick structure cannot be taken at face value; at one point in time, my great-grandpa was receiving the keys to a brand-new Studebaker.
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CAN YOU IMAGINE
FALLING NAKED off the roof with just clip on earrings to hold on to and it’s nine in the morning at your summer home when do plums grow it is still nine am but where do they grow and how and is it okay to carry a plum or leave it where you found it when you remember you never liked plums? Plums taste like summer while naked on the roof and falling.
Illustrations by Lindey Carlson
Design by Katie Sailer
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A Reflection on G r o w i n g Slightly Older. by
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Mary
Mary Mathis. Self-portrait, from the series, “My Mother Lives in You,� Washington D.C. 2018.
Mathis
When people told me I was “going places,” I believed them. I turned those simple sayings into the truth. I left Iowa, and I forced success into my life. I interned and worked at places I had only dreamed of. I went to countless countries and worked abroad. I did the things everyone expected me to do at the age of 20. Still, a dull ache of wanting more of something breached my stomach. I was deeply unhappy, and had no clue why these successes weren’t filling my cup. I was told that success leads to happiness. Now I know that was a trap. A trap that stems from a work-centric society that was founded on making yourself bigger, faster, and stronger than everyone else around you to compete, and win, against others in the Big Game of Life.
and “achieve your dreams,” comes with the sacrifice of enjoying growth, and spending your time day-dreaming. I’m still focused on success; it’s something I can’t unlearn. But after a year away from school, my perspective on what success is has changed drastically. It was a year where I learned that I don’t have to work my entire day away and miss the sunlight outside. I realized that living with less is a sacrifice I have to make if I want to love my job and enjoy my time.
“ Va l i d a t i o n from others is a never ending thirst that refuses to be quenched.”
I had to come to the conclusion that I am not in this world to feel better than someone else; to prove that I can do something others can’t do. Validation from others is a never-ending thirst that refuses to be quenched.
Be skeptical of this societal brainwashing; that somehow geographic location means you’ve “made it.” That working yourself to health deterioration means you are working harder than everyone else. That working for a certain company will be all you need to obtain a feeling of happiness. That all these little sayings, “make something of yourself,”
There is always another option. Another way to live. One that fulfills you so deeply, you forget you were ever vying for “success” that other people had and you didn’t.
There are too many people, too many stories, for yours to just be wishing and hoping and lusting for others’ approval and someone else’s idea of what your life should look like. I had to look deeply inside myself and understand how much I appreciate rest, time to think, outdoors, and relaxation, before I understood that my idea of success would be letting go of everyone else’s. I went from people telling me that they were excited for my future, to telling me they’re happy to see me succeeding. How ironic that when I’m doing the least work I’ve ever done, I’m receiving compliments about my success. Design by Vivian Le
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Mary Mathis. Crow, Versailles, France,
, 2018.
“When people told me I was ‘going places,’ I believed them.”
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Mary Mathis. Self-portrait, from the series, “My Mother Lives in You,� Minneapolis, MN. 2019.
m e e t m a r y interview by Vivian Le
photos by Mary Mathis
The founding mother of Fools Magazine Mary Mathis sat down with creative director Vivian Le in June to discuss life post-graduation and entering the professional workforce. Mary is currently a music photographer and videographer for Minnesota Public Radio: The Current. Her work can also be found in the New York Times, the Washington Post, National Public Radio, USA Today, Outside Magazine, the Des Moines Register, and the Cedar Rapids Gazette. Vivian: Let’s talk about how Fools Magazine started. What fueled the creation of Fools and from where did you pull inspiration? Mary: I thought that college is kind of the perfect time to fail. It was really important that we would have an outlet where we could not only get some experience working with other people, but also fail if we needed to. Some of that inspiration came, at one point, from going to Prairie Lights. I bought around ten art magazines, and I just started putting Post-it notes in them and took inspiration from it. I showed those pages to my friends, and I started emailing and DM-ing people on social media. I was like hey, I want to make something like this, let’s do it. And they were pretty down. Vivian: I remember getting a DM from you in the fall of 2016 asking me to join Fools. I was a little freshman. I was so scared and I was working at the Daily Iowan still. But then, the year after, I saw the first two volumes, and I was convinced it was what I wanted to do. I dropped out of the DI. That was a risky move because I had just received a scholarship through them. But it’s incredible how Fools reached so many students and so many people through word-of-mouth and this trusted connection that people have with each other in the arts community.
Mary: Exactly. People in the arts are looking for other people in the arts. It can be really hard when you feel like you’re the only one feeling and experiencing something; but that’s ultimately why you’re creating art. So when you’re in a room of people who are also doing that, you don’t feel so lonely and selfconscious about the work you’re creating. Vivian: I was directly impacted because of Fools and your mentoring. Just before meeting you, before being in this environment, I felt territorial about my work and very possessive of my skills and all my knowledge. It wasn’t until meeting you and being part of Fools that I felt really open to sharing my resources. And I think it’s because you were always so open and willing to do that for others around you. How has carrying that mentality over the past year post-grad helped you? Mary: I’ve always been an open person as my family was in a public light because of my mom [Senator Liz Mathis]. It was locally public light, but I still feel like I’ve always been someone who is confident in the decisions that I make; not that I don’t care what people think about me, because I do in a certain way, but I don’t look back at my choices as embarrassing. I don’t feel the need to hide those things about myself. I feel things openly. I really
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have no clue where that comes from, but I can definitely think of times as a child where I should have been embarrassed and never was. That’s just always been a part of my life. So this last year when I went to New York, I closed off part of myself that had those qualities. I started questioning myself: oh, you aren’t doing quite what you wanted to be doing. And you’re banking all these tiny, tiny, tiny opportunties. I wish I could say to myself: you are removing the credibility that it takes to be vulnerable. You have it already. Just by being a human. So my vulnerability did waver and now I’m back, and I’m even better than I used to be better at not exploiting myself. Vivian: Can you talk about some of those experiences that brought you back to this emotional state of being happier or more vulnerable and secure over the past year? What are some of those pivotal points where you just realized things had to change?
“I had to look really deep inside myself and level: you have to pivot. Otherwise you’re gonna drown in this; this is not what you want.”
Mary: I had a point at NPR where I shared a photo. I think you probably remember this, but I shared a photo along with my writing during the Kavanaugh hearings that NPR thought was biased, even though it got hundreds of thousands of shares on Facebook. I experienced this overwhelming call-to-action from people. NPR was on the other line saying, “we think we’re going to fire you because of this.” And that, to me, was like any ultimate dichotomy. It came down to asking myself, what do I want to be? Do I want to be someone who doesn’t speak out because I think that I can keep a better job because of it? Or am I going to be true to myself and say what I need to say? Am I going to be an artist or am I going to be a journalist? I think that was a huge moment for me. I thought
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about journalism for the first time as a little cowardly. But on the other side, I was thinking that it’s also necessary for journalism to be unbiased. That was a huge turning point for me. Another one was realizing that I was in a group of people who had arguably the best jobs for our age in the U.S. It was a group of people who were working for NPR, the Washington Post, and the New York Times. Listening to our conversations, listening to how pissed off we were, just really put things into perspective for me. I eventually thought, I don’t think I want to do this. I don’t think this is my race to run. I don’t think this is who I want to be. Once I started realizing that my goal wasn’t to work for the New York Times, but that it was to be happy, is when I started to be happy. I really think those are two instances where I had to look really deep inside myself and level: you have to pivot. Otherwise you’re gonna drown in this; this is not what you want. Vivian: If you had started off last May in the current position that you have at Minnesota Public Radio, do you think you would have been happy? Or do you think that you had to really go through it to appreciate what you’re currently doing? Mary: I absolutely had to go through it. That’s the hard thing about writing this essay [“On Growing”]. No one is going to understand until it happens to them. It is impossible for me to get that through to you because I had people tell me this, too. I had my mom tell me a million times, “Mary, you can do great work in Iowa. You can do work you’re proud of in Iowa. You don’t have to go to New York and work for these big companies.” But all I heard from that was, “you should settle,” and I didn’t
hear, “look around you; there’s opportunity. You’re being elitist. You’re being an asshole.” I didn’t know that about myself. I absolutely had to go through the process of realizing that happiness does not come from location and happiness does not come from succeeding above other people. It just happens by understanding yourself and listening to your body and mind. Last year when I was working for NPR, I was sexually assaulted. The weekend after, I went camping in Pennsylvania with my friends and I was so happy because there was so much space, so much air, so much time to think and positive energy instead of the negative D.C. energy that followed me around after being assaulted. I just couldn’t take it anymore. I had to go. Vivian: That’s such a scary place to be in. I can’t imagine how it further amplified that experience for you. Mary: It definitely makes me think of my time in D.C. as a negative experience, even though I know deep down that I still did have moments where I was really happy; and that’s the place I was in when I started running, when I started actually thinking about my body. To answer your question: no, I could not have just started in Minnesota because I would still probably think, you’re settling. You’re not going for the gold. The truth is, that is the goal I had to try to reach so I could get to this awesome place and appreciate it the way I do. Vivian: Reflecting back on the images that you took at the beginning of May last year up until now how do you see your subjects and focus shifting? How has your photography grown since going through this first year after college? Mary: That’s really hard for me to answer. I’ve taken this year to focus on being a better person, a better friend, a better lover, and a better daughter, instead of being a better photographer. Actually, if I picked up a camera right now and covered the same event I did last year, I would have probably made better photographs back then, but that’s because it’s a different kind of photography. As far as documentary, I’d be better a year ago because I
was photographing events every day; now I’m in a place of peace in my mind. I think out of this is going to come a natural progression where I get better, and I do things that are more concrete and out of my gut feelings. But, to be honest, I work in photography and videography right now, so not a ton of my personal free time can also go towards photography. I am still making images of my friends and the people I love, but it’s just random stuff right now; however, I have started researching a project that I want to do based on parachute journalism. I’m going to do a portrait series of Iowans involved in politics through activism or entrepreneurship or canvassing. I’m going to show faces to a group of elite media. I’m going to try to pitch it to the New York Times and say, “here. I’m showing you the faces of Iowans that you never see because all you see is people in cornfields; that’s all you think we have.” If you’re only seeing what you think exists, then that’s what exists. Vivian: Absolutely. I saw your tweet in response to that journalist from an East Coast state. You were addressing her one-dimensional take on Iowa. Mary: That’s exactly what it’s about. Vivian: As an Iowan who has been working for some of these media companies and is now back in the Midwest being hyper-aware of how people take that identity and capitalize off of it during the election season I think that it’s important that you’re speaking out as a journalist. A lot of people aren’t even noticing it. Mary: Right. And all of a sudden this East Coast paper’s staff says to me, “we need you to go document this place.” So, to myself, I’m like, well now I’m going to do what I hate. I’m going to be the person that I hate, and I’m going to show you the images that you want to see. Because that’s exactly what you’re expecting. I feel like I really need to do a project like this that focuses on something that I care about, so I can feel good about journalism again. So I can feel like journalism
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can also be art for me and I don’t have to feel gross about documenting people. This is trying to spin journalism and art with a bit of information from the public. Open your eyes. Iowans aren’t bumpkins. This project is a huge accumulation of my year. Vivian: It’s very healthy for you to not be consumed in your craft. And you have other things that you do on the side that you’re not going crazy about it. Can you talk about how you have been practicing that? Whether it is with you running or any other forms of art? Mary: Yeah, totally. Oh, my God. I do think that for a while your form of art needs to be something that you’re completely obsessed with. I’m still obsessed with photography even though I don’t photograph every day. I’m constantly looking at photographs, and watching things, and reading about photographers. There’s never a moment that I’m not thinking about photography. But, on the other hand, running has become this other form of art to me. I realized I’m good at other things. But the time-consuming parts of life can be so hard when you’re putting weight on one thing that you want to be professional about, you want to be creative about, you want to be ethical about. It’s a lot of stress and energy to put on one thing. So I use running as my outlet for my mind, instead of putting all of my ideas and all of this pressure onto photography. Now I’m so much better at being a good friend; I spend so much time with friends now just sitting. We don’t even do anything. I now just spend so much time not doing anything. I’m not lying. Someone asked me if I did this a year ago, and I was like “what the fuck do you mean ‘not do anything’?” and he was like, “yeah. Do you ever just sit? And not do anything?” I literally thought he was insane for suggesting that; and now I love doing that. I love sitting and thinking and writing and listening and reading. Those are such important things. You might think you’re not being productive, but you are being so productive. Vivian: I think it’s great that you have the time to do nothing now.
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Mary: That’s a huge switch, too. I know I’m so lucky because I have a stable job where I never have to work a 9:00 to 5:00, and I still get to work on the side. That doesn’t mean I’m not stressed about money. I’m stressed about money all the time, but I’ve decided that to make this lifestyle switch I am going to make sacrifices. Those sacrifices include complete stability with money. There’s a huge balance. It’s a balance of drive and passion. You can’t be solely career-driven or you’re gonna drive yourself off the cliff. And you can’t be lazy. You have to be in the middle. I think that’s really, really difficult. Trying to balance things this year was so important. Vivian: Absolutely. Is there anything else you want to add? Mary: It really helped me to work for Fools, an outlet that I wasn’t getting paid for. Not because I think we shouldn’t be paid for our work, but to show yourself that you’re truly passionate about something. To do things for free is so important to your art, and important to other people’s art. Yes: artists should be paid; but when you have your own personal project and you just want an outlet? It’s such a beautiful thing to have one. Fools is a gift. Fools is not a company you work for, but something you work at, left and right, because it’s that outlet. It’s a beautiful, beautiful thing. I really wish I had something like that now, you know? Kenyon and I talk about making things all the time. She’s like, “let’s make Fools 2.0.”
“...he was like, ‘yeah. Do you ever just sit? And not do anything?’ I literally thought he was insane for suggesting that.”
Side of Somewhere Home, from the series, “939 Miles,� 2019.
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Graphite Illustration by Kaylin Butterfied
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