Fools Vol. 2 by Fools Magazine

fools vol. 2, April 2017

magazine

THANK YOU TO OUR SPONSORS 07

DANGEROUS WOMAN

CATHOLIC GIRLS

CERAMXXX

STILL

17 EXPOSED 19 ATLANTIS 21 ASTRONOMY Fools Magazine’s second issue was generously funded by two departments who saw potential in the Fools team and efforts. We would like to formally acknowledge the Frank N. Magid Center

22 NIKKI 25

RAP’S ROCKSTARS

for Undergraduate Writing and the Journalism School for their

27 JAN

contributions to Fools Magazine.

30 NANI

the ideas and opinions expressed in this magazine are ons expressed in this magazine are not representative of the the the ideas ideas and and opinions opinions expressed expressed in in this this magazine magazine

BREAKING CONFINEMENT

33 MOROCCO 39

TOWER OF BABEL

AFTER THE HANGOVER

43 ELECTION 47 GERRYMANDERING

not representative of the University of Iowa. University of Iowa. are are not not representative representative of of the the University University of of Iowa. Iowa.

IN WHICH WE DIE

THE GRIEF SONATA

MY FATHER

EDITORS Madeline Smith Editor in Chief Writer pg 31-32

Joseph Flesner Design Editor Writer pg 41-42

Cecilia Fernandes Writing Editor Writer pg 47

Ananya Munjal Creative Writing Editor Writer pg 30,51-52

Cindy Garcia Copy Editor

Jason Grobstich Social Media Director Writer pg 7-10

CONTRIBUTORS Annalise Castro Illustrator pg 11-12,14,16,48

Cameron Cooper Writer pg 48

Charlotte Elsasser Writer pg 11-12

Kenyon Ellsworth Designer pg 49-50

Kat Fey Designer

Jordan Gale Photographer pg 43-46

Nik Goecke Writer pg 39 Elaine Irvine Illustrator & Writer pg 09,16,39 Starr Lee Photographer pg 27 Avery Mossman Writer pg 25-26 Carla Seravalli Writer pg 27-28

Emma Greimann Illustrator pg 15, 17 Marissa Kelly Photographer pg 18, 49-50 Mary Mathis Photographer pg 33-38 Becc Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Brien Writer pg 17-18,21 Lindsey Smith Designer Jennie Wonderlin Writer pg 13-14,49-50

Hanna Grimson Writer pg 19

want to be a fool? send submissions or inquires to foolsmag@gmail.com

Alex Kramer Writer 22-24

twitter: @foolsmag Canyon McCarty Photographer cover McCall Radavich Photographer pg 20,25,40

instagram: @foolsmag facebook: @foolsmag

Jordan D. Wesely Photographer pg 29-30

see additional content and pa see additional content and past issues at foolsmag.com see additional content and past issues at foolsmag.com seeatadditional conte see additional content and past issues foolsmag.com see additional content and past issu see additional content and past issu

EDITOR’S NOTE Welcome to our brainchild — Fools Issue ll. Ever since the incredible response to our first issue we have been eagerly working on making issue two as great as it can be. We’ve evolved from our mistakes, grown as a team, and proudly curated a magazine that showcases work from some of the most creative and visionary minds in Iowa City. Together, we’re redefining what it means to be called a Fool. We’re ambitious by nature, have an appetite for originality, and are fiercely supportive of one another. This magazine wouldn’t have been possible without the team of Fools who worked tirelessly to bring it to life. I can’t begin to put into words how grateful I am to have worked with them. We’re so excited to finally show you what we’ve been up to, and we hope you enjoy it as much as we enjoyed making it. Madeline Smith — 2017.

DANGEROUS WOMAN ARIANA GRANDE PROVES SHE’S MORE THAN JUST A POP PRINCESS

BY JASON GROBSTICH

or anyone who knows me or is even slightly aware of my existence, it is obvious that I am an Ariana Grande superfan. When I say that, most people smile and say they like a few of her songs and think she’s a pretty decent artist. But I’d argue that Grande is doing something much more than pumping out catchy pop tunes and

belting notes better than most artists today. In 2016, Grande released her third and most important album, “Dangerous Woman,” that not only produced serious crowd pleasers but promoted the importance of unapologetic female empowerment and LGBT acceptance while stating that being sexual does not mean you are lesser in value. 08

“PRINCESS AIN’T YOU EVER SEEN A

BAD BITCH?

“

BE A

From the opening track, “Moonlight,” Grande eases you into the experience with a doo-wop ballad that promotes pure and wholesome love (“I never knew you could have moonlight in your hands / ‘til the night I held you”). The reserved beauty and subtlety doesn’t last for too long, however, as the second track thrusts listeners into the titular single, “Dangerous Woman.” Grande lets loose and shares with the world everything that she is, saying that being a woman doesn’t mean you can’t be powerful and strong while you’re in love (“Taking control of this kind of moment / I’m locked and loaded / Completely focused”). Grande is constantly under fire from the general public for looking too young and not fitting the typical mold of a maturing woman. But at 23 years old, she’s letting you know she’s here to stay and will crush your idea of what a woman should be and how they should behave. The theme of sexual liberation continues through her other two lead singles, “Side to Side” and “Into You.” “Side to Side” details having such incredible sex that walking the next morning proves to be more than difficult. The pounding synth of “Into You” guides us into the sexual tension of meeting a new person and wanting nothing more than “a little less conversation and a little more touch my body.” And in her most recent single, “Everyday,” she unapologetically talks about getting good sex every single day and the rush that comes with it (“Anytime, anywhere, baby boy, I can misbehave”). If you feel any discomfort from a woman singing so openly about her sex life, Grande has one line to offer you from her song “Bad Decisions”: “Ain’t you ever seen a princess be a bad bitch?”

With the “Dangerous Woman” album, Grande wants us to understand that we should all feel free to discuss sexuality and sex without feeling dirty or ashamed. This message especially resonates with women and the LGBT community, whose sexual presence is constantly shamed whenever they talk openly about their sexual experiences. But this album is here to argue that not being able to talk freely about how we experience life is bullshit. We are all human and deserve to experience love and affection. The album also comes with a poignant ending, as the last couple songs ease us out by teaching listeners that sometimes great things come to an end, and no love comes without pain. In “Knew Better / Forever Boy,” Grande sings, “But you showed me what it means to be happy ever after / In love forever,” detailing a love that is so strong that the word “forever” seems so easy to say in the moment. But the dark side of romance is quickly shown in the concluding (and most underrated) track, “Thinking Bout You,” where Grande sings about someone she misses deeply. Whether that’s because of long distances, recalling an intimate night you once shared with someone who left your life, or simply missing someone with every fiber of your being, the chilling and airy vocals of Grande in the song build us up to the pain that we have all faced at least once in our lives (“Oh, I don’t have you here with me / but at least I have the memory”). “Dangerous Woman” is filled with so much content that it’s difficult to put into words how important of a journey it is to take. Do not let yourself fall into the trap of thinking it’s just mindless pop music – allow for the pertinent social commentary to shine through as it breaks social stigmas that still surround us today. Grande has poured her heart into “Dangerous Woman,” and if you’re any minority that has been shamed for their sexuality or for loving the person you love, Grande is here to assure you that you are not alone. In the thesis statement of her album, “Be Alright,” she lets us know that the difficult times are almost behind us (“Baby don’t you know / All them tears gonna come & go / Baby you just gotta make up your mind / That every little thing is gonna be alright”).

ILLUSTRATION BY ELAINE IRVINE

CATHOLIC GIRLS BY CHARLOTTE ELSASSER

The women who taught me how to be a woman were all waitresses. I admired the way their aprons made them look like nicer versions of themselves. They possessed the power to make the most run-down, verbally abused person appear ready for a 7 o’clock breakfast shift at the diner. Despite the stories I’d heard about sexist restaurant owners and rude customers, I envisioned myself as a waitress during my young-adult life. The epitome of young womanhood was wrapped up in carrying full trays of drinks and developing a shorthand for taking orders that could be a second language. At the start of my second year in college, I needed another job to supplement my student worker paycheck so I decided to apply at a small Mexican restaurant and within a few days I got called back for an interview. While I sat on the park bench outside the restaurant and waited for the owner to start the interview, I thought about the women I loved and their aprons. I thought about how I’d like to feel nicer and less tired, or at least appear to be so. I was raised by working-class Nebraskans who held steadfast “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” mentalities. At 10 years old, I felt perpetual guilt about not working hard enough. A waitress who depended on her positive, go-get-‘em attitude to make good tips must be the perfect daughter. In middle school, I looked forward to the day that I turned 15 and could have a real job. I hated nannying—I wanted to be a waitress. When I told my dad, he said, “You could never be a waitress, someone would piss you off and you’d get fired for punching them.”

PAINTING BY ANNALISE CASTRO

“No, I went to Catholic school actually,” I said. At the end of the interview, he took a moment to describe the 30-day grace period. “We’ll give it 30 days to see if we like you or if you like us.” His face twisted into a smile I would soon recognize as the smirk he gave when he thought he was about to say something funny. “But you’re a nice Catholic school girl, so I’m sure that won’t be a problem.”

“ BUT YOU’RE A NICE

catholic school girl

“

ONE FOR THE

The first thing my new boss said to me after looking at my application was, “You went to military school?” This assumption was based off the address of my high school, Military Avenue.

I thought about high school. I thought about being queer at an all-girls Catholic school, questioning religion teachers about abortion and circumcision, and wearing leggings on dress-down days in protest because the administration told us they were too distracting for male teachers. I thought about getting a DUI when I was a junior and having to hide it from my school to avoid being suspended and barred from a trip to Paris. I thought about all the different excuses I used to skip Mass and being scolded for bringing up contraception during sex-ed. I thought about the girl that he thought I was. How I would be nice, sweet, and pretty.

I’d follow directions and be appreciative that he gave me an opportunity to learn how to wait tables. I wouldn’t question him when it took two weeks to get my tip money, and I wouldn’t stand up for myself when he told me I wasn’t good enough to serve a Taco Tuesday. I wouldn’t stand up for other waitresses when they received harsher punishments than our male counterparts for the same infractions. I’d pretend I didn’t know he’d said inappropriate things to other servers my age. I wouldn’t confront him when he’d give me shitty hours, despite knowing that I was establishing residency to pay for school. He’d reveal to other servers that he didn’t like me because I “talked back,” rather than confronting me the way adults should. He’d tell me not to sigh, and I’d stop having things to sigh about. I thought about how the server apron would make me look nicer than I was, make me seem less tired. I wouldn’t punch anyone for mistreating me. I smiled. I listened. I went home and bought server aprons on Amazon.

My inner palm cups the backside of the b a l l o f clay that lies pounded into the middle of the wheel head Water delicately

lubricates the otherwise raw earth beneath my fingertips That is effortlessly stirring beneath

ceramXXX

the p r e s s u r e of my body. Toes curl with each push of the kick-wheel While my q u i v e r i n g strength

by jennie wonderlin illustration by annalise castro

fights against the unruly body Slowly maneuvering it towards its most middle point The sweetest of spots Placed on the medial point M y f i n g e r t e n s e s and moves downward Creating a hole that is f i l l e d and drained.

Filled

Subsequently p u

lled

drained.

w i d e r and then c h o k e d s m a l l e r Until the most perfect forum is e r e c t e d

And

and

With

skirts

lips that curve

that

rise

The sweltering kiln flares up.

seamlessly

bareness

still

BY ELAINE IRVINE

donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t lust over them but see for me please, analyze every curvature of what parts of me show the most and please tell me that you listened tell me all you hate but not what you love and make sure it hurts when I look into glass, even when it is not yet broken instead ruin the lust I reserved for my mirror make me break glass on my own. . make me hear you and make me leave.

15 16

GRAPHIC BY EMMA GREIMANN

ILLUSTRATION BY ANNALISE CASTRO

16 17

EXPOSED

“I would [not wear clothes] if it were socially acceptable. You just don’t feel bound by anything. But at the same time, of course, the social norm is: wear clothes

BY BECC O’BRIEN Being on the roof of the Visual Arts Building naked is by far Sam Farrell’s best on-the-job memory. “Having people draw you as you are totally naked and it’s warm and you’re sweating on tile stone in a really cool setting - it was kind of surreal,” he said. Farrell is a senior at the University of Iowa studying Communications and Entrepreneurial Management, and he makes money modeling. Nude. And he’s super chill about it. “It’s purely objective for [the artists]. They don’t look at you and see a body, they look at you and see a shape. And how that shape fits into the space, and how the negative space around you forms your shape.” Discomfort while modeling does not stem from nudity for Farrell, but rather the long stretches of time he must stand or sit still. He challenges himself to go without moving for half the session. Sometimes that means sitting still for an hour and a half. In day-to-day life, “Very rarely do you sit in a spot and not move a muscle for three hours, or even ten minutes,” Farrell said. “I’m very fidgety.” The physical pain can be excruciating, and oftentimes limbs will “fall asleep.” Farrell said that while standing poses are the worst, sitting poses are not much better.

In either case, you must be able to distract yourself from the pain. “The fact that your mind can wander as people are staring at you totally naked, is a very strange experience. But for some reason, I’m really OK with that.” Farrell said he thinks about assignments, food, and sometimes even sex. But he tries to avoid that last one so the artists won’t notice. Aside from the robe worn to the classroom from the changing room, some artists may never see a nude model clothed. I took a peek behind the curtain to learn how Farrell expresses himself off the job. The day we met, he wore scuffed leather boots, dark wash skinny jeans and a light gray T-shirt. His classic pompadour hairstyle was offset by the unbuttoned light denim button-down he had casually thrown over the look. To accessorize, Farrell sported weaved bracelets from camp, wristbands from cheer and Dance Marathon, and a chunky black and yellow watch. “I’m in a fraternity but I try not to fit that persona,” he said, “You know, Sperry’s and socks and Chubbies shorts with the five-inch inseam. I do own all those things - minus the Sperry’s - but I try not to put them all together in the same ensemble.” Go ahead. Sit back and ask yourself. If there were no social qualms, would you always wear clothes?

That’s the way it’s been for a very, very long time. It’s probably not going to change. You know, unless I join a nudist colony. Which is not something I’m going to do.”

PHOTO BY MARISSA KELLY ILLUSTRATION BY EMMA GREIMANN

atlantis BY HANNA GRIMSON

We were underwater one day to see how far down we could sink when the air ran out. Our lungs were empty, flat, and since we never have the luxury of holding our breath on dry land We came down here to be weightless and search for cities, ourselves, the walls that surround us everywhere we go. You pointed at the tons strapped to my back, so I turned to see, astonished, that I was bent under weight I did not permit. And it is still there right now. So if you see me with a limp, it’s okay, I know I have a flat surface that doesn’t float doesn’t sink doesn’t move . except to follow me But I won’t discard it if my life depended on it. This boundary is me, and I can’t rip out pieces of myself even though I have been told that it is quite simple, I will keep what I have thank you very much So if you see me with a limp don’t remind me.

PHOTOS BY MCCALL RADAVICH

THE ARTISTRY OF ASTRONOMY BY BECC O’BRIEN

The navy-purple expanse above us that reveals a splattering of stars and a handful of planets each night has caught the attention of many throughout history. Vincent Van Gogh used oil paints and brushes to capture the turmoil of the night sky in his painting, “The Starry Night.” In the Gospel of Matthew, the Star of Bethlehem was a beacon of hope as it led the Magi to Jesus. And Galileo Galilei, known as the father of modern astronomy, took a scientific approach to the sky to question the belief that the Earth was the center of the universe. According to University of Iowa Astronomy Professor Robert Mutel, the barriers that divide artists, theologians, and scientists are formed through the different languages of their jobs. “It’s only the wisest who can see that we’re talking about the same thing,” he said. Radio Research Mutel approaches the universe and his surroundings from the scientific perspective. “When I listen to a Bach cantata, and I think about the equations of general relativity — which are describing gravity and space-time — they’re talking to me in the same way,” he said. Radio telescopes, which detect radio emissions from stars, are the main instruments Mutel uses in his research. These telescopes are so powerful that they allow you to see two insects an inch apart from 10,000 miles away. Of course, Mutel isn’t researching insects. One of his most recent projects was studying the Faint-Young-Sun Paradox. According to a widely accepted theory, when the Earth had just been formed four billion years ago, the sun was 30 percent less luminous than it is today. However, if you turned the sun down by 30 percent right now, the Earth would transform into a giant ice ball in the sky. From the geological record four billion years ago, the Earth was not completely frozen. How could this be? To try to answer this question, Mutel and a team of co-researchers used two radio telescopes: the Very Large Array (VLA) in New Mexico and the Alma telescope in Chile. The researchers studied five young stars similar to the sun to see if the reason the Earth wasn’t frozen was

because the sun had more mass four billion years ago than it does now. In the end, they determined that a large loss of mass was not occurring in these young stars and therefore is not the answer to the Faint-Young-Sun Paradox. “We didn’t get the punch line right,” Mutel said, “but we proved that one explanation for this couldn’t be right.” Professor Mutel’s research on this project will be published in the British publication “Scientia” this year. Iowa City Skies Anyone can get a closer look during Clear Skies public viewing events, which are hosted every second and fourth Friday of the month, weather permitting. Teaching assistants and astronomy students operate the telescope using a CCD camera like those found on smartphones. The telescope can capture images of bright objects in the sky, and the operator can even email you a copy of the picture. On any clear night in Iowa you can look up and see the spread of sparkling fireballs in the sky that poets write about, theologians philosophize and scientists study. By looking up at the skies with a telescope, it is easy to see the combination of scientific measurements that work together to provide a beautiful image of something before unimaginable to your eye — a true work of art. The Awe of Astronomy “When I find a poem that really speaks to me and it’s difficult to describe in words,” Mutel said, “something that really gets to me, it’s that same place that I see these beautiful mathematical expressions of the universe.” One moment of astronomical beauty and awe to look forward to in the night sky will happen this August. Just south of St. Louis, Missouri, sky-gazers will be able to witness a total solar eclipse, where the moon completely covers the sun. “I saw [a total solar eclipse] in Mexico once — it was near noon — and within seconds it was night,” Mutel said. “And the birds started singing, and there was kind of a rush of wind, because there was a sudden loss of heat. It was an amazingly emotional experience.”

PAINTING BY ANNALISE CASTRO

N I K K I BY ALEX KRAMER

“With people as a medium, her canvases are finite. Powills may never see her work again.

The cool, brazen lights acted as backup singers in a choreographed ensemble between artist and her canvas. The swing and R&B music grazed the navy blue walls and resolute cubicles, submerging the small space with in tranquil mood. The quick whir of needles could be heard, acting like pens on skin. “You know the drill,” Nikki Powills joked with her recurring subject, Keely Sybesma. To many of her clients, the tattoo artist seems to be as much of an addiction as the ink. They keep coming back, time and again, for her. Powills started her tattooing odyssey in Iowa City ten years ago so it’s appropriate she would be leaving her mark here. She was not always hell-bent on the craft, but faced a taste for art so encompassing she decided to mold a career from it.

“I knew I didn’t want to be a teacher

and really had almost

GIVEN UP HOPE

of doing anything art-related” “But then at about 14 or 15 [years old], I started getting pierced a lot and got introduced to the industry and realized this was an opportunity and an option.” She started hanging around shops, questioning tattoo veterans about the practice. She specified her art into a certain style, and in high school, spun her talents into an apprenticeship at Exile Tattoo under the artist Stingray. Now she has a location to house her work and needles – Black Angel Body Art, the place gilded with original paintings pegged by their dark realism. Her preference for drawing in illustrative realism shows through, though Powills stays well-versed in tattoo styles, some the opposite of her natural hand.

“I try to use different line weights to give it more of a pop,” she explained. “So bolder lines in areas where it helps push the image, a little more simplistic night-color blends and something that will age well in the skin.” Powills brings people’s thoughts to life and examines them for what will work, what the body will take. Unlike any other art, it is fueled by the needs of others; with people as a medium, her canvases are finite. Powills may never see her works again. They are orphans being given a home. It is art that requires a schedule, a collaborative creation within the confines of time – often not just the artist’s. “One of my clients and I were just talking about that last week,” she laughed. “This is something that you’re making and people can’t buy, it’s just on them and with them forever. It’s a very personal thing for sure.” Our parents warned us of their permanency – but in wake of this changing world, that fact feels more like solace than a threat. As we’ve grown out of staining our clothes, this progressive generation has taken up marking our skin. Maybe it came our ‘70s grandparents, their rebellion becoming our expression. Tattoos have been a tradition for millennia, the first found on a body dating back circa 3300 BCE. It changes through time and culture. Today, it’s a livable aesthetic: a way to map and pinpoint where you’ve been or commemorate a passion or simply celebrate beautiful things. “It’s more more rewarding,” Powills said of tattooing original pieces. “I spent time making the piece and watching it come from a pencil sketch to a clean line drawing to a tattoo that’s fully rendered with color and everything. It’s awesome to see that process unfold, rather than having to mimic another artist’s style.” Like Dalí’s melting clocks, her ink cooked into Sybesma’s skin. Unlike “La persistencia de la memoria,” the art at hand would walk out of the studio after the hour was up – on an individual leaving to live their life rather than for an audience in a museum. Fortunately, this tattoo would return home for the next appointment with Powills.

They are orphans being given a home.”

PHOTOS BY SKYLER Photos by Some Body KNUTZEN

Rock and roll, at its core, is a cult of personality. Although playing ability, songwriting and musicality may be vital, persona and performance are paramount. As hip-hop overtook rock as the vibrant voice of the counterculture, it also began to slyly adopt its performance conventions. Although musically born from breakbeats crafted from disco and funk, hip-hop always sought to channel rock’s captivating, brash and youthful energy. This infatuation only grew at the turn of the millennium. Some of the biggest rappers alive began to claim rock star iconography, style and even subtle sonic influence. Lil’ Wayne went from an iced-out Lousiana squawk-rapper to a slurring, guitar-slinging, autotuneaided pop-punker (anyone remember “Prom Queen?” If so, I’m sorry). Kanye West claimed that the arena-ready, universal rock of U2 strongly influenced the condensed lyrics and widescreen sonics of his pop-influenced third album, Graduation. However, nowhere are these influences more undeniable than in the crop of rap stars that have sprung from the prolific and sprawling creative scene of present-day Atlanta.

And beyond simple use of the drugs, the music they make reflects the influences of the substances. For Jimi, the psychedelia bled into the expansive song structure and daring sonic experimentation with feedback, stereo phasing and sustain on the guitar. With Future, his abuse of downers echoes in the murky synthesizers, slurry rap cadences and the way he coats his damaged bark of a voice with autotune. Both men dealt with the pain of being young, black and famous in America by relentlessly churning out art and numbing themselves in a cocoon of substances. On the opposite end of the rock-star spectrum we have (Mick) Thugger. In writing this article, I was struck by how much Young Thug and Mick Jagger have in common. Mick Jagger wasn’t legendary for his exceptional singing any more than Thug is heralded for his incredible rapping. What both possess that gives them their appeal, among other things, is the voice. For Mick Jagger it was stretching his voice into the bluesy yelps of “Gimme Shelter” and then turning around and shamelessly whipping out a messyyet-effective falsetto for “Miss You.” Thug’s voice, if anything, is even more elastic. His yelps and squawks have helped propel countless songs seemingly by sheer force of nature. The dancehall squawks of “Pacifier,” the helium-voiced near-scream of “Mixtape” with Chance the Rapper or the deeper, percussive flow on “Sacrifices” from Drake’s “More Life”— all of them sound exactly like Thug and nothing like each other. Also, I would be remiss not to address the R A P ’ S R O C K S TA R S role that appearances play in both of their appeals. Neither Jagger nor Thugger are traditionally handsome, but both have managed to achieve a certain status based on the way they dress and carry themselves. Both are unafraid of tight clothing and blurring the lines between masculine and feminine, using their image to subvert expectations.

FUTURE

Much has been made by the (read: white) music press about the musical influence exerted by the newest generation of Atlanta rappers. There has been a cacophony of thinkpieces declaring and deconstructing the musical nuances of modern trap music to the most minute degree. While I certainly believe that there is musicality to Atlanta trap music, I think focusing on the musical elements alone is a red herring. Instead, I believe that focusing on DECONSTRUCTING the massive personalities behind the music gives the context needed to understand the music itself. Rock music in general, and especially commercially dominant rock, has become a neutered domain of Coldplay-esque, respectful arena rockers. Sensing a power vacuum, hip-hop, specifically trap, filled it. To quote ‘Ye, “Where I’m from, the dope boys is the rock stars.”

H E N D R I X

MICK

THUGGER

“where I’m from, the dope boys is the rock stars.” “where I’m from, the dope boys is the rock stars”

by avery mossman photo by mccall radavich

“Future Hendrix” may seem like a boastful and ill-fitting title upon first glance, and provokes disdain from certain music fans. How dare this upstart steal a name from one of rock’s all-time greats! But under further scrutiny there are parallels that run deeper than the surface. Future has had one of the greatest runs in hip-hop over the past several years, churning out mixtape after mixtape and album after album until the lines separating the two blurred and bled. Collaborators account him being a perpetual studio rat, a workaholic who sometimes sleeps there at night. Jimi Hendrix was also a denizen of the studio, building his own Electric Lady studio in order to finally be able to spend as much time as he liked chasing the sounds in his head. For better or worse, Future’s identity hinges on drug use — in his case codeine, Xanax and Percocet —as much as Hendrix’s did on LSD.

Subversion and counter-cultural imagery and song content, alongside the unfortunate proliferation of a live-fast-die-young mentality, solidifies Atlanta as the burgeoning center for the new rock stars of our modern age. But it is important to remember many of the original cast we lost to drug abuse and the manic exertions of a “rock star lifestyle.” Although continuing to doubledown on the darkness may have a sexy edge when it results in good music, there is nothing laudable about self-destruction. We must find ways to lift up the parts of the music and the surrounding culture that give voice to the voiceless, but find ways to fight the ever-present demons that shroud the young, black and gifted.

She said in the last ten years or so there has been a boom in restaurant and local shop culture and people are more educated on supporting local business than before. This new culture has made Prairie Lights a hotbed for literary lovers, as well as the occasional unexpected visitor. “We meet people from all over the world and it’s really great. Of course, you know, Obama came. He bought books for his daughters and he paid cash,” Weissmiller said. “In the pictures, it doesn’t show, but there were about sixty Secret Service people.” She described how one of them came by the store and told her that they were from the White House and that a visitor would be showing up in three minutes — act natural. Obama had just given a big speech at the Carver Hawkeye Arena. “I knew he would be in town, but I just thought I would throw up. I thought, ‘This is so scary. What am I going to do?’ And then he came in and he was just so sweet. He was so warm and I was immediately relaxed,” she said.

JAN WEISSMILLER BY CARLA SERAVALLI

Jan Weissmiller started working at Prairie Lights in 1979 when a gallon of gas cost 86 cents and Michael Jackson had just released “Off the Wall.” As Prairie Lights’ first fulltime employee, and an alumni of the University of Iowa’s renowned creative writing graduate program, she’s a real celebrity in the who’s-who of Iowa City’s literary scene. When she speaks, she keeps her arms close to her sides, no movement unnecessary or imprecise. Her pale blue eyes dart quickly around the stacks of poetry, biographies, and cookbooks in the bookstore as she answers my questions. Her demeanor is thoughtful and down-to-earth, with the composure of someone who’s seen the city go through tumultuous changes. We find that neither of us can stand sci-fi or action movies, and agree that studying poetry teaches unique ways of seeing and being.

She leads me through the various newspaper clippings and framed photos that decorate the walls of a storage room during a brief recounting of the store’s history. Her transition from the store’s first full-time employee to the co-owner began when Jim Harris, the founder and original owner, decided to sell Prairie Lights. She said Jim was tired of owning the bookstore and ended up selling it when he was 62. He had some super successful years before Amazon, which started in 1995, and before the Coral Ridge Mall.

When she’s not being starstruck by the latest big-name writer to come through, Jan spends her time outside the store strolling through Hickory Hill Park, going to Film Scene, and staying well-read. Though she has soft spots for Elizabeth Bishop and Emily Dickinson, her current reads cover an unusual range of perspectives including James Baldwin and Alexandra Fuller. Most surprising was finding out she had once biked over 2,000 miles from Wisconsin to Florida, something she calls a lifealtering event. “The bicycle culture in the United States was just sort of beginning, and I was at school at Madison and I was working at a restaurant over the summer.

My friend from Florida was visiting me, and I had just bought a bike, a Belgian road bike, and one night, two women and a man who were probably 25, when I was 19, came into the restaurant,” she said. The group told her they were riding their bikes across the country and this sparked her interest, so she invited them over to her apartment to rest up and spend the night and pick their brains about how to join them on their journey. “They told us to get a tent and if you’re in the country to stop at a farmhouse and ask if you can put the tent in the yard. So we bought a bunch of stuff, and we didn’t even know very much about these bikes,” she said. “But over the course of a few days, we learned how to shift the gears and we kept going, and it was quite an experience. The second night, we stayed with a farm family who had ten children and this woman baked a cake and the children ate the whole cake every day after school - an entire cake. We spent the night there. In general, we met tons of really wonderful people. We only had to put up our tent three times in the whole 2,000 miles.” While the trip shaped her youth, Jan has had multiple encounters with the grace and generosity of everyday people since then by chatting it up with locals. Or, you know, tweeting at Margaret Atwood when one customer facetiously asked where he could find “The Mermaid’s Tale.” Running the store takes up most of her time, but she still finds other pastimes that, for her, converge in literature. She’s an excellent baker; a friend deems her key lime pie not just the best pie, but the best thing she’s ever eaten. This fact made for a sweet ending to the slice-of-life perspective she gave me on learning and living literature.

“There were only bars and Pra “There were only bars and Prairie Lights.”

“At that time there were a lot of businesses downtown: shoe stores, drug stores, and hardware stores; it was a completely different downtown, and for some years, it became sort of a wasteland,” she said. “There were only bars and Prairie Lights.”

PHOTO BY STARR LEE

nani

BY ANANYA MUNJAL F O R L A L I TA A R O R A

When the petals fall I am thinking of your hands soft and warm patting an eight-year-old spine under sheets that smell like rose water

Thin fingers dancing over mine, guiding needle sitch-by-stich into adolescence wiping sweet mango juice from a chin above your own

The day your hands couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t braid my hair I held them trembling birds tracing the lines on your palm back to the time when you rode to school on the handlebars of your brotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bike that laugh

When the petals fall I am thinking of the biscuits by your bedside you gave me when no one was looking quick dimples chocolate crumbs on your pillowcase

And in the laundry room my mother puts on your smile has your hands folding sheets that still smell like rose water

PHOTOS BY JORDAN D. WESELY

Almost every Friday for the past 17 years, Rachel Williams has been in prison. Since 2000 Williams, a University of Iowa professor in the Gender Women’s and Sexuality Studies department, has been visiting the Iowa Correctional Institution for Women in Mitchellville, Iowa. It started off as an independent endeavor she did as a graduate student at Florida State University but grew into something more than she could have ever imagined.

breaking C O N F I N E M E N T BY MADELINE SMITH

“I never took students to Mitchellville until a student, Rebecca McCray, mentioned she’d love to come with me,” Williams said. “I kind of blew her off for a year and then finally I agreed to let her go.” After taking her first student to prison, Williams got an offer from the Gender Women’s and Sexuality Studies department to teach their practicum and take students to prison as a part of the curriculum. Working with students in GWSS is a “dream life” for Williams. Every fall, 14-15 students teach around 90 women at ICIW about healthy relationships. Many of the women at ICIW have a history of unhealthy relationships. Through this program, they learn skills related to having healthy relationships with other people. They work through various issues using dialog, discussion, art, poetry, and writing. “I wanted students to recognize people in prison don’t fit a stereotype. You meet people who may have graduate degrees and life has just happened,” Williams said. “The prison industrial complex is a real thing and we’re never going to break that idea if people don’t understand what prison is.” Williams said many of the women who are incarcerated experience a “civil death” due to the difficulty of obtaining a job, housing, etc because of their criminal record. One of the many misconceptions about women in prison is that they have nothing to offer to the greater community and that they aren’t compassionate and thoughtful people.

“I’ve met some incredibly talented and compassionate people who were incarcerated,” she said. “Women in prison are real people and can make an amazing contribution to society if they have the right support system and opportunities, if given the chance.” Maddie Bro, a recent UI graduate, participated in the program in 2016 and said she made lifelong friends during her GWSS practicum and cherishes the experience has given her. “Like many of my GWSS Practicum classmates, I had never set foot in a prison,” Bro said. “However, after connecting with prisoners in one-on-one and group discussions, my misconceptions and preconceived notions about incarcerated individuals soon dissolved. It was an incredibly humanizing experience.” Interacting with women who were incarcerated every Friday gave Bro the confidence to walk into any room and strike a conversation with people she may not know which has transferred into networking and other professional situations. As for Bro’s relationship with Professor Williams, she views her as a great friend and role model who has a great warmth matched with authority when she teaches. “Dr. Williams is the type of professional and woman I aspire to be,” she said. “I admired the genuine relationships she’s developed with the prisoners in her courses at ICIW. Dr. Williams is both a role model, a friend, and one of my favorite professors from the University of Iowa,” Bro said.

I wanted students to recognize people in prison

d on’t fit a stereotype 32

34.075N 5.556W

MOROCCO, AFRICA

M A R Y M AT H I S

// P H O T O G R A P H E R

S P R I N G 2 0 17

THE TOWER OF BABEL BY NIK GOECKE

SMOKE. Frantic fingers fumble through a crushed pack of Marlboro Reds

Deep exalted drag on your porch as you sit people watching Every breath more controlled and cathartic than the last Orange ember dancing toward you, giving way to sullen ash The swirling smoke clings like shaking incense at mass Nicotine teeth gnawing desperately you have one for the reprieve Keeping times as if holding fast to an invariable hourglass Every cough and puff robbing sand grains from your own Muffled headache, stifled nerves, lighting another one up.

SWALLOW.

“In Drag” Photo by McCall Radavich Studio 13 - Iowa City, Iowa

SIP.

A greedy gulp of venti caramel macchiato, extra shot Your palate warm and sweet, later leaving your mouth dry and sour Like once happy memories of love lost seem to taste The din of coffeehouse and idle patron chatter Creating the rambling hymns of your midday study frenzy Empty bottles of Coke stacked high on the bedroom floor The carcasses of sleepless nights and shit that needed to get done Quickened pulse, ease of thought, you take another drink.

Colors reminding you of daily childhood vitamins Mom’s hand replaced by some dude who lives on your floor Fred Flintstone’s name booted by one you can’t pronounce Stomach starts buzzing, warm molasses steeping in your head Words and thoughts begin to multiply, you talk as if in Babel The work and readings looming tall overhead like the old Tower But you’re at the top and vowed you’d rather die than fail Doing math that only has letters wondering if Adderall is a pun Godlike focus, trembling hands, you choke another one down.

ILLUSTRATION BY ELAINE IRVINE

to those who tiptoe around me

to those who don’t know what to say I’m still the guy you shotgunned a beer with after the hangover

to those who have always been there thank you for being the brother I never grew up with

welcome to the club I’ve been in my room listing all the ways you could define me before I could myself

to those who are confused about who I am

to those who are now offended mop up your Coors I’m offended my shoes velcro to the floor in the morning, air pungent with spilled liquor

to those who assume I want you don’t flatter yourself so much I don’t assume you mean to be grotesque when you leave your pubes on the toilet seat

to those who avoid taking showers with me thanks for the extra hot water I’ve been avoiding the crushed beer cans you leave next to my shampoo

you need to work on your form I’ve been tiptoeing men into our house for months you’ve never noticed

AFTER THE HANGOVER // JOSEPH FLESNER

Jordan Gale is a Midwest-based photographer, born and raised in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. He is currently an undergraduate BFA student in photography at The University of Iowa. As a photojournalist, Gale photographed many of the major presidential campaigns for the 2016 election as they traveled through Iowa. After Donald Trump’s nomination was confirmed, Gale began to focus his photography on two groups of the American populous, one being the representation of the middle class American vote which pushed Donald Trump closer to the White House, the other being the public sector which was opposed to his presidency. After this once inconceivable administration became America’s reality, one side of our nation felt fueled, and righteous. Hate and anger was justified by the success of our now 45th president. The future for many Americans felt unclear, and in poor hands. This anger bled into the streets, and a nationwide backlash against the Trump administration had ignited. We cannot ignore that a large portion of Americans do not agree with our president’s actions.

cici explains a thing

Gerrymandering BY CECILIA FERNANDES

Disclaimer: I could easily write dozens of pages on the subject of gerrymandering, and said pages would not make for a particularly interesting read. So, here’s the quick and dirty explanation of a political practice that dates back to 1812 and that both major parties of the United States Government use to their advantage.

which many states have included in their constitutions. That being said, many of them are open to interpretation or hard to define. There are a handful of agreed-upon principles, but the two that seem most blatantly ignored are the idea that districts should be compact in shape and should stick to pre-existing political boundaries, like county lines.

Gerrymandering is the drawing of voting district lines in a way that helps one political party or another. Basically, you can draw district lines so that Republican or Democratic voters are “outlined” to create one district. This means they will have less of an impact in other districts. Conversely, you can divide them up so that they become a minority in multiple districts. Respectively, the terms for these practices are “packing” and “cracking” (told ya it’d be dirty). Gerrymandered lines are often drawn based on voting history.

Infamously irregular districts include Illinois’ 4th Congressional District, which is a jagged U-shape, Maryland’s 3rd Congressional District, which is as thin and winding as a snake, and Alabama’s 6th Congressional District which almost completely surrounds yet excludes Birmingham.

Wait a minute, isn’t that…illegal? The answer, it seems, is, “it depends.” In most states, the state legislature is in charge of redrawing lines for congressional and legislative districts every decade, so it’s assumed that there’s going to be some bias thrown into the equation. While many take issue with this, the U.S. Supreme Court decided in 1986 that redistricting would only be unconstitutional, “when the electoral system is arranged in a manner that will consistently degrade a voter’s or a group of voters’ influence on the political process as a whole.” Other states have committees in place to help advise legislators or limit their involvement in the process. Iowa is one of the states with a committee, or commission, which in this case acts as an advisory board. Overall though, the majority of states get to pass redistricting lines for both legislative and congressional districts like normal legislation. Federally, the U.S. Constitution mandates that districts be fairly equal in population size and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 made it illegal for lines to be drawn based on race. Other than that, the rules are largely left up to each state.

According to the National Conference of State Legislators, there are additional principles

Gerrymandering hurts our democratic process. In 2014, Democratic House candidates in Illinois received 50.5 percent of the popular vote, but won 60 percent of seats. In Wisconsin, the opposite occurred in 2012, when Republicans got less than half of the popular vote but won over 60 percent of the Wisconsin House seats. In recent years, Republicans have benefitted a little more from gerrymandering. In the 2012 midterm elections, 19 states had more Republican House seats won than the proportion of popular votes in those states, while 12 states had the same thing happen with Democrats. Unfortunately, this is a complex issue with no easy answer, even for the Supreme Court, which has been split about whether courts should rule on partisan gerrymandering on multiple occasions. A case from Wisconsin will likely make it to the Supreme Court of the United States. SCOTUS will have to decide if a decision from a judicial panel should be upheld, which ruled that the state’s legislative plan is an “unconsitutional partisan gerrymander.” The case was filed by a small group of Democrats who argued that their influence as voters is indeed being “degraded” by Wisconsin’s district lines. According to the Brennan Center for Justice, this is the farthest a gerrymandering case has gotten in over 30 years, and the decision by the Supreme Court will be a key component in the redistricting that will occur after the 2020 Census.

IN WHICH WE DIE

I. A whisper, in front of you, “Are you afraid to die?” whispers into hollow tunnel pinching at edges of shadows illuminate that which cannot be seen black spots littered about clusters of question marks into reality by unanswered question splattered on white snow II. Winter coat pulled tightly around concave stomach standing gripping to white snow on soil staring off into a distance a future an unquantifiable outcome

“ARE YOU AFRAID TO DIE?” shouts into winds which rip words from lips chapped whisked away until they catch on cold ears perked watering eyes glaze with sheen of future as lips part intake of breath. III. fragility of a human touch to cheekbone cut deep by sharp teeth glistening white against the black of pupil. image offerings whir past twitching eyes as complacency begets death in a rectangular grave dug deep in loose soil body lays perfectly centered arms crossed in resignation of outcome lying still intake of breath, sharp, eyes closed: “Yes.”

WRITTEN BY CAMERON COOPER ILLUSTRATION BY ANNALISE CASTRO

E D E

Introduction

Movement II. Solo

My stomach stung of fire and my eyes were dry with sand. The back of my throat was pine needles and the roof of my mouth felt made of flour. My movements were sharp and my breath staccato. A crescendo of emotions overtook my body, built up high, only to lack the presence of a decrescendo. No accent. No metzoforte. Not even a fine.

My piano has not been tuned for months. Yet, to me it sounds the same. Absentmindedly, my fingers still glide up and down the keys with ease. The rhythms become redundant. The audience has left but I play on...

Just ritardando towards the last breath of my father’s life.

A fortississimo pounding on the natural key of life, a strike of lightning and thunder making the room disseminate into pianississimo. All instruments down: heart monitor, morphine, ‘in case of emergency’ button.

E A E E ED ED E EE$ APP EEE \P AA P EA\APP PPE E PE EE AA\ EEPP EAE \ \E A EE EE\ \ \ \E D P P \E \E AD P\E P \ AEAE\ EP \E E E PE P P P P P E P A\ PPE \ $ E $ \ $ PAE D $ $ D $ P$ EE E \ $ D P \ $ D P D E E D D E D E E D D D P \D EPEEAEAD AAAAD P \E E A E K E E EE E E E A E E E AE A A PE EE D AA A $ A A A \ P\ EP AD EE D DE A E E P D A EEE E P D P PP\E PA AA P P E A D E AE D DE D A D E E AAE A AE A E E P E AP E D A P P DP E EE A E EPAPAA D D PEE AA D DPP P

No more measures to be added. No time signatures to be changed. No possibility for another symphony.

Movement III. Recapitulation

After the first day I told myself, “If I can make it through one day, I can make it through every day, for the rest of my life.” So that’s what I’ve been doing.

After six months of rest I blow dust off the keys as if giving my last breath to a loved one.

It is followed by a painful accent of realization. A horrendous compilation recounts in my head screeches of help, gasps of pain and cold hands in mine.

I ignore it all and fall into a certain rhythm. One that is hard to get out of. A slur from one day, to another.

I am left at my stage solo. No musicians to fill the seats Nor an audience to listen to me preach. I bow.

Movement I. Complacency

When I wake up from my ritual slumber there is a moment of rest. It is a moment of clarity, birds singing and air sharp my breath is exhaling and inhaling jubilantly. Dynamic.

PHOTO BY MARISSA KELLY

Everything seems flat…Tanto. (Key change)

They flee, lento. Finding distance, lontano.

s onat a.

BY JENNIE WONDERLIN

Poco a poco there is lessened interest from the audience.

the grief

AA D D

I play in common time— the only key signature the audience understands. Although I don’t have a track of time anymore or what “common” even means.

Silence.

All instruments up: the baritone drumbeat syncopated with the pound of a heartbeat the IV dripping perfectly in tune with the wind section piano keys awakening the nerves of my body. Exciting a sensation that had been lost the measures before. I forget about my audience and let myself feel in true variation. Embracing every staccato, slur and accent that comes my way

$ A \ \ \ $ EA D EE PEE $ EPE\ E\ E P $ AAEE\ E\ EP AEED E\ E EEP \E \E \ A\ A\ \ AE \D E PAPP APPPP E E \$ \$ $ $ PAE E \ $\ \ \ D $D E D AD D E PED EPAD E P D E D E E E E A E A E E A P E$ \ $ AP ED PD AEE E E A AD E D EAEAE \EE\ AEA APEPEE P E D D A A EE PPEE \ A ED P EAEEAP EPAPEE E E APA A E E EE $D D $ A AAEE A $ EE \ APE D E PA ED A $$ $ EE\$ E E\ \ E \ E$ E EE E

E $

I allow myself hear every screech of help, wheeze of pain, and rattle of the lungs. I feel his cold hands in mine. The pungent scent of chemo still lingers in the air Which is scattered with grey locks of hair. This, he, was my most beautiful symphony. (Double bar line)

TI M E S 1

internal organs from the cold.” I do not understand, watching his toes slowly come back to life.

My father has already shipped his medical school books to London, wrapped neatly in brown paper and packaged into cardboard boxes. As he boards his nine-hour flight from New Delhi, he does not know when he will return home.

Fall of 2013, College Application Season: I sit at the kitchen counter sorting through mountains of college mail. My father holds a glass up to the faucet, staring into the running water he says, “Nowhere beyond a four hour driving radius.” I am suddenly small.

After the India/Pakistan division in 1947 (or, depending on who you ask, the Pakistan/India division), my greatgrandparents moved to the India side of the the border. Trains coming across the boundary would often be intercepted by rebels, and would arrive full of dead passengers with their throats slit. My great-aunts would stand at the station, desperately searching for familiar faces, checking names off a list. They would bring relatives home to a crowded house, dinner laid out on a too-small table, laughter filling what little space remained. My father lived in that house until he was in college, eating dinners off a plate in his lap.

MY FAT H E R HAS NOT CRIED

We are watching the Olympics in our basement, stray pieces of popcorn littering the sofa, the floor. My father gets a message: his college friend has killed himself. He grits his teeth; we continue watching the Olympics.

My sisters and I make child-sized angels in the snow that has not yet melted. Cold manages to slip into the crack between my snow pants and boots, melting into my socks. I am crying, more uncomfortable than frigid; my mother puts me to bed under warm covers.

We are coming home from vacation in India. My grandmother is teary-eyed at the airport, trying to spread her five-foot frame wide enough to hug us all at the same time. My father is amused as he reassures her, yes, of course, we promise, we will be back next year.

Blizzard of 2000, Buffalo, NY: My father’s car is buried under snow after work. The predicted snowstorm has started two hours before anticipated, all the highways are closed. He walks the ninetyfour-minute route home mitten-less, hands hugged tight, fingers folded into armpits. His hospital scrubs are made for comfort, not cold; when he arrives home his legs are red. As he soaks his stiff feet in the warm water my mother has poured into a tub, he calmly explains, “Vasoconstriction. Reduced blood flow to the extremities to protect

My Father’s daily diet for the eight months he was in residency: a packet of chips and an apple.

TIMES M Y FAT H E R H A S C R I E D

I am six weeks old, my father is holding my head in his palm, measuring me against the length of his forearm. He marvels at how I have grown so quickly, his friend jokes, “One day soon she’ll leave you.” My father looks at him shocked and sobs, my head held tight against his sweater.

I am five, or six, or seven. I have hit my head against the window ledge behind my bed and there is blood on my pillows, blood on my pajamas. I am howling. My father opens knees, hips, shoulders every day, blood on the table, blood on the scalpel. He does not know what to do with me. In thirteen, or fourteen, or fifteen years I will learn in a college physiology class that that cuts to the head bleed excessively due to the proximity of blood vessels to the surface of the scalp. When my mother comes home we are sitting under a running shower, fully clothed and both of us crying.

I am eighteen, it is the second day of college. I FaceTime my father, proudly show him my new desk, my new bed. The new carpeting on my dorm room floor. He is nodding, smiling, and then, unexpectedly, a quick blinking. He doesn’t say goodbye; the phone is abruptly disconnected. I am suddenly small.

BY ANANYA MUNJAL