F-Word Spring 2017 by The F-Word

the f-word

spring 2017

mission statement The F-Word is a collection of feminist voices that come together in an annual print publication and weekly discussion group. We aim to be a space for people of all backgrounds to talk or write or create art through their experiences that touch on race, gender, and/or sexuality. We hope to represent and welcome many voices with meaningful thoughts to share: voices of the LGBT+ community, voices of POC, womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s voices. In doing so, we hope to foster more thoughtful campus discussion on the bounds of, and potential for, feminism, intersectionality, social justice, and the role of publication and writing in all of the above.

Our definition of Feminism: Respect and equality for everyone. (Everyone includes but is not limited to: people of all genders, all sexualities, all races and ethnicities, all religions, all socieconomic backgrounds, and those living with disabilities).

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editorial board Editor in Chief

REGINA SALMONS

Managing Editor

SARA ALBERT

Design Editor

SARAH CRONIN

Copy Editor

LEA EISENSTEIN NOELLE GRAHAM

Education Co-Chair, Editing Staff

SOPHIA CLARK

Education Co-Chair Prose Editor

ANYA GILROY JORDYN SCHOR RYLEE PARK

Internal Affairs Chair

External Affairs Chair Treasurer

ANMOL JAIN VERONICA KOWALSKI ALLEN ZHU

Editing Staff

BELLA ESSEX

General Staff

JONIDA KUPA

General Staff

ELIZABETH GORAN NATALIE CHAO EMILY RUSH iv

Editing Staff

General Staff

General Staff General Staff

letter from the editor To you, the beautiful and intelligent Reader, Thank you for picking up a copy of The F-word. We encourage you to take this copy with you and do with it as you please—cut it up, paste its contents to the wall, keep it in your library intact, grab a second copy for a friend, or whatever floats your boat! The Staff of The F-Word is incredibly proud to present to you this year’s publication, which includes many voices that cover a large spectrum of the reaches of this University. Though none of the writers and artists who submitted represent The F-Word ‘s beliefs, we chose each one with care, hoping that you would be inspired by their work. My best friend Liz Picciani and I restarted this publication last year after it had not been published for a few semesters. We had envisioned The F-word to become a space for everyone (Truly. Even those who do not identify as feminists, we welcome you to wander through our pages and into one of our weekly meetings). We hoped to create a space where people of all genders, sexualities, and socioeconomic backgrounds could converge to create meaningful discourse. We had set out hoping to represent voices that often are not given enough space in society, and shine light on the strength of the LGBT+ community, the power of the Black community, and the influence of other diverse people of color on this campus among many others. At this particularly hot moment in history, I hope this publication can act as a place of conversation for our community and as a path to empathy and respect for many perspectives. As this edition lives in the present moment, engaging you in 2017, I also hope this year’s edition can act as a piece of archival art. That in five, ten, twenty years, you the reader can come back to this piece and remember what it was like to be alive in 2017. We purposely left blank pages at the conclusion of the publication so that you can write down or respond in any way you see fit! We hope to engage you and include your voice as well, with any comments or dialogue welcomed to us at upennfword@gmail. com! There are many voices of feminism, and if you feel yours is not included, we invite you to submit to ensure that this dialogue is extended. We accept submissions on a rolling basis, and we hope to see your voice represented in our next edition. With all my Love, Regina

table of MISSION STATEMENT.................... iii EDITORIAL BOARD.................... iv LETTER FROM THE EDITOR..................... v COVER ART belle carson..................... 1 HOW MUCH DO YOU THINK I AM WORTH selamawit bekele.......................3 ABOVE IT ALL alina peng.......................4 TO THE MEN AT THE SUNOCO ON STENTON sonia (sunny) reardon.......................5 JUST A NUMBER hannah riordan.......................7 AM lea eisenstein.....................10 APOLOGY TO MY BODY emily rush....................11 ME & MR JONES (AN ERASURE) isabelle tersio....................12 UNTITLED ART e.a.n.p....................13 COURT chyina powell....................17 SOLUS emily fujie mair....................19 FATTED CALF angel chapman...................20 A PRESCRIPTION kaitlin moore...................21 ANOTHER MORNING IN LONDON rodney dailey...................22 HE TOOK ANYWAY anya gilroy...................25 ONCE UNSPOKEN: A MONOLOGUE ris mccool...................27 A BEAUTIFUL GIRL emily fujie mair...................30

contents 59.................CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS denise defelice 60.................ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

31...................A BODY sammie yoon 32....................PRAYER COMFORT PROSE TO HER cali starks 33.....................ON BEING TOLD TO INCLUDE MEN IN AN ALL-WOMEN* HACKATHON amelia goodman 35......................THOUGHTS ON THE EVE OF ELECTION DAY angel chapman 36......................ELECTION REFLECTIONS: A VILLANELLE noelle graham 37, 39, 43.......WOMENâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S MARCH ON WASHINGTON: PHOTO ARCHIVES amanda silberling 40.....................GENDER TALK a. auslander 41.....................UPHOLDING THE FAMILY FACE gina kahng 46.....................BLOOD emily rush 47.....................SNAPSHOT OF TRANSIENCE ris mccool 49.....................ENCOUNTER, CONFRONT lea eisenstein 50......................A HOUSE FULL OF BOYS victoria peng 52......................WE ARE WATCHING: ARCHIVAL PHOTOS

about the cover The cover photo of the Spring 2017 edition of The F-word represents the idea that feminism can and should be a catalyst for personal and social growth. Each life the movement touches is evidence that feminism has no limit to its power and ability to grow. Grounded in the beauty of the natural word, this piece of art is a symbol of the fortitude that resides within each of us that enables us all to make the planet a more accepting and loving place each day.

about the artist

Belle Carlson is a California artist studying Fine Art and Sociology. Her passion for photography bloomed out of an intuitive desire to seek out, create, and document the beauty around her. Her recent work lies at the intersection of visual ethnographic investigation and fine art, as she delves in to the landscape of human individual and interpersonal emotional experience. Discover more of Belleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work at www.beldencarlson.com

How Much Do You Think I Am Worth?

SELAMAWIT BEKELE

How much you think I am worth? The whole me, from the top of my head to the arch of my foot My soul, spirit and my womanhood. When I was 5, my mother told me I was a priceless gift At 8, a priest told me I was worth the love of God At 13, a neighbor boy valued me more than his game card collection My body existed through markups and I lived through depreciation My widening hips and growing breasts became worth stares and whistles My body, my shell, became marred by the layers of price tags that showed how long I, I mean my body, had been in the display window I was tossed in the dusty back room, buried, and forgotten Never to see the sun and left to rot with my conviction At 17, I stood on dark street corners And exposed every part of me that has summoned a stare And had lips brushed over by salivating tongues You are precious, he said, eyes bulging and with glances that saw through my clothing into my young body Untampered with, he said, like an untouched land he wanted to colonize He paid me $100 for the holy grail of my womanhood, my body the pure Negligent of the cuts and bruises of past stares and whistles, he baptized me new At 20, the body that has been my casing became a vessel to life Life, plucked from the celestial flowers, chose my body to see the world I became worth the sweet melody of the lullaby that put my baby to sleep Worth the persuasion of the horizon that called the sun to it Worth the persistence of the wave that unceasingly kissed the sands of the shore My body, it is on a blowout sale The stretch marks that snaked down my body As the oil of anointment drenches a pharaohâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s head Became a battle scar that made my worth worthless A man, 43, just bought my hands, hips, legs and Womanhood for a clearance price of $30 Now, How much do YOU think I am worth?

Note from the poet: I wrote this poem after a summer of interning at an NGO that works in HIV reduction among female sex workers. I was in a strange position where I was interning in my hometown in my native country of Ethiopia. It was my first time back since I left when I was 11 years old and some of the female sex workers I worked with were girls I attended elementary school with. Reconnecting with them and being in my hometown made me feel like I was a part of that community, but I was still a bit of an outsider since I had been away from that physical space for a decade. I spent a lot of time talking to the women, and hearing about how aging decreases their income because the worth of their body depreciates struck me. I found that to be the ultimate example of the commodification of a womanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s body and it inspired me to write this poem. 3

Above it All ALINA PENG

To The Men At The Sunoco on Stenton SONIA (SUNNY) REARDON Are my yoga pants really that tight? I must have toilet paper stuck to my shoe. There exists no other plausible reason for you men who I do not know to be staring at the lower half of my body. Do you not have your own butt, sir? A butt you may look at in the comfort and privacy of your own home? I can’t say that I know what is so great about a butt. In this moment I feel that you are all making a misinformed judgement that I am not a human being. I did not sign a waiver when I entered this gas station allowing any and all patrons to “daaamn” me and “she fiiine” me. Or was that a condition I agreed to when I put on my comfortable pants on this saturday morning, when my gas tank was almost empty? 5

The discomfort I feel, the vulnerability, the loss of control, the embarrassment, the anger. These are all things that should not be felt when I enter the gas station store to put $20 on pump 4. I guess, I should get a gas card, so I can pay at the pump, and probably, I should only ever wear sweatpants. God forbid anyone see the shape of my actual body. I will buy a lifetime supply of sacks thus no man will ever have the inconvenience of feeling the impulse to â&#x20AC;&#x153;shiiit shawtyâ&#x20AC;? me all the way back to my car. It is not flattery. It is a violation. Please stop talking at me. Please stop staring at my ass.

Just a Number HANNAH RIORDAN

When I was 8, my family and I sat eating at a bed and breakfast in Maine. I was in second grade. I loved Polly Pockets and Groovy Girls, ballet class, writing stories in my composition notebook, and playing pretend at recess. The old man sitting across from us smiled at me and turned to my dad. “You’re going to have to watch out when she gets older. Keep her locked away in a tower from all those boys.” Everyone looked at me, smiling. “You’re very beautiful,” he said to me. My mom told me to say thank you. When I was 12, a game started at my middle school. The game was simple: grab Hannah’s ass in the stairwell between the science building and the art wing. Sometimes the guys would get a squeeze in before I could swat their hands away. “Stop! Seriously!” I said between nervous laughs. Much of what I could say about ages 12 to 14 isn’t special. It isn’t unique to me. Standing outside at 8th grade dismissal, Rob asked me if I knew what jizz meant. I didn’t, he could tell, and he announced my confusion to everyone. Now, Rob is in my class at Penn. We say hi on Locust. In 9th grade, a guy I know messaged me on Facebook with the opening line: “Suck my dick biotch!!!!” I was new at my high school that year; a lot of guys asked me my name, my old school, and how far I had gone. When I was 15, a guy whose name I cannot type built up a friendship with me. One night, we were talking over Facebook, and he said I didn’t seem like the type who would wait to lose my virginity. I said I wasn’t sure; I didn’t have a set plan in my head. We were going to hook up soon, he said. He could tell, and I would need to be prepared. “How deep are you?” he asked. I didn’t know that was something I should know. I wondered if the type of tampons I used would be any help. Maybe Supers were deeper than Regulars? I told him I had no idea. I had to delete the messages so that I couldn’t go back and read them anymore. Then I was 17, an age that had appealed to me as a girl listening to “Dancing Queen.” Every day during study hall, I sat down in the library. Every day another unnamable boy sat down across from me. “Have you sucked Oscar’s dick yet?” Silence. “Come on, Hannah. You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 7

I looked at the floor. Avoided eye contact. “Well have you at least let him fuck you or something?” His voice got louder. “Please. Please, be quiet.” “So you haven’t? Jesus, why do you think he’s dating you? For fun?” Wetness on my cheeks. “Just do it this weekend, okay? At least blow him. It’s what he wants.” For 4 months, that conversation. Three months in, he set a deadline. I needed to have sex by March 31st. Freshman year of Penn, I was 18. A legal adult now. Drugged on the second night of NSO. Yeah, I watched them make my drink, identical to the one I watched them make my roommate. Yeah, I showed up sober. That didn’t matter. One drink and it was over. The day after it happened, a stranger hanging out in my dorm room told me it sounded like I just got too drunk. It was Rohypnol, I think—traditional roofies. No other date rape drug kicks in after just 15 minutes. Last weekend, at 19, I got a reminder. A reminder in the form of some guy I don’t know grabbing my ass, my hips, trying to kiss me. I was at a frat I don’t go to often, with girls I don’t know well. “You’re so beautiful. Where are you from?” “Massachusetts.” I looked around for my friends. “No, like where around here?” “Like what school do I go to? Penn!” “Oh, really? You’re too beautiful to go here. I never meet Penn girls like you.” There were my friends, leaving to meet up with their coke dealer. “I… I have to go.” I dumped out my drink, scanned for an exit, and slipped out. Right onto Locust. Parents walked by with their kids.

When I got home, I realized I was still holding my cup. I looked at it, recognized the T symbol flanked by the year, 1849. It was my dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fraternity. New England boarding school pedigree. He was president in â&#x20AC;&#x2122;91.

LEA EISENSTEIN most nights, i do not have dreams. my Amâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; my only Am: Is folding up words like twice-worn denim, and tucking them into the middle dresser drawer, along with the rest. Is weeping, soundless, in the shower, and alone on a sunday night (easter), pacing past churches full of family. Is cracking jokes about self-help and self-injury over dinner with friends and only tasting the food when i choke on the realization that none of it is all that funny. Is waking up in the morning lamenting the absence of a dream when part of me knows that i did dream, and i do, but for Me, a dream is just out of reach

apology to my body EMILY RUSH

i am sorry for the way i treated you for the way i punished you the way i forgot that you are capable of power, strength, pleasure, patience, love i am sorry for the way i looked at you like a problem that could be fixed with just the right kind of torture i am sorry that i listened when they told me to be ashamed when they told me to cover up when they told me i shouldn’t have cellulite and my thighs shouldn’t touch and my arms should be toned but not too toned not too thin because then they’ll call you “anorexic” and the only thing worse than “anorexic” is “fat” i’m so sorry that i believed them i am sorry that i deprived you not only of food but also of joy and freedom and life i wanted to fix you, i’m sorry i didn’t understand you aren’t broken you are not a problem, you are a part of me and i am sorry i thought i could destroy you without destroying the other parts i am sorry i tried to destroy you in the first place i am sorry because as i say this, i know you have already forgiven me

Me & Mr. Jones (An Erasure) ISABELLE TERSIO

Nobody stands in between me and my man It’s me and Mr. Jones (me and Mr. Jones) What kind of fuckery is this? You made me miss the Slick Rick gig oh, Slick Rick) And thought I didn’t love you when I did (when I did) Can’t believe you played me out like that (ah) No, you ain’t worth guest list Plus one of all them girls you kiss (all them girls) You can’t keep lying to yourself like this (to yourself) Can’t believe you played yourself (out) like this Ruler’s one thing, but come Brixton Nobody stands in between me and my man ‘Cause it’s me and Mr. Jones (me and Mr. Jones) What kind of fuckery are we? Nowadays you don’t mean dick to me (dick to me) I might let you make it up to me (make it up) Who’s playing Saturday? What kind of fuckery are you? ‘Side from Sammy, you’re my best black Jew But I could swear that we were through (we were through) I still want to wonder ‘bout the things you Mr. Destiny, Nobody stands in between me and my man ‘Cause it’s me and Mr. Jones Yeah (me and Mr. Jones

Original lyrics by Amy Winehouse (Source: MetroLyrics.com)

UNTITLED ART E.A.N.P.

UNTITLED ART E.A.N.P

Court

CHYINA POWELL He walked into the room wearing the suit my grandpa had brought him, a pale gray color that was a perfect complement to his chocolate skin. Solemnly walking past us, my Uncle Man smiled at me, offering a comfort that he himself didn’t feel. The officer sat him down behind the table and no one spoke as we waited for the judge and the jury to arrive. My mentor had told me a couple of nights before that I shouldn’t worry. A man would have a jury of his peers, and there was no substantial evidence. My uncle, whom I had just met, would go home a free man. My mom popped her gum while I watched the clock. It had the Streetsboro Justice insignia on it. All I could think about was how my uncle looked as the seconds ticked by. I wasn’t foolish. I knew that to a white person his muscular physique was a threat; the smirk he always wore was a challenge. And I knew exactly what the system did to those who challenged it, even if the challenge didn’t truly exist. After a lifetime of seconds the jury walked in, twelve old white men, looking completely uninterested. My uncle was already guilty. The jury foreman yawned and I looked at my uncle’s back. He had only been out of jail for a year. A year wasn’t long enough to know someone. If he went to back I knew I would never see him again, yet I wasn’t as sad as my grandfather. Dressed in his Sunday’s best, I knew he was praying. He had warned his son not to mess with that married woman, not with that white married woman, not again. But being the eldest son, he didn’t listen. Now he was facing thirty-five years to life, trumped up charges. Attempted murder wasn’t supposed to be that long. Not even murder, not here. I hated to think that my family was right; a Black man could never have justice in this world, especially not in one of the palest areas of northeast Ohio. But somewhere deep inside I still had hope. I hoped the judge would be compassionate, empathetic. God-fearing. I hoped he would take one look at my uncle and see the innocence in his face. My uncle didn’t do this. He couldn’t have. According to his phone, he was at home all through the night, and there was no way he could he have gotten a gun and driven an hour away without money or a car. I started to pick the lint off the uncomfortable bench I sat on, a nervous habit from my childhood. The bailiff made us stand and the balding judge sauntered in. Just like the jury, his skin was milk, his face was pocked and he looked as if he would rather be playing golf in his backyard than listening to Man’s case. I loathed him. The sight of him. What he stood for. I knew as soon as I laid my eyes on him that my uncle would get convicted. I knew we would be separated. That he and the daughter he had just met would be separated. The only question now was for how long. I was used to people in my family going to jail; most of the memories I had of my dad were of me and my brother playing UNO with him on visiting day, but just because I was used to it didn’t mean I was okay with it. The trial started and I worked hard to memorize the events so I could share the details with my mentor later on—his wife was a lawyer—but my anxiety got the better of me. An hour passed. The 17

prosecutor called my uncle every name in the book, every name that belonged to a Black man. I thought it would be slander, or contempt of court, but the judge never stopped him and my uncle’s pro-bono lawyer didn’t either. Looking to the jury, I hoped they would see through the name calling, but that was naivety. One of the jurors, leaning back in his chair, had fallen asleep. The foreman was on his cell phone. I wondered what he was doing. Maybe playing Candy Crush? The other jurors looked equally bored. I wanted to say something, anything, so I poked my mom and showed her. She shrugged. Maybe even at 16 I was still too innocent. I thought we lived in a just world. I had read too many fiction novels. Sighing, I leaned back and wished I could record the absurdity of it all, this sham of a trial. But that was prohibited. Proof was prohibited. The foreman’s ringtone went off, waking the other juror. The judge looked over but said nothing as he placed his head to rest on his fist. It was not until the third time the phone rang that the judge spoke up. He told the foreman that if his phone went off again he would be forced to leave. Even though he clearly did not want to be there, the foreman’s phone never rang again. When would my uncle be allowed to defend himself? I wondered. I never knew that, in the U.S., we were guilty until proven otherwise. How could he prove his innocence when no one would listen? What power did one man have? And wasn’t there that much less for a Black ex-con? Ronald Higginbottom II had no power and he had no freedom, but that is to be expected. That’s life. I would have settled for a voice. Every time my uncle would try to whisper to his lawyer, the man shooed him away with his hand. My grandfather sat still, looking at his eldest boy. I had never seen him so sad, so dejected, nor have I since. The pain on his face made me hate white people, made me wish they would all die and burn in Hell for causing him to look like that. Suddenly, it was our turn. My uncle’s lawyer would stand up and prove with a few words that we were innocent. I prayed that he wore that bored expression on his face because he knew that the case was won already, that everything would work out. As the lawyer stood up, my uncle turned and winked at me. Good. I was right. I relaxed back onto the uncomfortable wooden bench and let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I wanted to reassure my mom; her baby brother was coming home soon. When I touched her hand she made no response. Maybe I was strange for not worrying, but a part of me wanted to believe we would all go home with smiles on our faces. A phone went off. That part of me that was hopeful was beaten down by my realism. A Black man accused of hurting a white man, an all-white jury, a white judge. Why was I kidding myself? Everyone else knew what was going to happen. Maybe I just wanted to be optimistic.

Solus

EMILY FUJIE MAIR

Fatted Calf ANGEL CHAPMAN

She prepares dinner according to his particular appetite. His hunger to abate, he’ll return, just as she has prayed To the night. He is already full, so he only takes a bite. She is prey for the prodigal son for whom flesh is birthright. He sees no sanctity in her sacrifice, no humanity in carcass displayed, He craves crimsoned cheek, rare meat. His is a particular appetite. There are, after all, several ways to skin anything—no morsel an oversight. Thick thighs and sheened skin (plucked, oiled). Bits of her being, buffeted. Never whole. He is already full, so he only takes a bite. His mind wonderer, his eye wanderer, yet his mouth and hers reunite. And she feels good in her skin, in that moment. Flesh flayed. She prepared dinner according to his particular appetite. Full figures fill too much space, so she trims the fat to delight, To entice, to excite. Snout, bristles, and claws tamed to marmalade, Yet, still, being full, he can only take a bite Before deserting her to clear a full table, blanched by moonlight. By daylight, he’ll gorge himself on other desserts—mere escapades— She declares as she prepares dinner according to his particular appetite Knowing he is always full, though he only takes a bite.

A Prescription KAITLIN MOORE

Bleedings–Internal and External–styptic balsam or liniments for hemorrhage Put sulphuric acid by weight in a Wedgwood (2 and a half drams) mortar, and slowly add oil of turpentine stirring constantly with (1 fluid dram) the pestle–add slowly again–alcohol (1 fluid dram) continue to stir it so long as any fumes arise from the mixture bottle in glass groundstopperedbottles it should be a clear red color but made of (dark blood) poor materials it will be pale and (dirty red) unfit for use dose: to be given by putting (40 drops) rubbing it thoroughly with a teaspoon of brown sugar

in a teacup

stir in water until the cup is (nearly) full -- Drink im(ME)diately its use should be discontinued as soon as no more fresh blood appears

age does not injure it but a skim forms on top (film) which is to be broken through

using medicine below it for internal hemorrhage or for womanhood please contact your attending physician immediately 21

Another Morning in London RODNEY DAILEY I When she tears herself away, She is a dot: an imperfection in the printing of sheet music, And he drops segregated from himself. They are both bi furcated hoisted up by a sort of snowflake privilege. They are nonetheless Bound to one another. Because the girl is dead. It is because the girl is dead.

II I see you through the break in the door, The smearing across the post. I see you sitting— well not sitting, crouching forward and holding your pride. Disinterested in anything I have to say Still, “!” Will you hold me? Will you wrap this flame around my pelvis? You absconder. You arsonist.

The jagged bone will eat you, and The classroom walls: they’ll crush [you.]

IV A salutation for suicide, For suicide Is that not enough? Why bring the accountant to count the rose petals of ash? No, do not burn the body. Lay its calligraphy on the table, her tongue will write its own departure. Quiet! Quiet! You cannot hear her footsteps if you keep scribbling. She never asked you for an obituary. She only asks that you believe she died before the suicide.

V A sultry choice. I would say, a boot, A crushed dry flower petal in a child’s hands. Who is knocking? Is that you breathing? Her legs are folded, her arms rest, they Are slightly reserved. In London where the stirring rests only slightly On a telephone line, a kerf of water droplets. You keep looking. You keep looking. Why? I’ve apologized for the jar of dust, For the hidden corridors behind my flower panels. There’s a dead body dressed in a Victorian Nightgown; she has her head in an oven. She keeps knocking, knocking, 23 knocking.

I will only be numb if you make me numb, Closer now, her bosom rocks And the tulip swells like an acorn squash. When it is raining and the clouds have Thrown the sounds of the day onto a searing Kettle. Like the sphincter, The rows will flex under my feet, only Then to spit me out. London will retain her innocence. She is still running errands, Still buying flowers. What are you in here for? You should be outside enjoying yourself This morning. Put down the noose and keep from the intersection. There is always time for the carbon monoxide And cheating husband. For now though, London is her own suicide.

He Took Anyway ANYA GILROY

Day 0 Why does your face look like that? He asked me, annoyed. Not understanding, or just not caring, that he was ripping me apart. I wasn’t sure which. Next thing I know I’m running home. Whipping around corners and leaping across streets. Trying to outrun what just happened. When I finally make it back, I am out of it. Still drunk, staggering. I knock a glass off my nightstand as I stumble into bed. It shatters. I cry myself to sleep, choking on my actions. It’s such a cliché to blame yourself, but I did. Oh, I really did. Virginity. Friend of a friend, we struck up a conversation on Facebook a week before and randomly came upon the subject. I told him that I didn’t need some grand romantic night with candles and rose petals and the love of my life. I just wanted someone who mattered, someone not in the picture yet for me. He knew this. Yet he still decided to take me behind the dugout of a baseball field and fuck me on the gravel ground. The blood-splattered gravel ground. He knew it wasn’t his. He took anyway. Year 1 I took what happened and folded it, crumpled it, crammed it deep down inside me where I hoped it would never, ever come back up. Whenever I remembered what he stole from me, what I could never have back, it was like being stabbed swiftly with a thin sword deep in my chest. Waiting for the train to school. In chemistry class. At the lunch table. In the middle of soccer practice. I never knew when it would claw its way back up. I would be happy, laughing with friends, and then out of nowhere the stabbing, cutting, reminding me that I couldn’t be happy. I tried to convince myself that I never cared about the idea of virginity anyway, that it wasn’t real, that it didn’t matter. But it did matter. He had it.

Year 2 If the memory resurfaced, no feelings came with it. It was almost like watching a movie. I could talk about it now, numb, emotionless, detached, as if it had happened to someone I barely knew. I convinced myself that it was just one of those shitty virginity stories, the kind that you laugh about with your friends years later. Damn, I got too drunk and lost it, whoops. Year 3 I saw him at a party and he joked with my then-boyfriend that he was the one who took my virginity. I held my boyfriend back from attacking him. Talking him down, consoling him outside the party, I couldn’t help but feel the irony of making someone else feel better about something that happened to me, someone who hurt me. Year 4 The memory was gone. Never thought about it, was never reminded of it. It was gone. And along with it, age 16.

My whole sophomore year of high school is a blank.

Year 5 It took a random sentence from a random person in a random meeting to send me back, jolting, to that night. I sat there, staring at the wall, reliving it. It was then that I realized. It wasn’t normal.

Me, out of my mind drunk, and him, completely sober. Me, in pain, and him, not caring. Me, feeling like my life was crashing down around me the second I started to run home. Me, slipping into a yearlong depression.

That wasn’t just some unfortunate virginity story that you laugh about. That wasn’t normal. Sloppy, slurring, stumbling. That was enough. Wincing, bleeding, cringing. That was enough. Now I can’t help but feel angry that I am just another number, a statistic. I beat myself up for not knowing better, for not telling someone, for not doing something about it at the time. It was too easy to tell myself that it was just a mistake, that I shouldn’t blame him for it. But I know better now. I am worth it. My body is worth it. I have to stop blaming myself. I have to call it what it is. Assault. 26

Once Unspoken: A Monologue RIS MCCOOL

To the world, I’m 31. To myself, I’m 13. 13 years ago is when I got my name. The name that would stick in my mind, that made me cry at night, that made me wish it’d gone away. That was the name that stayed in my heart. I thought I was a drag queen; I didn’t know any better. We weren’t educated on such things. To even the open-minded among us, Transpeople existed only as Jokes, Punch Lines, Comedy, Fodder, Plot Twists. That was all we knew. I let them call me Drag Queen, to pretend that I was laughing with them. But I loved the makeup, the clothes, the shoes, The way my legs felt smooth to the touch, The way I felt unapologetically myself, And nobody could take that from me. But I had to keep it a secret. It was too much for some people to handle. They thought I should be a real man, a provider, protector, Breadwinner, the cuddler, the kisser, the initiator. Even those who said they understood, those who Appreciated the dynamic, thought it was kinda hot, Always defaulted to the traditional expectation. “Stop trying to be the little spoon!” “Stop being scared at loud noises!” “Stop wearing such bright colors!” “Stop skipping, stop dancing, stop singing, Stop wearing eyeliner, stop tilting your head, Stop putting your hand on your hip, Stop being so… Girly!” Growing up pretending to be a boy, Girly was the worst thing you could be. You play like a girl, you cry like a girl, You were a pussy if you were weak, You were a girlfriend if you didn’t like guns, Girls couldn’t rape guys because, Huh-huh, you can’t rape the willing, LOL, right? Hey baby, you don’t need the gun! High-five, bro! I craved to be protected. 27

I adored feeling like people wanted To stand up for me, To let me cry To let them be there for me, But I couldn’t. I wasn’t being honest with myself Because I was terrified. What would the world think? What would my parents think? What would happen to me? Would I be bullied? Beaten? Assaulted? Killed? Then I found the Queer Dictionary. I read through the words, the labels, the definitions. I wasn’t a drag queen. I wasn’t a crossdresser. Transgender though, that seemed right. But it was too much commitment. I went with Genderqueer, Non-binary, Genderfluid, Gender nonconforming… Anything that allowed me to be Marissa, But not take the full jump. No hormones, no shots, no meds, Nothing permanent. As I became Marissa, I stopped liking being called sir. I began to hate my deadname, hated being associated as a guy— Thank you very much, sir. Have a nice day, sir. Is this your husband? Is this your father? I wanted to be one of the girls. I wanted to be a girl. I… am a girl. I couldn’t even commit to it when I went on HRT, But my spouse referred to me as Marissa, Ris, Rissy Monster, Princess, Baby, beautiful, precious, pretty, baby girl… All the things I wanted to be called my entire life, But wasn’t allowed. Cause that’d be gay, right? Then two people took from me. Like thieves in the night, they stole. They took my body. They took my rights. They took my voice. They took my consent. I hid. I ran. I fled. I became numb. Distant. Vacant. I cut my hair. Ditched outfits. Tossed aside the makeup. Died inside every time someone called me Alex, But I dealt with it. Because that’s what the world was like To people like me if I was true. Then one day, he came to our school. Pastor Carl. Filled with Hate, Bigotry, Moral superiority, Slurs, Threats, Damnation, Scare-tactics, Humiliation, and Self-Righteousness. He called girls sluts, gay people words I won’t repeat, Trans acceptance was the reason Penn had a suicide problem. Not because of bullies like him, but because being who we are Was subconscious defiance of truth. That’s why we hurt,

That’s why we suffered, that’s why we died, Because Pastor Carl knew the truth, and we ran from it. We only chose to be who we were to mock God. As I stood up to him, I was no longer afraid. Nothing he said could touch me, nothing he said mattered. I yelled directly in his face: “I’m transgender, fuck you!” And that was it. I was out. I was Marissa. Then we got a new President; all hell broke loose. The same fear I’d had for years seemed to consume the many. So I wrote, Yelled, Podcasted, Published, Guested, Stood up, Stood out, Owned who I was. And within three months, I was Marissa fuckin’ McCool. Published author, LGBT columnist, Trans-podcaster, Guest on God Awful Movies, Performer in the Vagina Monologues. As me. As Marissa, Marissa Alexa McCool, who I’ve always been. True. Tonight is not my first, or even hundredth Time on stage in public. But it is the first time, The very first time that any cast list or program Will read: Marissa Alexa McCool. And that, my dear friends, Was worth every step of the journey.

A Beautiful Girl EMILY FUJIE MAIR

Body

SAMMIE YOON

Prayer Comfort Prose to Her CALI STARKS

(an opus and epic memory dedicated to Margaret Fuller and the esteemed authorship of Women in the Nineteenth Century) I penned this letter for women. For the mothers/, grand/, goddess/, single/, step/, independent Fortune tellers… female/ dreamers, makers of women’s studies for the ERA freedom fighters, for the prophetic visionaries human trafficking suffrage sisterhood the fiercest urgency backstory whence came hurricanes, broken limbs, quiet storms of passing over the fittest Survivalist of domestic abuse, emotional neglect, drug addiction, mindfulness stresses, and the sins of the fathers She pursued her Master’s degree, and her PhD, And not only did she pass the bar, she raised it Miss forgotten, to graduate, and celebrate a making of her self whole fought write/righteous, she worked, she loved, and she behaved like a lady her love was so much more than a metaphor she deserves everything we ever contribute to her I penned this letter, for her… for the courageous Princess molded into a beautiful Queen Treated invincible, but she is everything, This letter is for little/almost big girls of color housewives, homemakers, women fighting immigration, women in uniform This letter is for the ERA, the NOW/adays/long time coming forth by day sincerely yours/Vagina Monologues/since yesterday statues of liberty, disguised as immaculate conceived no longer framed as justification of a couple of white chicks sitting around talking, I penned this letter when she summed me man/ner/isms Mysticism diarist of Anne Frank and otherwise known as miracle workers watchtower/evidentiary of things unseen She did it NOW/once again For the gender and species to speak over themselves Speaking to nations/forever more

On Being Told to Include Men in an All-Women* Hackathon AMELIA GOODMAN This weekend I hosted FemmeHacks, an all-women* collegiate hackathon. FemmeHacks organizers use * to intentionally bring attention to the fact that “woman” is a complicated label; we include cis and trans women, genderqueer, and non-binary folks. For the rest of this article, when I refer to women, please know this is what I mean. By hosting FemmeHacks, we create this space for women to come together, to build, and to learn from one another. We had incredible diversity at FemmeHacks, therefore it was extremely important to have a space in which hackers could focus on their work without having to educate others on how it feels to be a marginalized population in the tech sphere. Throughout the event, we consistently heard the hackers say how empowered they felt, how much fun they were having, how they want to become computer scientists. FemmeHacks wouldn’t be possible without the companies that sponsor us. These companies donate money and send engineers to mentor our hackers. The engineers work with our hackers to help their dream projects become a reality. Groups of women who had never coded before were able to create full stack web apps in 12 hours thanks to these mentors. At FemmeHacks last year, one of these mentors inappropriately told me he was “impressed” with FemmeHacks and that he “wanted to apologize for staring; [he] was enamored.” I was shocked. He wasn’t staring; this wasn’t an apology. This was some pathetic pick-up line shrouded in “nice-guy” persona. My heart started racing the way it does when I am both outraged and about to cry. I went through the usual stages: first thinking I did something wrong, then thinking I misinterpreted his message, then thinking I need to do something about this, then being afraid that I’m making this a big deal when it doesn’t have to be. I went through these stages when a male teaching assistant hit on me during office hours, when a male professor made an uncomfortable joke about having an all-female teaching assistant staff, when a male coworker told me that women wouldn’t have to feel excluded if we just tried harder to belong. I emailed this mentor’s CEO, who had strongly established himself as an ally. He responded by apologizing and promising to deal with the matter. However, this event still cast a stain on FemmeHacks for me. Eventually the shock wore off and I went back to basking in the glory of throwing an amazing event and empowering so many young women. My co-organizers would try to make light of what happened. I would laugh along, but I still feel a twinge of pain when I think about it. Add this to my emotional baggage labeled “Existing as a woman in tech.” This year, I was determined to make sure this didn’t happen again. We asked all of our sponsors to send mentors that identify as women, non-binary, or gender-queer. Almost every company was happy to comply. Two companies “never got these emails” and sent men. While a little upset, I addressed it quickly in the morning, reminding everyone to be conscious of their potential biases and to use 33

inclusive language. Most of the male mentors apologized for not getting the memo and went on to enjoy FemmeHacks and to help hackers work on their projects. Besides one. One male mentor came up to me to ask why we “excluded” men from FemmeHacks. I explained that we want to create a space just for women* because these spaces are important for marginalized groups. He asked why I would deny men the opportunity to join, just because one man made an inappropriate comment. I explained that FemmeHacks doesn’t exist to teach men that women are equal; FemmeHacks exists to empower women and create a safe space to learn, build, and create community without the usual burdens of being a woman* in tech. He quickly got angry and said that I wasn’t hearing him, while referring to us as “girls”. He told me I was denying men the opportunity to learn from women; FemmeHacks would be better if men were allowed in. He called himself an ally, and then said this conversation was a waste of his time. Once again, I felt the familiar rushed heartbeat of wanting to cry and wanting to scream. I replayed the conversation over and over in my head to see if I said the things I wanted to say, if I was inappropriate, if maybe I just didn’t hear him correctly. I commiserated with other women that I trusted. Slowly the adrenaline receded and I gathered my thoughts, realizing he was out of line and I did say what I wanted to say. I will continue to have these conversations with men, to carry the weight of having to be a computer scientist and educate my male coworkers on why diversity and inclusion is necessary, on how to be a good ally, on why that last comment he made was inappropriate. I will continue to reconsider my decision to be a computer scientist, especially when there are so many other fields I can work in that would be more comfortable. But I will also remember the glowing faces of hackers who I helped debug their code and finally get it to work. I will celebrate the amazing work of my FemmeHacks teammates. I will continue to support and be supported by my co-organizers: The two women that consistently make me believe in myself, make me laugh, show me the fun side of working in tech; the two women that commiserate with me when our code doesn’t work, when our interview didn’t go as well as it could have; when we get labeled “women engineers” instead of just “engineers;” the two women that have inspired me endlessly, that are the first of many women that I look up to in tech, that are friends and allies and supporters and two of the smartest people I know. It is for them that I continue to carry this emotional baggage. For them that I continue to be the feminist killjoy, to make myself uncomfortable by calling out my male coworkers, to work in tech even though it isn’t the easiest decision. And together, we will return to basking in the glory of throwing an amazing event and introducing so many women to computer science, of reinforcing our belonging in this field, of creating a community of future leaders and badass bitches, to which we confidently belong.

Thoughts on the Eve of Election Day ANGEL CHAPMAN

She tends her collards, tender-fraught morning breath kisses wade among ham hock and broth, Grandma of tissue skin and nails red adorning weathered hands gripping tattered washcloth In this small kitchen, she is red-skinned redwood brown weeds blossom at her roots, pleading to taste bits of blessings—ladling honeyed girlhood from the tip of a wooden spoon to fill that needing archaic as Petrified Forest. Rooted in linoleum and Christ, for her, fear is fire. And I am undergrowth sprouted from ash and flame— from cash-empty pockets and late-night shifts and tears sacrificed, from collard cooks making meals out of spirituals, sweat, and a pride reclaimed. To that kitchen I retreat when my television hurls words like sharpened pick-axe and I have to ask, “Sir, what could you possibly begin to know about the Blacks?”

Election Reflections: A Villanelle NOELLE GRAHAM

“Hope” is the thing with feathers— That perches in the soul— And sings the tune without the words— And never stops—at all— –Emily Dickinson Terror will not abate; a man who refuses to tolerate makes me feel nothing: a numbness that sedates me. Medicate me. Fate forgive my broken wings that helped create injustices we learned to tolerate. Empty confusion saturates under duress of the gilded king with his face full of hate that beat down a strong woman. Are we too late? Surprised by his primitive sting, we fixate on all we grew to tolerate. Human life we desecrate— no longer—will we be his plaything. As we watch our nation’s face deteriorate with hate, I refuse to acclimate. Unwilling to let four become eight, I will help hope sing in the face of hate, exposing the injustices I will no longer tolerate. Note from the poet: On November 15th, 2016, several members of The F-word community came together to discuss our reactions to the presidential election that had taken place a week earlier. I asked each member to anonymously write down their reflections on this election, what it meant to them, and how they dealt with it. This villanelle was born out of those reflections. I got a variety of responses, but most centered on a feeling of grief for a future that we feel like we lost due to Donald Trump’s victory, and a feeling of guilt that we didn’t do more to protect everyone who cherishes an identity that our President has attacked. Many of us felt that his election unearthed facts about this nation that we had been ignoring for the sake of a shiny, sunlit, progressive future. Before Trump’s victory I was aware of many of the problems that plagued our country and had dedicated much of my life to ameliorating those problems. However, it wasn’t until the early hours of November 9th, 2016, that my conviction that our country must be leaning towards a progressive bent was shattered; I lost faith in the idea that the majority of my fellow citizens wanted to eradicate acts of hatred and injustice. I am privileged in that I was able to keep that conviction and faith for so long. This poem is an attempt to lend a voice to how members of The F-word community reacted to this election and an attempt to reaffirm my own commitment to a nation in which all identities are welcomed and loved. 36

Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s March On Washington: Photo Archives AMANDA SILBERLING

BELLE CARLSON

Note from the artist: This photograph is a response to the election and the current sociopolitical state of our country in which I re-wrote the pledge of allegiance as an effort to rediscover and redefine my identity in/support for a nation that has broken my heart. The pledge reads: to all who (a)re invisible under the flag: I pledge allegiance to stand for liberty and justice. as a nation need(ing) unit(y) of the American public, we (will) fight.

Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s March On Washington: Photo Archives AMANDA SILBERLING

Gender Talk A. AUSLANDER

It’s standing sideways in a doorway Body half poised between entrance and exit Toes scraping in bitter uncertainty on pavement That from either side tells you Belonging isn’t a word that uses your name in its letters Your tongue forever curling in the silence of who you want to be and The morality of self definition The confines of reconstructing a concept around your body for you and you alone They say, “you’re taking things too seriously.” They say, “you’re not taking these things seriously enough.” I am immutably amorphous and I’m melting in a constant stream It’s impossible to define my self by myself when words are only given breath Through the mouths and minds of everyone around you Consolidated in definitions Condensed in clouds, gently floating word bubbles That carry more weight Than gold. I am GIRL, BOY, I am NEITHER, OTHER I am badly composed spoken word with stamping feet and tears rolling down my face. In the mouths of passersby, I have been IT, WHAT IS THAT GET OUT OF HERE, FAGGOT, KEEP WALKING, DYKE! DON’T YOU SEE? THERE ARE LITTLE GIRLS IN HERE— So ask me what I am. I am standing in a doorway and my answer is halfway through my lips When I am pushed in-out by a passing stranger.

Upholding the Family Face GINA KAHNG

“I must not dishonor my famiry.” These words are said in an embarrassingly weak Asian accent, followed by a fit of ignorant laughter. I would be lying if I told you that I have only heard this a few times. But, why? The concept of upholding the immaculate reputation of one’s family, or the “face” as it’s referred to in Asia, brings about the jabs against try-hard Asian-American immigrants. From the image of SAT, GPA-obsessed Asian students to the notorious claws of the Asian tiger mom, there is some grain of truth to where these stereotypes come from. The weighty burden of maintaining the family “face” is painfully limiting for all Asian children. The stakes are higher than your own reputation; it’s the reputation of your entire family clan. When you’re an Asian daughter, though? Beautifying the family “face” is more than just getting pristine grades and a prestigious college under your belt. Within the largely conservative and sexist East Asian values, the quantification of our and our families’ worth is reliant on personal decisions that we should have the right to make freely. We, as Asian women, shoulder additional obligations, such as a healthy but not excessive love life and a reputable presentation of sexuality, which provides only a narrow margin to tightrope across. We deserve more than being preened and caged in these strict patriarchal standards. We need to be freed from the gender-based responsibilities that Asian daughters carry that define our worth as women. I am tired of being defined by my romantic life. After years of the continuous probing questions about boys, I expected that actually obtaining one would quiet my family. Instead, it caused a louder disturbance. Photos of my 6’4” American boyfriend immediately circulated throughout the family, even to long-lost extended family members. They were proud of the big fish I managed to reel in. As I enter my early adulthood, potential suitors—and their respective qualifications—have been of increasing interest among my family members. Physical appearance, intelligence, and wealth weigh into the evaluation of my boyfriend, which weighs into my worth as a woman. I know that when I do marry, my romantic relationship will continue to be a family affair. The wellbeing of an Asian daughter’s marriage represents the overall health of her entire family; the boundaries between the individual woman and the family are blurred. This phenomenon is associated with the uncommon occurrence of divorce in East Asia, with China’s 30 percent divorce rate, and Japan and Korea’s 36 percent, all notably lower than America’s 53 percent. A divorce equates to a failed marriage, throwing mud on the “face” of the entire family. 41

I am tired of being defined by my sexuality. The trick is to have a robust, but not excessive romantic life. Dating, while important, should not reveal signs of a sexual nature. Sex should wait until marriage, or at least an age appropriate for marriage. Surrounding oneself with a gaggle of boys or dressing or behaving in a way that indicates sexual promrounding oneself with a gaggle of boys or dressing or behaving in a way that indicates sexual promiscuity, while personal actions of the woman, can soil the reputation of a household. Sex has, and always will be, a topic clear off the table with my parents. This frame of mind is exacerbated in far more personal, controversial choices like abortion, which become a family affair as well. In a country such as Korea, abortion, while illegal, is widespread. Any hint of pre-marital sex or a child birthed out of wedlock would be the downfall of the family “face.” The way out is a quiet abortion under covers. The decision of the individual woman dissipates when considering the best for the family. When personal, private choices of a woman are taken out of her hands and placed into someone else’s, women’s voices are silenced. So, where does that leave us? Do we, as Asian-American women, remain discriminated against by the harsh standards of saving “face” for our family, or turn our backs to our culture? No. We are bigger than brashly rejecting or subserviently conforming to our roots. We push against these sexist norms and redefine what it means to be a good “face” for our family. We push from the inside out, initiating controversial and meaningful conversations beginning at our family dinner tables to spur on the Asian-American feminist movement as a whole. We redefine our “face” to be quantified by our achievements, not our love lives. We redefine our “face” to be quantified by our integrity, not our individual choices as women. Let us redefine our worth.

Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s March On Washington: Photo Archives AMANDA SILBERLING

blood

EMILY RUSH i got my period on my thirteenth birthday that was the year i learned to count my calories and say no to second helpings by fifteen every period felt like failure like the blood and the cravings for chocolate came because i wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t strong enough i lost my period just before seventeen by then i was used to being hungry so it felt like a victory or a prize for all i had suffered at 19 my period came back one day i woke up in a pool of blood and i cried but i am not battleground my body is not the enemy my period is not a casualty of war and i know that now so at 19 i threw up my hands and stopped fighting i let myself live i let myself bleed.

Snapshot of Transience RIS MCCOOL

To be free, to live true to let go of the burden of secret is to truly see the world. The blade of a pine, a snow-covered mountain, the ever-brightening shimmer of the morning sun Over quickly melting snow; I see the colors anew, the nature therapy checks me in As a returning guest. All around me the sentiment of serenity, the spectacle of unconquered I am rendered as a mere humbled patron of its healing grace. Departing is so sorrow, walking over again the tracks created to reach the momentary blissful seconds of clarity. But a selected glimpse though it may be toward the mountains yet to climb along the seemingly infinite horizon, My journey is no longer perpetually weighed down by the heaviest of unseen burdens: The burdening secret Of identity. I am far more Than a sum Of the parts I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t choose. I am the Planet of one, The waking oblivion of bliss, The anxious headspace of the purple girl Ris. Though a long way to go remains, I travel lighter having shed the baggage with the mask of my former shield.

I walk the more dangerous path By choice of not to hide, but they whoâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve embraced me shelter me from any pangs of regret for which I may search among the discarded. This is true, this is right this is me, the me that you knew. But the mirror did not until I gazed at the correct reflection. Previously untouched, formerly shamed, now a cloud of the spirit of mystic joy; I am now but a protected Nomad of these parts, and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m for long so grateful of permission of minute occupation along the intersecting trails of your own journeys Yet untraveled.

Encounter, Confront LEA EISENSTEIN

A House Full of Boys VICTORIA PENG

They don’t convict on intent. They don’t convict on intent, so when your eyes lock on mine, you see promise. I bridge the expanse, catching my shoes on the uneven floor with a mostly-drank bottle of wine dangling between my fingers. You smile. Of course, everyone is singing—a typical night in this house. We laugh, we clap. This is what my college experience should be like: intoxicated by my youth with friends who make me feel warmth in my stomach. I sit on the floor, back against the wall, just to take it in. This is what I’ve been missing. The songs slowly die down. I want to feel this happy for just a little bit longer, so I lead the way to your room, the usual hub. We sit on your bed waiting for our friends to trickle in. Adam enters, but he senses something I’m not sure I want to acknowledge. I ask him to stay, but he’s already saying goodnight. Then it’s just us. Your face looms above mine, and you say something like, “We shouldn’t do this.” I remember you slipping my underwear down my legs. I remember your tongue tracing my lips. I remember thinking you’re pretty good at this—gentle. They don’t convict on intent, so when I wake up in your sheets, I let you test the waters, bring your face to mine. In the bathroom down the hall, I brush the alcohol from my teeth and pull my unkempt hair into a bun. I haven’t put on any clothes because they’re scattered across your floor. I walk by his room back to yours. We kiss—I want to leave. You unclasp the black lacy bra from my chest and toss it back onto the ground. It’s nine o’clock. You don’t kiss me to say goodbye—you just kiss me to keep me there. I ask if you mean for today or the months to come, but you just want me for the next hour. It’s ten-thirty when I find my underwear tucked into the crevice between your bed and the wall. They don’t convict on intent, so I let your door close behind me. I shiver under your complacent gaze as it follows me out, fixed on the hollow between my shoulder blades. They don’t convict on intent, so I leave quietly through the backdoor. I swallow the hesitation, closing off my throat because the hickey adorning the center of my neck says that someone thinks I’m beautiful, desirable. That I’m not just the forgotten ex-girlfriend. You made me “that girl”—the one stuck reliving her past in their house with all of their mutual friends— when you told me he was seeing someone new. But in the dark that night, you made me believe I was just as special as she is. 50

I spend the rest of the day tugging up my turtleneck to hide this souvenir of a night I didn’t want. I didn’t say no. But I didn’t say yes. By the time it’s too dark to see the purple bruise on my neck, I’m disappointed in myself for feeling vulnerable. For letting you take advantage of my vulnerability. And I am disgusted by you, my friend, who profited from my vulnerabilities. I am disgusted by you, the man who took advantage of me. You say that you’ve learned, but I know you haven’t. You cast yourself as an ascetic giver, where nothing is for you and everything is “for the girl”—and your checklist of ways to make everything work for the girl starts with taking off my underwear. That doesn’t make everything “work” for me. You cannot slide your tongue between my legs and lick away the unspoken transgression. My uncertainty. The fact that your machinations have made me yet another girl who never intended to end up in your bed—another “lesson” you didn’t learn. Yet, you do all this, and you ask for my clemency. You ask me to forsake my experience, my reality, to absolve you of your guilt. But I won’t, because consent is not something that you just “buy into.” Consent is affirmative. Informed. Active. If I want you, I’ll say yes. Do not take my silence, passivity, or lack of resistance alone as consent. Ask. If I want you, I’ll say yes.

Please see https://secure.www.upenn.edu/vpul/pvp/sexualviolence for more definitions of consent.

We Are Watching: All photography is credited to Amanda Silberling The designs of women for the “your body your ballot protest” were drawn by Isabel Kim, but for the large-scale reproductions of these images, many artists chipped in, including Nina Solis, Syra Ortiz-Blanes, and more. The red eye “we are watching” logo credited to Joyce Hu.

These images were freely distributed on Locust Walk as stickers to the general campus, in addition to the flyer shown on the left. Large-Scale reproductions shown on the following pages, remained on campus for several days, in the area surrounding College Green. There was also many chalk messages written onto Locust Walk directly, featuring the same slogans seen in the images, among many others.

YOUR BODY, YOUR BALLOT. As students at the University of Pennsylvania, the alma mater of presidential candidate Donald Trump, we publicly condemn the GOP nominee for his continued disrespect and hatred towards various groups of people, including but not limited to: women, Muslims, Latinos, the black community, disabled people, the LGBTQ+ community, Asian people, Middle Eastern people, immigrants, and many more. Though Trump has voiced malicious language throughout his entire career, on Friday, October 7, a tape from 2005 leaked in which Trump bragged about how his fame allows him to sexually assault women with impunity. In an attempt to normalize his behavior, he quickly dismissed his comments as “locker room banter.” Trump’s language and malice is not normal, and his excuse rings false. We reject his apology. Presidential candidate Donald Trump is not only complicit, but also an active advocate of rape culture through actions and words such as these. Across Penn’s campus, we – a group of Penn women and femme-identifying folks, as well as allies– have painted, chalked, and displayed original poetry and imagery illustrating the danger that Trump’s candidacy poses to our bodies. We have also installed temporary murals along the walls of our institution and distributed hundreds of stickers. But even as we denounce hate, we seek to empower women, the queer community, people of color, disabled people, and other marginalized groups. We believe in public art as a political tool. We want to show support to the people whom Donald Trump has failed. October 11 is the final day for Pennsylvania residents to register to vote. In order to prevent a corrupt, hateful person from becoming the U.S. President, we urge you to register to vote against Donald Trump. We are students at Donald Trump’s alma mater who condemn his presidential candidacy. We will not be silent.

WE ARE WATCHING. pennwearewatching.tumblr.com

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acknowledgments

We would like to thank all of those who helped and supported F-Word this year. Thank you to our advisors and friends at the Student Activities Council and PubCo. Thank you to Jessica Lowenthal and the Kelly Writers House, Litty Paxton and the Womenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s House, and Demie Kurz with the Alice Paul Center. We are tremendously grateful for all of those who submitted to the publication, and encourage all feminist voices to continue to do so in the future. Finally, thank you to the University of Pennsylvania community for reading The F-Word and thereby participating in this vital conversation.