F-Word Spring 2016

the f-word

a collection of feminist voices

spring 2016

The F-Word SPRING 2016

mission statement The F-Word is a collection of feminist voices that come together
in an annual print publication, a weekly discussion group, and an online blog. We aim to be a space for people of all backgrounds to talk or write or create art about experiences that touch on gender and/or sexuality.

We aim to represent and welcome the voices of people of all genders, sexualities, ethnicities, and socioeconomic backgrounds. We hope to foster more thoughtful campus discussion on the bounds of, and the potential for, feminism, intersectionality, social justice, and the role of publication and writing in all of the above.

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editorial board editors in chief design editor

SOPHIA LEE

poetry editor

TAYLOR BYXBEE

prose editor

SARA ALBERT

art editor

BELLA ESSEX

illustrator

LEA EISENSTEIN

copy editor

SARA ALBERT

treasurer

ANMOL JAIN

public relations liaison general board members

Spring 2016

ELIZABETH NAISMITH PICCIANI REGINA SALMONS

BERRAK GUVEN JACOB GURSKY VERONICA KOWALSKI

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letter from the editors We set out this fall to re-launch publication of The F-Word believing both that the Penn community could use a feminist literary magazine as a medium for self-expression and that the movement’s mission is pertinent to campus life. The F-Word was founded in 2005 (inspired by a previous Penn feminist publication called Pandora’s Box in the ‘90s) but ceased publishing three years ago, continuing instead as a discussion group. The F-Word is a place where personal and social conversation can flourish and where members of marginalized groups can exit the periphery. We strive to disassemble discrimination on both a micro and macro scale and work towards building a community cast from a mold of love, which allows individuals to fearlessly and unashamedly embrace and project their sincerest selves.

Our desire is for The F-Word to serve as a platform to amplify voices that have been silenced or ignored, and to encourage individual expression while simultaneously developing a collective kinship. Publication itself is essential as a form of peaceful protest because it allows for multiple mediums and engages both artist and reader. It allows women to express themselves verbally, participating in (and creating) political conversations from which they have been historically excluded. This collection acts as a venue for a variety of sentiments, from expressions of empowerment to voicing experiences of oppression. We are in awe of the diverse array of feminist voices involved in this issue and moving forward we strive to include an even wider range of topics, experiences, and intersectional perspectives. The F-Word is not perfect or absolute, but rather continually growing, conversing, and learning.

We thank you for joining the discussion through the very act of reading. Most of all, we ask you to refrain from spectatorship and instead engage with the art, co-create meaning, and respond—for these actions are the foundation for building a social consciousness. We hope that after you physically put this copy of The F-Word down, you continue to carry it with you mentally and emotionally, allowing what you see within these vi

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pages to reverberate in your heart and mind. Think about it, let it stir, let it spark. We have included cartoon thought bubbles next to some pieces for this purpose. Feel free to write in them, doodle in them, and mark your own ink on the page. Our hope is that you will continue the conversation both on the page and off of it. Talk about The F-Word with friends, reference it in your classes, let it inspire you to write or create art.

We ask you to consider these pieces both individually and as a whole; as a current to flow through the Penn community, challenging the negative energy that surrounds us at many moments. Lastly, we implore you to contemplate how these topics resonate not only locally, but nationally and globally as well.

We hope that you enjoy The F-Word as much as we have enjoyed putting it together. In re-launching the publication this year, we have learned more about feminism, the publication process, and ourselves than we could have ever expected. We are forever grateful for our editorial board and general board for all the love and hard work that they have put into making this publication a reality. We are incredibly proud of this edition’s content, as it is full of Penn’s powerful and beautiful feminist voices.

Thank you, Reader.

Love, The Editors — Liz and Regina

table of MISSION STATEMENT.................... iv EDITORIAL BOARD.................... v LETTER FROM THE EDITORS.................... vi COVER ART denice defelice.................... 1 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.................... 47 CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS sophia lee.................... 48

PERSONAL ESSAYS I’LL WALK YOU HOME sara albert.................... 4 THE INEQUALITY OF HEALTHCARE m. earl smith.................... 26

ACADEMIC ESSAYS “THE SIGN OF INFECTION”: PHILADELPHIA (1993) AND LEO BERSANI’S “IS THE RECTUM A GRAVE?” nathan may.................... 12

REVIEWS MUSTANG berrak guven.................... 21 THE PUNK SINGER samantha destefano.................... 42

contents MUSIC 2 ....................TO BE A VIOLIN kyra schulman

POETRY 8 ....................EMPTY CUPS joy pickens 16 ....................A DEDICATION caitlin rubin 20 ....................WASH IN SINK isabel gwara 25.................... SHE’S GONE MISSING maurice brian henderson 33 ....................MEDUSA sophia lee 34 ....................PEARLS hector roman 36 ....................《(.)(,)(:)(;)(?)(!)》irtiqa fazili 44 ....................POTENTIAL HYPOTHETICAL emily hoeven

VISUAL ART 11 ....................UNTITLED claudia li 19 ....................CRIMSON WAVE lea eisenstein 28 ....................RECLAIM: DEGAS terrill warrenburg 38 ....................MONSTER SERIES alina wang 45 ....................HAYLEY WILLIAMS danu wijanarko

cover art

Silent, As They Seize Our Voice DENISE DEFELICE is a freshman at the University of Pennsylvania studying Health and Societies and minoring in Hispanic Studies and Chemistry. She is the Design Editor of Stylus Magazine, a literary arts journal at Penn’s medical school, and is passionate about integrating science and art.

A central theme in her art is dissipation, movement, and the spread of knowledge.

Spring 2016

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To Be a Violin KYRA SCHULMAN

Felt so empty without my bow The bow that makes the music come from me I have strings across my heart Some say I look like art And they ask me to sing They put me right under their chin And that is where I’ve been I’ve lost my heart And the wind and the rain they send to me And my four strings that they made they take from me And I try to run But I just can’t hide For the wind and the rain they’ll get to me And the four strings that they paint they’ll play from me Behind my wood you see my youth Tainted by the patterns on my spine Forced always to sing the truth Of those who play my strings for me to mime Some days I try to break away “But you’re a violin,” they say “You’re only art” And the wind and the rain they send to me And my four strings that they made they take from me And I try to run But I just can’t hide For the wind and the rain they’ll get to me And the four strings that they paint they’ll play from me

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Who knows what it’s like to be a string And be moved by everything Who knows what it’s like to be a string And be moved by everything And the wind and the rain they send to me And my four strings that they made they take from me And I try to run But I just can’t hide For the wind and the rain they’ll get to me And the four strings that they paint they’ll play from me

https://soundcloud.com/kets21/to-be-a-violin

Spring 2016

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I’ll Walk You Home a memoir

SARA ALBERT “Don’t worry,” he hissed over the deafening beat of blaring house music, his hot breath thick with the scent of booze. Sliding his arm along my waist, he sank his fingers into the skin of my exposed midsection like an insect anchoring fast to its prey. “I’ll walk you home tonight. I’ll take care of you.”

It was the second night of my sophomore year NSO, and I was at a house party on Walnut lingering in that sweet state of drunkenness where you just don’t care anymore how white your offbeat dancing makes you look but you’re still functional enough not to end up vomiting in the McDonald’s bathroom at the end of the night. A few friends had convinced me to come out with them, to enjoy my NSO despite the fact I hadn’t seen my boyfriend in months and he wouldn’t be coming back to Penn for another few days. I’ve never been super enthusiastic about frat parties—they’re more of a singles scene in my opinion, and having a predominantly male friend group my ratio is almost always abysmal. But the parties back home had almost all been lame this summer and it had been a long time since I’d drank anything harder than soda, so I decided what the hell, I’ll tag along.

The party was in its infancy when we arrived. A few brothers bounced to the music on the practically empty dance floor, their cups never leaving their lips for more than a minute as they scouted out each group of newcomers with hungry eyes. My own group took advantage of the short line at the bar, aware we might have to fight for the bartender’s attention later in the night when the party got going. As a fresh influx of tipsy undergrads began to pour into the basement of the house, my friends and I quickly became acquainted with a few freshmen whose names I can’t remember and whose faces I almost definitely wouldn’t recognize if I saw them on the street—as so often happens with these types of things. One of them, a 20-something-year-old international student named Brad*, in his drunken state, made a point of informing my friends and me that he was old enough and willing to buy us alcohol. Never ones to turn down an opportunity like that, we all gave him our numbers so we could text him in the future and make good on the offer.

As the night went on, Brad’s friends slowly disappeared into the *Names have been changed to protect confidentiality.

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mass of dancing bodies that enveloped us—as did many of mine—but he stayed with me. I could tell he liked me by the way he leaned over me when we talked, the way he watched my mouth when I spoke, the way he kept trying to find every excuse to touch my hand or my arm. Though I wasn’t interested in pursuing any relationship with him other than a platonic one, I was reluctant to discourage him at first lest I be mistaken and this flirtatiousness be a natural aspect of his personality. That is, until I noticed the way he was watching my drink.

“How many have you had?” he shouted over the music, nodding toward the cup in my hand.

When I replied that this was my fourth, he insisted I chug the drink in my hand and allow him to bring me another. I had told myself I would take it slow on the drinks that night, for one thing because the vodka was shit and for another because I had become incredibly susceptible to hangovers since I got my first after taking too many tequila shots at a Christmas party the previous year. But Brad kept insisting, crying, “Drink! Drink! Drink!” over and over again, and so, figuring one more drink wouldn’t kill me, I finally acquiesced and downed my vodka coke. He hurriedly returned with another. This one I sipped slowly. Ten minutes later Brad peered into my cup to check my progress, and again he demanded I finish that drink and get a fresh one. A shiver went up my spine as I realized why.

“I just want you to have fun,” he slurred, his brown eyes glazed over and bloodshot. “I want you to be as drunk as me!” He was shitfaced.

“I think I might be done drinking for the night,” I said, placing my cup on the bar.

“No, come on, just one more! One more, come on!” He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close to him, but I ripped it from my body quickly enough and with sufficient force to express beyond all doubt that his advances weren’t wanted. But he didn’t seem to get it.

Within seconds his arm was around my midsection again, his clammy hand gripping my side possessively.

“Don’t worry, I’m gonna walk you home tonight,” he whispered in my ear in a voice that was meant to be seductive but didn’t quite hit the mark.

I couldn’t help but laugh. Removing his arm from my waist again, I shook my head. “Um, no you’re not.”

“No, really, I am!” he protested. “Where do you live? I’ll take you there.”

“You’re not walking me home,” I repeated, emphasizing each individual word so his booze-soaked brain could process what I was saying. It didn’t seem like a difficult concept to grasp.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. You’re safe with me!” Somehow the fact that he felt the need to insist I would be safe made me even more doubtful that I would be.

By now I was pissed off—pissed off that he wouldn’t give up his attempts at seduction and leave me alone, pissed off that he refused to Spring 2016

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respect me and my desire not to go home with him, pissed off that for him our entire interaction thus far had been about getting me drunk so he could get my pants off. Just being near him made me feel subhuman.

“I have a boyfriend!” I finally exclaimed. The boyfriend card was my last resort, and I hated having to use it, having to wield my boyfriend as my only weapon against guys who can’t understand I’m not interested in them. But unfortunately when it comes to a woman sometimes the only will a man will respect is a man’s.

Brad didn’t miss a beat. “But your boyfriend’s not here.” He spoke in a low rumble as he reached his arm across my body for the third time.

“Don’t worry, I’ll walk you home. I’m sure he won’t mind.”

Just then, I happened to catch sight of my friend Justin* passing by us on his way to the bar. Slipping out of Brad’s grasp, I grabbed Justin under the pretext of a hug and whispered to him, “Help me. This guy won’t leave me alone. I don’t know what to do.”

Justin, a tall and burly frat brother who, though always displaying an amicable disposition to those who know him, possessed an intimidating stature, promptly turned around and introduced himself to Brad.

“Hey,” he said, “I’m her boyfriend.”

But Brad, whether too trashed or too cocky to care, leaned over to my make-believe boyfriend and whispered loud enough so I could hear, “Hey man, that’s cool, but don’t worry, I’m gonna walk her home. I’m gonna take care of her tonight.”

For a moment neither Justin nor I knew how to respond. The boyfriend card had never failed me before, and I had no idea where to go from there.

“I’m sorry?” said Justin, advancing toward Brad in a way that suggested things might get physical. “Do we have a problem?”

For the first time all night, Brad seemed unsure of himself. “W-what?” he stammered, seeming to shrink further into himself the closer Justin got to him.

“I said, ‘Do we have a problem?’” Justin was practically shouting now.

Even I jumped at the boom of his voice.

“No, man! No, no, of course not!”

With that, Brad slinked away without even so much as an apology for his treatment of me. So that was it, then—my firm and repeated “no” had done nothing to deter him from his pursuit, and neither had the knowledge that I was already in a committed relationship, but the threat of violence had managed to do the trick.

The rest of the night was a miserable blur. My entire encounter with Brad had left me feeling grimy, dirty, cheap. Did everybody else see me as he had seen me: as a vending machine that accepts drinks like coins and spits out sex in exchange? Was my conversation and my intellect nothing more than an obstacle for men to surpass before they could get me on my back? Was my mind worth nothing if my body didn’t come 6

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with it like a two-for-one deal? Suddenly my womanhood—a quality of my being I had always worn with pride—was a badge of shame I could never remove.

Brad didn’t bother me again for the rest of the night, though I caught him looking in my direction once or twice from across the room. I guess he valued not getting his face bashed in by Justin more than he valued getting his dick wet. Part of me was angry at myself—angry for not being able to ward this guy off on my own, angry that I couldn’t instill the same fear in Brad that Justin had, angry that despite how loud I had shouted my “no” it had still sounded softer to him than Justin’s. Suddenly the urge to prove to myself that I wasn’t as helpless as Brad had made me feel possessed me. I longed to know that I was still as strong and independent and capable as I had always imagined I was, that I possessed my own will, and that that will deserved as much respect as anybody else’s.

And so, after bidding my friends an early goodbye, I walked myself home.

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Empty Cups JOY PICKENS My insecurities are found at the bottom of a bottle empty solo cups plastering each one on my shoulders plaguing me with the gravity of uncertainty and rebellion Lost I discover myself in the depths of my confusion— a dizzy haze of anxiety obscure lines to sensibility He notices me Our sardined bodies scale against one another as we search for personal resolution with weighted collisions and vacant oscillations my shoulders begin to disintegrate in his hands He sees me for who I really am— for what I really am— exposed But I don’t see him blurry vision has me blinded to the horror that he is How many drinks until I can relinquish all responsibility? how many shots of tequila until my hallowed oblivion can mask as the disguise for the authenticity of my desires 8

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I didn’t want you I didn’t want you I didn’t want you Sirened sentiments wail throughout my body in attempts to drown out the validity of my reality I wanted him— but not in the way I had him he dragged me out of my darkness into his speckled sunlight and for a moment the warmth was almost enough— But his sunlight was fluorescent cheap, faded, and dim I was mistaken in the cadence of his voice uncovering my desperation for that little bit of human nature to enact itself with me that little bit of human nature to enact itself in me No longer can I decipher the difference between regret, shame, and guilt I don’t know if my attempt to blame him is merely my attempt to not blame myself those cherry inflamed eyes saw deeper in me than I preferred to unclothe my appetite, he fed while I was uncertain of my hunger I don’t want to admit that I would allow him to tarnish my wonderland— entrance and exit he left his footprints the welcome mat swallowed in my chest now polluted how can his absence feel greater than his presence ever was emptiness consumes my flesh yet to say he took something from me Spring 2016

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is to imply there was something to take in the first place— I had already disappeared a long time ago Like the missing puzzle piece The vanished sock The camouflaged bobby pin My value was hiding And he— He merely tried to uncover me The towers I quartered around my subconscious turned out to be more transparent Than I thought Worth, once stored in this refuge disintegrated like my walls, mere vapors evaporating like my shoulders He has evaporated For to confess that he saw me Unlike anyone has before That he read me so deeply In between my lines That you opened me— Is to release my insides In an overflowing dam drowning my fragile morality The inside of me is what I fear the most And he captured it Holding me hostage to my own being My hiding spot has been unearthed bearing translucency to my soul I cannot control who visits my temple Who preys in my mosque who kneels in my sanctuary I’m naked and I am afraid of who is going to see me next 10

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Untitled CLAUDIA LI

Spring 2016

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“The Sign of Infection”

Philadelphia (1993) and Leo Bersani’s “Is the Rectum a Grave?”

NATHAN MAY When Jonathan Demme’s Philadelphia was first released in 1993, Roger Ebert noted that it was “the first time Hollywood has risked a bigbudget film on the subject” of AIDS. Starring Tom Hanks as Andrew Beckett, an AIDS patient fired from Philadelphia’s largest law firm, the film powerfully recounts the nation’s homophobic response in the wake of the crisis. Beckett, dismissed after his colleague notices a telltale lesion on his forehead, pursues legal action against his former employer. Obtaining the services of personal injury lawyer Joe Miller (Denzel Washington), Beckett ultimately takes his case to court. Throughout the narrative’s progression, the film portrays a prevailing atmosphere of dehumanization, on both individual and societal levels. Probing the prejudices of a heterosexual man (the initially homophobic Miller)—as well as that of a larger, demonizing culture—Philadelphia explores the root causes of an era’s intolerance.

Leo Bersani’s 1987 essay “Is the Rectum a Grave?,” written during the height of the AIDS crisis, provides a framework for understanding such root causes. Attempting to account for Reaganite America’s viciously homophobic outlook, Bersani theorizes the aversion to homosexual activity. Examining homophobic discourse, Bersani argues that the panicky response to the AIDS epidemic is bound up with a fear of passivity, female sexuality, and a sexual “abdication of power” (212). When considered in the context of Philadelphia—with its depiction of homophobia on both the individual and societal scale—Bersani’s argument holds much explanatory power. Andrew Beckkett, along with the entire gay community, is demonized by a society that values domination, one that cannot bear the “dissolution of the self” that homosexual activity signifies. Ultimately, when analyzed through the lens of “Is the Rectum a Grave?,” Philadelphia becomes a startling portrayal of phallocentric hatred.

In trying to illustrate this pervasive phallocentrism, Bersani makes illuminating comparisons between the homophobic AIDS response and representations of nineteenth century female prostitutes. For him, both discourses betray a virulent aversion to female sexuality. In terms that strikingly resemble the language of anti-gay rhetoric, the prostitutes, he notes, were described “as contaminated vessels” “conveyancing ‘female’ venereal diseases” (211). Such depictions, moreover, revealed “male fantasies about women’s multiple orgasms,” their “inherent aptitude for 12

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uninterrupted sex” (211). In light of such representations, homosexual activity comes to assume the same threat: “anal sex (with the potential for multiple orgasms having spread from the insertee to the insertor)” is demonized as a “criminal, fatal, and irresistibly repeated act.” “We must take into account,” Bersani writes, “the widespread confusion in heterosexual and homosexual men between fantasies of anal and vaginal sex” (211). In other terms, the homophobic discourse, in the wake of AIDs, was inextricably linked to a fear of female sexuality, a fear of the “passive” position. As Bersani phrases it, “Women and gay men spread their legs with an unquenchable appetite for destruction” (211). Both the woman and the gay man, through the endless repeatability of penetrative sex, pose a threat to the proud heterosexual male subject. Indeed, the image that is most threatening, according to Bersani, is that of the “grown man, legs high in the air, unable to refuse the suicidal ecstasy of being a woman” (212). Underlying this attitude, moreover, is a concept we can glean from the ancient Athenian taboo on passive anal sex: that “to be penetrated is to abdicate power” (212). As the result of such a mindset, “dominance” is given a positive connotation while its opposite is given a decidedly negative one. As Bersani explains, “phallocentrism is exactly that: not primarily the denial of power to women . . . but above all the denial of the value of powerlessness in both men and women,” of a “radical disintegration and humiliation of the self” (217). The gay man, like the nineteenth century prostitute, is condemned for his desire for sexual self-dissolution.

Moving to speculation on a societal scale, Bersani sees America’s response to the AIDs crisis—most consequentially, the Reagan administration’s neglect to take meaningful action—as a product of this phallocentric ethos. For him, the reality of the disease legitimized “a fantasy of female sexuality as intrinsically diseased; and promiscuity in this fantasy, far from merely increasing the risk of infection, is the sign of infection” (211). The AIDs crisis, by reinforcing “the heterosexual association of anal sex with death,” served to incite—to an alarming degree—a condemnation of “sexual powerlessness” (222). Behind unhelpful hospital policies, the government’s tragic delay, and the prevalent disgust with homosexual activity, lay this aversion to female sexuality. The ideology of phallocentrism, as it manifested itself in late 1980s America, had effects on a national scale.

Before Philadelphia touches upon these larger, more national implications of the phallocentric perspective, the film provides a revealing glimpse into one man’s homophobia. In an early scene, Joe Miller, the lawyer who will ultimately take on Beckett’s case, vividly voices the male fear of female sexuality. Before he assumes a tolerant position, his heterosexist attitude serves to illuminate greater cultural anxieties. After first meeting with the recently fired Beckett, and becoming frightened of his ill state, Miller is seen in his comfortable suburban home. His wife Spring 2016

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Lisa, busy preparing dinner, all of a sudden asserts, “You have a problem with gays, Joe.” After briefly denying the accusation, Joe responds, “All right. I admit it: I’m prejudiced. I don’t want to work with a homosexual.

You got me.” Rapidly, his tone becomes one of disgust and contempt: “I mean the way these guys do that . . . thing. Don’t they get confused?

‘Oh, I don’t know, is that yours? Is that mine?’ You know, I don’t want to be in bed with anybody who’s stronger than me . . . or who has more hair on their chest. Now you can call me old-fashioned, conservative. Just call me a man.” Shortly thereafter, he adds, “Besides, I think you have to be a man to understand how . . . really disgusting the whole idea is anyway.”

Responding to his wife, who playfully calls him “the little caveman of the house,” Miller, in an eminently self-satisfied tone, replies, “Damn skippy.”

The exchange ends with him proudly chewing on a drumstick.

This short segment, when read in the context of “Is the Rectum a Grave?,” is highly revealing. Illustrating Bersani’s core argument, Miller reveals a direct link between his homophobic outlook and his prized masculine subjectivity. He is frightened, more than anything, by the gay man’s “self-humiliation,” his “abdication of power.” In lines like “I don’t want to be in bed with anybody who’s stronger than me,” he is expressing the inherent aversion to the female sexual position. Repeatedly, he describes a threat to dominance, to “masculinity” as defined by his culture. Indeed, his words illustrate the process, as outlined by Bersani, by which a society denies value to a “radical disintegration of the self.” Telling his wife that “you have to be a man to understand” how repulsive homosexuality really is, he explicitly places his attitude within the framework of phallocentrism. Ultimately, what shines through in this tirade is the privileging of the phallus, the social reality emphasized by Bersani. Miller’s thoughts, that is, communicate a conception of sex in which the dominant male is inherently superior, where the penetrator is necessarily favored over the penetrated. In revealing his phallocentric ideology, Miller uncovers the root causes of an era’s intolerance.

Later on, in the climactic courtroom scene, the film probes the larger cultural consequences of this ideology. Justifying the law firm’s firing of Beckett, the defense does more than falsely deny that AIDs played a role in the decision. Even more perniciously, the firm partners and their attorney strive to demonize Beckett’s sexual activity. Interviewing another fired employee, a young woman who contracted AIDS through a transfusion, the firm’s lawyer capitalizes on homophobic anxieties: “So, in your case there was no behavior on your part . . . which caused you to be infected with the virus. It was something you were unable to avoid.

Isn’t that correct?” One of the firm partners, after being asked to respond to the woman’s account, answered, “I felt, and still feel nothing but the deepest sympathy for people like Melissa, who contracted this terrible disease through no fault of their own.”

Throughout the entire scene, the defense employs an aversion to 14

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“gay promiscuity” to make its case. They understand very well that this homophobic line of thinking holds tremendous rhetorical power. In a particularly alarming intrusion into Beckett’s personal life, the defense attorney takes this shady method of persuasion to an extreme degree, asking, “Have you ever been to the Stallion Showcase Cinema? On 21st Street?” After Beckett’s affirmative answer, she continues, “Do men ever have sex in that theatre? . . . Were you aware that there was AIDS and that you could contract it through sexual activity?” Finally, she asks him, “Were you living with Miguel Alvarez? . . . You could have infected Mr. Alvarez at the time, isn’t that correct?” Such questioning powerfully illustrates Bersani’s notion that AIDS “legitimized” “female sexuality as intrinsically diseased,” and, importantly, that promiscuity not only causes the risk of infection but also is itself the “sign of infection.” The crisis, as demonstrated by the courtroom strategy, created an atmosphere in which female/gay sexuality, with its endless repeatability, could be more readily derided by phallocentric culture. Homosexual activity was attacked to the point that people like the law firm partner implied that the contraction of AIDs is “brought upon oneself.” In this pivotal scene, one can see on a micro level a disturbing national fact: that a “public health crisis . . . was treated like an unprecedented sexual threat” (198). In fixating on Beckett’s sexual behavior, the defense lawyer draws on this “threatening” power, taking advantage of the common homophobic response. Phallocentric fear, pervading the larger culture, here makes its way into the courtroom.

In both Miller’s anxious tirade and the climactic legal argumentation, Philadelphia gives the viewer an enlightening glimpse into an era’s intolerance. Documenting one man’s threatened masculinity—as well as society’s anti-gay panic—the film gestures towards the conclusions of “Is the Rectum a Grave?.” Using the framework presented in Bersani’s essay, the structural causes of Bennett’s suffering are brought to the surface: specifically, the aversion to female sexuality that the AIDs crisis served to “legitimize.” In the midst of a heterosexist society that “has made the oppression of gay men seem like a moral imperative,” Beckett is demonized both in the courtroom and in everyday life (204). As portrayed in the film and as theorized in the essay, his experience lays bare the oppressions of a phallocentric culture.

Works Cited Bersani, Leo. “Is the rectum a grave?.” October 43 (1987): 197-222.

Ebert, Roger. “Philadelphia,” Chicago Sun Times, Jan. 14, 1994 <http://www.rogerebert.com/reviews/philadelphia-1994>.

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A Dedication CAITLIN RUBIN I’d like to start this poem off by dedicating it to my boobs.

To these two. Been through everything I’ve been through since they threw me a surprise party in middle school. and secondly to saying yes, I can see you when you look at them. on behalf of us sisterhood’d woman with chests — no, you do not turn momentarily Invisible.

To the women who wish they could become imaginary. drop right off of whatever existence they’ve been living in to the part of themselves that’s just bones and flesh with nothing sticking off

too distractingly to the bits of me that have been forcibly

buttoned over to the buttons that have come undone

to the ones that have been ripped off popped off slipped out

never sewn back on to fifty shades of drug rape nail polish I’m now supposed to don to never setting down my drink or showing too much skin or traveling above fortieth street without being in

the company of a man or a hundreth street back home to never traveling below at all. to shaving and crossing and covering my legs with the table cloth

god forbid you become invisible again you poor doll dear to the fear that makes me walk just a little bit faster on the way to my car

in the basement garage of the Nordstroms parking lot To the women who say feminism means hating men.

I’ve never really dealt with it before On ne voit bien qu’avec le coeur, l’essentiel est invisble aux yeux. to the you who denies you read that en francais to the days when you’re stuck between 18 and a white girl of means and the only thing

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French that can touch your head are the makeup containers what a silly dream to be chased by invisible men.

What a silly girl I’ve been to allow them

to chase me.

Is it too much to ask that you open a door or three, and I one for you, you for me once in a while simply because we are not dogs on our bellies

fucking around in heat.

What a silly dream, you poor doll dear

here

let me hand you

a trophy for that tremendous feat you’ve accomplished

so much.

And we don’t need

feminism

anymore.

Just like racism is gone discrimination too against gays and Jews and anything in general that does not walk on my side of the street to history books complete with separate sections for those women and blacks and Jews because history has always been his story to choose and we were just a correctly formatted footnote at the back to thigh gaps and wage gaps To knowing how to hold my purse with the zipper facing in and to hiding

against my palm any side of a ring that sparkles or shines when I walk

with that quick hurried walk of the female night and I turn my head down too These are the things I’ve learned to do.

What a change from the lessons of middle school where my boobs were nothing more than an inconvenience

an embarrassment.

Here’s to you.

My grandma used to call hers “the first national bank” My sisters name you “unkind” And then some not even sure

that mine fit quite right on my body

that there’s not some small Shemonculus controlling these hands and these arms and these feet and that those Spring 2016

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parts sticking off of me

too much for her to handle.

But they just don’t go away. the problems of today

you look at them.

too distractingly

are not just

sit there and watch you

when

My friend, you do not become

invisible.

And I refuse to be imaginary.

So I say let us join to end this great giant game of pretend those French words we call anglaise those nail polish container days, those

complainers

who made you turn invisible thought that made you

and how it wasn’t your fault you

invincible It doesn’t.

Because the me beneath this she is not just some Shemonculous fighting to breathe with the bones and flesh and undistracting bits of her body She is dedicating poetry. let me be clear

dears of this world

in my address

I can see you.

You are not invisible.

And I am not imaginary. come look at me in these eyes

up here because my boobs are being dedicated to and they’ve better things to look at

than at you.

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to all the poor doll

oui- vous!

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The Crimson Wave LEA EISENSTEIN

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wash in sink ISABEL GWARA

wash this virgin in the bigsink after it is done getting fucked. dry it out in the 100 degree laundry room on top of the lined-up dryers. shiver it. cry it a little. make it notice how its pussy hurts. taint it with the othersmell of the bed. then keep it awake. dirty it more and more in that bed. fix its mind on the fluidstruck sheet. then preserve its reluctant apathy forever like a bottled rotten jam. snake it, worm it, cock it. and let it loose into the new world. regret it and open its pussy to everyone. finish it with dawn sprouting into a sky, and finally skill it with how the world works.

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Review of Mustang (2015) BERRAK GUVEN “A man should be moral but women should be moral as well.

Women should be chaste. They should know what is decent and what is not decent.” The infamous words of Turkey’s Deputy Prime Minister, Bülent Arınç, echo. “She should not laugh loudly in front of all the world and should preserve her decency at all times.” We never see his face; we only hear his voice. His exact speech, in Turkish, is the only audible sound in the scene as the camera shifts the focus from Ece’s collarbones to her neck, her breasts, and again her collarbones. For the first time in the movie we are looking at the adolescent girl, sitting at the dinner table quietly with her younger sister, her grandmother, and her uncle, who is watching her. We see her through the eyes of the uncle—the predatory, possessive, breadwinner uncle who lives within the bounds of the deeply patriarchal and relatively lightly Muslim Turkey. Ece then starts to make juvenile faces at her sister, and when they start laughing they are forced to leave the dinner table. “You’ve had enough.”

This scene—with its quiet yet powerful criticism of how the Turkish government sees girls and women, of how they are objectified, of how they are mistreated—was the most memorable scene of the Oscarnominated Mustang for me. By far the most powerful aspect of this scene, which also extends to the rest of the movie, is its realism. The wildly controversial, yet not at all out of the norm for modern Turkey, speech of Arınç was simply playing in the background. No comment was made on it, nothing was edited out, and nothing was emphasized. The reality of speech is dramatic enough.

Mustang is a French-Turkish movie directed by Deniz Gamze Ergüven. It tells the story of five orphaned sisters living with their grandmother in a small village in the Black Sea region of Turkey. Without delving too much into it, I’d like to state that as a Turkish woman the Black Sea region of Turkey is not the first region that comes to mind when I think about the most patriarchal and religious place in Turkey.

There are even several sayings and stories about how the Black Sea women are hard workers, relatively independent, and well respected in their communities. I admit that no region, city, or even neighborhood of Turkey should be generalized when it comes to discussing how the women there are treated, yet I wanted to underline this for anyone unfamiliar with Turkish culture who might watch the movie after reading this, because it sheds light on some of the important dialogue and actions of the characters.

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to play innocently in the sea with several boys on their way home. A neighbor sees them and deems the act “indecent,” deciding to tell their grandmother about the incident. Their grandmother and uncle then take drastic measures to make sure the family’s honor remains intact.

Before I continue with this review, I have to say I have tried to write this objectively, but I can’t. It is too close to home—in fact, it is home.

It was the strangest experience, sitting in a foreign movie theater in a foreign country and having the realities of my own unveil before me.

Hearing my native language yet seeing English subtitles, I couldn’t help but think of the small details in the movie that were incredibly familiar to me, yet which were probably exotic to the man sitting right behind me.

The kına gecesi, the traditional celebration of the bride and the women before the wedding, the “asking the hand for marriage” with empty yet heavily religious wording, and the whole process of teaching girls how to prepare traditional food. As I made a mental note of all the things that were familiar to me because I had experienced them, the quote “The house had turned into a wife-making factory” expressed everything I felt whenever I was faced with the “perfect granddaughter” image my grandparents had of me. I also realized some of it was unfamiliar to me too: the hospital administered virginity tests, the arranged marriages, the glorification of the female teacher, the modest clothing girls were forced to wear. Once I realized that, I sat there, ashamed of my privilege, and cried for the first time in a very long time for the little girl in me who got away.

Mustang doesn’t have a heroine, necessarily. It tells five different tales with five different outcomes, which maybe takes away from the movie’s realism, but it’s a forgivable error in the name of storytelling.

Most of the movie is narrated through the eyes of the youngest, which gives it its overall feeling of naivety. Many of the most dramatic aspects of the story go over this girl’s head; the audience will pick up on the majority of them, but maybe not all. The movie doesn’t shy away from controversial topics, making small yet important remarks about other very crucial gender and equality issues in Turkey. The innate sexism is so well presented that the audience can’t even tell if the girls themselves are feminists. My educated guess would be that they are not. The reality is they were never allowed to be, and the saddest part of this heartwrenching movie is the acceptance the girls succumb to. It’s the fact that they settle because they can’t fight the centuries-old patriarchy of Anatolia with their fifteen-year-old fists, and no one will fight their fights for them.

The story also doesn’t have a villain. The grandmother, although her character’s true depth is only hinted at with one or two lines, demonstrates what the system makes out of the women born into it.

They are the enforcers of the societal norms that oppress them. The 22

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uncle is by far the closest thing we have to an antagonist, but he is so ordinary and so simple in the way he misbehaves that one can hardly call him a “villain.” The movie’s true villain thus becomes the patriarchal system.

The girls’ relationships toward men throughout the movie are intriguing. Even though they are punished for interacting with the opposite gender outside of a regulated environment, the girls don’t display any reluctance in their further interactions with men. For example, the youngest has no problem taking driving lessons from a random truck driver. This is one of the crucial reasons why I think the movie comes across as realistic. The girls’ lives are altered gradually over the course of one summer. Their opinions of their environment, how they react to things—these all change one by one. Even though Selma dramatically states, “Everything changed in the blink of an eye,” it is not the case.

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A lot changes, but not everything. The girls were semi-aware of their situation at first.

This semi-awareness is exactly why this movie is so important. It has the capacity to enlighten not only those foreign to the concept of internalized and systematized Anatolian sexism, but also those born in it. It hurts to realize that the world you live in doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t accept you as you are. So most women just disregard this blatantly systematized sexism and blame it all on lack of education, lack of welfare, lack of knowledge, or even mental illness. And while all of these can be contributing factors, blaming them for what systematized sexism does prevents us from addressing the real root of the problem.

Overall, Mustang is a wonderful movie. It is beautifully written, shot, and directed. But by far itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s greatest strength is that, without resembling a documentary, it manages to depict the reality of Anatolian sexism and serve as a wakeup call to its viewers.

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Sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s GONE MiSSing MAURICE BRIAN HENDERSON She walks cat-like Seemingly not knowing herself as the wonder of beauty Almost escaping what she thinks Is still/there Soon The moon will begin To digest her soul surviving Until there is lost Remaining in her eyes Without tears or blood shoot I want to tell her about That she Who was and will always be important/too thine ownself be true Now she canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be found or been seen but Somehow I know or shudder to think that she is still Out there Somewhere/waiting To Be found So yesterday like Today I find myself stealing away Looking to find her Like a yellow surprise As the/wanting/that remains......

Swollen in my heart I never expected her To be gone.......

MiSSing She is Spring 2016

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The Inequality of Healthcare M. EARL SMITH According to a study done by Smith College, research on diseases that affect women are more likely to receive less funding than those affecting men. Women also face the harsh reality that they are far more likely to have their physical symptoms dismissed as mental or emotional manifestations as opposed to actual physical ailments. This forces women to amplify these symptoms in a desperate plea to receive help, and our healthcare professionals feed back into the stereotype, thus reinforcing these harmful views. This essay tells the story of one woman who experienced just how detrimental unequal treatment within America’s healthcare system can be.

When I first met Connie*, an undergraduate at Smith College, it was as if I had met a kindred spirit. Full of life, bright, vibrant, stubborn, passionate—all these traits formed a delightfully volatile cocktail very similar to my own makeup. She studies government; I, history. We’ve spent many a night in spirited debates, such as whether Thomas Jefferson was a hero or a pariah, or if Communism has ever been implemented in its truest form.

Not long into our relationship, I learned that Connie wrestles with a host of health problems. A lot of them are autoimmune, a field that is tricky and, at best, an inexact science. Some of her issues are the typical conditions that sometimes plague competitive undergrads at top-tier institutions: anxiety, high blood pressure, sleep deprivation, and the like.

Now normally if I’m suffering from an ailment I go to the doctor, tell them what’s bothering me, and sit back as the marvels of modern medicine are laid at my feet. Nobody questions my motivations, and nobody wonders if my emotions are somehow playing a role in my symptoms or my behavior. If I’m depressed, a doctor might prescribe me Prozac. If I can’t sleep, it might be Lunesta. If it’s high blood pressure, it’s whatever they make for that. And if I’m groggy, congested, running a fever . . . well, you get the point.

A few months ago, Connie was scheduled to see the campus doctor for some ailments she was suffering from due to her chronic health issues. Her insurance requires that she use Smith’s doctor before she goes anywhere else, despite the fact that this doctor and his staff have consistently ignored her symptoms, dismissing her concerns because *Names have been changed to protect confidentiality.

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they feel the problems she suffers from have less to do with her actual health and more to do with her emotional state.

For this particular doctor’s visit, Connie called me and asked if I would listen in on the appointment via phone. She felt that having a male presence might force the medical staff to treat her problems more seriously. Being a woman in her early thirties, I had assumed Connie would have no problem communicating her needs to a doctor, but I was surprised to see how quickly the appointment devolved into a tragedy of disgusting proportions.

I listened as Connie explained her symptoms. The nurse was immediately dismissive, blaming Connie’s issues on academic stress.

Taking a deep breath, Connie once again explained her symptoms, her medical history, and how other doctors had tried to treat her ailments up until that point. The nurse was, again, dismissive. I could hear the frustration rising in her voice as, for a third time, Connie tried to explain what was wrong. As I sat there on the phone, I could not believe what the nurse said in reply.

“Well, Connie, you seem agitated.”

That moment put into perspective everything Connie had, for months, told me about how she was treated in regards to matters of her own health. I sat and listened helplessly as the nurse, frustrated at Connie’s persistence, told Connie that if she wasn’t happy with her diagnosis she could go to the urgent care. I stayed on the phone with her as she went to the urgent care and was told nothing could be done for her there. I spent a good portion of that evening listening to this person whom I love rail against a system stacked so high against her that it is literally killing her.

Little did those dismissive nurses and doctors know, Connie’s issues were a reflection of a larger problem—a problem they missed. Back in November, I spent almost a full day on the phone with her as she struggled with an intense stuttering problem. Though normally well-articulated, she could barely speak. Worse yet, the muscles in the right side of her face were not working properly. She was quick to blame it on the medication she was taking, and, in a blunder of shortsightedness, I agreed, and she deferred seeking help. I couldn’t blame her. Doctors had been ignoring her for years.

I found out last week that there is a decent chance Connie had a mini stroke. As we were making the necessary appointments to see a specialist in Boston, I felt disgusted with myself. Instead of insisting she seek help, I had allowed my views of what had happened to Connie in the past shape what I suggested to her that day, dismissing her almost in the same way all those doctors and nurses were so inclined to do. And as a result, this person whom I love lost a part of her that she will never be able to recover.

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ReClaim: Degas TERRILL WARRENBURG Artist Statement In these “digital paintings” I focused on the work of Edgar Degas that displays the female body as an object of the male gaze. In particular, I focused on his ballerina paintings that embody the sexual-predator preying on the young prepubescent ballerina/ prostitutes. He paints these young figures with heavy use of line, symbolic of the artist’s control over the subject and medium. I also used works from his bathers series; he paints intimate scenes of faceless females, stating his desire to capture them as if “looking through a keyhole.” Embodying this voyeurism in the tactile medium of chalk pastel, Degas aggressively objectifies women.

I support Degas’ art but not Degas as an artist. I still greatly admire his impeccable draftsmanship, compositional arrangement, and color choices. Going off the idea of the “corrected” collages of Dada artists John Heartfield and George Grosz, I appropriated Degas’ misogynistic paintings and drawings and re-claimed them as my own. I created digital collages of his work and then drew directly on them, transforming his composition into my own. I used the flat medium of print in contrast with physical, tactile textures and emphasized the formal qualities that I admire while removing the power from the male gaze. No longer is the female body the object of this artwork but she becomes the artist, asserting herself as the deconstructor, curator, and position of power.

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Medusa SOPHIA LEE his hair was twisted, like the flesh of snakes that, having been beaten and flayed, coil in their last spasmodic effort to stay alive, writhe and fall limp.

I saw his arm reach out, his fingers spread wide – I could see the half-moon curves, bone white, on his fingernails – I could see his eyes shining like saliva, his mouth pulled wide, clown-like, leering, his teeth a set of marble graves. how useless it is to move away, to say excuse me and excuse yourself as if you need an excuse to disappear the warmth of his skin, glistering with sweat, on yours, and his dead snake-hair freezing me colder than marble — a modern-day Medusa. but no — no — I am the Medusa, drowning beneath the weight of the sea — gods! who says that’s what they are? but there was no blood spilt, no bones broken, not a bruise, not even a cry. and to a stranger, perhaps, nothing happened, his hand on your skin burning cold, invisible.

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Pearls HECTOR ROMAN Pearls As the

broken pearl necklace rolls each singular bead down toward individuality independence no longer strung.

W a t c h b e a d

e a c h f a l l

o n

e

a

t

a

time.

A movement is only strong when it moves together When one pearl moves along

the rest must move together If one pearl gets it wrong

then all will fall together One pearl lingers long

she snaps the lovely tether

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Some pearls roll forever wanting naught but to be some pearls get trapped, yet claim contentment,

forward free forever stuck happy to be

Seven pearls, no, eight or nine/ form a group, become a line.

Three pearls, no, two or one/ desire no change, get nothing done.

A strings a leash, cries one dainty sphere/ Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d like nothing more than to stay here.

A strings a bond, cry all the rest/ weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re working toward what we think best.

And best it is, a united front/ a way to get what pearls should want.

And yet its true that one pearl stays/ unhappy to change traditionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ways.

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《(.)(,)(:)(;)(?)(!)》 IRTIQA FAZILI They ask me what I want in a guy and I say Punctuation.

(But what I mean is) A man who’s down with the word “period” but doesn’t act like one《.》 Because he’s not always trying to make a point — his syntax is more than commands and finality. more than 《CAPS LOCK》that screams, tongue like PRIVILEGE. Someone more like a semicolon《;》because he doesn’t end my sentences, just helps me hold them together.

He’ll need to understand that my curves are shaped like《(parentheses)》 but That doesn’t make me parenthetical. Sure, I open afterthoughts with my smile and signal side notes with my side eye and invite tangents with my touch But I am not just a distraction from the rest of the sentence of his life.

He’ll need to understand that the best foreplay is wordplay and I’ll write him poetry and pages And when he realizes my excitement is fragments and run-ons and breathless and uncensored and laughter and bright eyes and not yet a poem but so more than just a thought and my kisses can taste like candy and exclamation points《!》 He’ll need to understand that when I say Pakistani-American, I don’t mean just Pakistani or just American, I mean I’m the hyphen《-》in the middle, equal parts subtraction and connection, And when I say hyphen I mean Anonymous poison twists me into knots and ampersands 《&》 And when I say poison I mean

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When they whisper that I don’t belong to them Neither here nor there: hold me together, Semicolon《;》, and string me with commas《,》to tell me I belong with you and I will love you unpunctuated

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Monster Series ALINA WANG

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Artist Statement In this project, I explore the possibilities of figuring myself as a monster.

I project physical features of â&#x20AC;&#x153;monsterhoodâ&#x20AC;? onto my own body by drawing with charcoal on prints of self-portraits. Drawing from the history of female monsters as figures that represent male fear of female sexuality, anger, or autonomy, I explore ways of seeing and representing monstrosity. Whether my monstrosity is reminiscent of mythological monsters or it takes unknown forms, I play with the combination of the familiar and the unfamiliar and explore how satisfying it feels to claim and own features of rage, vengeance, cruelty, ugliness, or grotesqueness as part and parcel of femininity rather than as a construction of how not to be feminine. In mythologizing myself, I am also constructing a monstrousness that is commonplace, familiar, and part of the everyday. The process of imagining myself as various monsters can be seen as a kind of rebirth and renewal. I destroy myself, create myself anew, and realize my monster potential.

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Review of The Punk Singer (2013) SAMANTHA DESTEFANO The Punk Singer is a film about Kathleen Hanna, the lead singer of the bands Bikini Kill and Le Tigre. In a discussion after the screening, the director, Sini Anderson, said the project began when, after fourteen years of friendship, Hanna asked her to make a documentary about Le Tigre. Anderson wanted the film to focus on Hanna, not only to create a portrait of someone she loved but also because women’s work is often not documented well. Her target audience was young people who otherwise would not know about Hanna’s music or the Riot Grrrl movement of the 1990s. Indeed, few of the Penn students at the screening, many of whom were enrolled in the Gender and Society course, had ever heard of Bikini Kill, but after seeing the film they developed a new appreciation for the band’s style and content.

In the film, which interspersed interviews with archival footage, Hanna explained that she originally wanted to write spoken word poetry because no one ever listened to her, but she decided to start a band so she could reach a wider audience. Her early photography work grew out of an awareness of sexist representations of women in the media, but when her college censored it, she and a friend exhibited it in a feminist art garage they created in the same do-it-yourself spirit that would later inform the zines that were essential to the spread of Riot Grrrl. Although she did not point it out, most of the people depicted making and reading zines in the film were women who found a safe space to express themselves in opposition to the male-dominated mass media.

One of the most prominent themes in Bikini Kill’s lyrics is sexual violence, a topic that the media sensationalized with regards to the women who dared to speak out about it. For example, when Hanna disclosed that her father had abused her, newspapers began to falsely report that he had raped her. Reporters also assumed that all of Bikini Kill’s members were rape survivors since they could not imagine why a woman would complain about a social issue that had not personally affected her. Indeed, Hanna concluded her interview by identifying a phenomenon that hinders the abolishment of rape culture. She said that women are thought to be exaggerating when they tell their life stories and that only other women, not men in power, are likely to believe them. The media’s sexist treatment of Bikini Kill also manifested itself in other ways, such as focusing on the band members’ appearance and condemning their unshaved legs and tattoos as deviant from the feminine norm. Hanna did not mention how having a male member in both Bikini Kill and Le Tigre affected media responses to the bands or if the men were portrayed differently, but she 42

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seemed to imply that Le Tigre’s political radicalism was better received because the music was easier to dance to, suggesting that part of the backlash against Bikini Kill and Riot Grrrl in general stemmed from women performing as aggressively as their male counterparts.

After the film, Anderson used Hanna’s history of the feminist movement to start a discussion about young people and feminism today. Hanna explained that while First Wave feminism focused on suffrage and civil rights and the Second Wave was concerned with gender equality, Third Wave feminism started as a response to feelings on college campuses in 1992 that feminism was dead. Anderson gave a slight critique of the Third Wave by pointing out that it has kept adding issues to its agenda without solving them, and has even brushed aside the Second Wave’s failed attempt to ratify the Equal Rights Amendment. However, she praised the shift from the overwhelmingly white Riot Grrrl movement to Third Wave feminism, which includes women of color and LGBT people and gives greater visibility to trans women. When one of the female students (in a mostly female audience) brought up the many mainstream pop stars who have recently declared themselves feminists, Anderson did not explicitly say if she believed that this trend is good or bad but, rather, brought up Hanna’s point that women should compliment each other’s artwork and actions instead of attacking each other for not being “real” feminists or simply for being successful.

Anderson concluded the discussion by expressing optimism for the future of feminism. She explained that unlike in the 1990s, when the media had the ultimate ability to mock queer people who did not pass as straight and even unconventional women like Hanna, the Internet has allowed individuals and marginalized groups to mitigate negative messages by creating and distributing their own media. Starting with her current film that memorializes the beginnings of Third Wave feminism, Anderson reminded the audience of the origins of feminist do-it-yourself media while connecting them conceptually to the role of technology in activism. In addition, Anderson addressed developments that have emerged since the period Hanna discussed, inspiring the next generation to continue and improve the creative advocacy that the women of Riot Grrrl, in turn, adapted from their predecessors’ methods. Ultimately, she suggested that feminism is still relevant today and that, especially while inequality still exists, no brand of feminist thought should be disregarded or forgotten.

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Potential Hypothetical EMILY HOEVEN

she was impervious guarded in control. but what about when the attacks weren’t obvious, weren’t violent, weren’t discernable, might not even be attacks at all, might not have existed, except a strange ticking feeling in your heart, like when there was something gnawing on the edge of your mind but you couldn’t place the reason, ticking, ticking, irritable, irritated, ineffaceable, imperceptible, incorrigible what about when there were no visible effects, nothing you could point to, nothing you could trace, not even sure if what you were feeling was real or simply, merely, just a product of your frenzied thoughts, latching on haphazardly, lacking foundation, no grout, placeless, wispy, wistful what about when you feel—lousy—a result of those quiet, such quiet, barbs, painfully, pointedly potent—and you felt so— beautiful before, beautiful, like a light shining through from the inside out, unaware of its own susceptibility unaware of its own—existence, until there was something damped, dimmed, decaying, drowning, dying, where it used to be how to get ticking back to beating—? leave Leave. she did.

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Hayley Williams DANU WIJANARKO

Note: Wedha Pop Art Portrait (WPAP) is an art style created by Indonesian artist Wedha Abdul Rasyid. It generally uses only straight lines.

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acknowledgments We would like to thank all of those who helped F-Word get back on its feet this year and welcomed us with open arms. 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.

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The F-Word reads submissions on a rolling basis.

To submit your work, email upennfword@gmail.com.

April 12, 2016 marks this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Equal Pay Day, the point up to which the average American woman must work from the beginning of the previous year, in order to earn as much as the average man in the previous year. In other words, the average woman in 2015 worked over three months more than the average man to earn the same amount of money.

call for submissions SOPHIA LEE

I designed this flyer as The F-Word’s call for submissions in early February. Originally inspired by Jacob Gursky, the front of the flyer, made in the image of a dollar bill, shows the economic disparity that women face. The placement of Rosie the Riveter in George Washington’s portrait is meant to remind people that women are just as capable as men and deserving of equal pay. If we wish to uphold the ideals of equality, the gender wage gap is a barrier that we must break through, men and women together. Just as Rosie is coming out of Washington’s frame, so too must we push out against the patriarchal systems that preclude economic equality.

“3/4” is an approximation of what women earn compared to men.

In 2014, the average American woman was paid only 79% of what the average man was paid. But the wage gap can be much greater for certain ethnicities:

Wo as m a

ings earn ge s ’ en rcenta e pe f whit o n’s me

54% 59% 62% 63% 78% 90%

Hispanic / Latina American Indian / Alaska Native Native Hawaiian / Pacific Islander African American White (non-Hispanic) Asian American

SOURCE: www.aauw.org/research/ the-simple-truth-aboutthe-gender-pay-gap/

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To learn more, connect with us at www.facebook.com/pennfword www.upennfword.wordpress.com www.issuu.com/fword

Or email us at upennfword@gmail.com