The F-Word Fall 2021 by The F-Word

The F-Word Fall 2021

Mission Statement At The F-Word, we define feminism as the demand for the equality of all people, regardless of gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, or religion. We firmly believe that feminist art and writing can be a powerful driver of positive social, political, and cultural change. We aim to provide a platform that privileges the voices of women, queer people, people of color, and other ethnic and religious minorities and help them share those voices with the world. In doing so, we hope to foster a dialogue and put a balanced face on feminism to show that this movement is not just for white women.

About the Cover: Pretty(?) When I Cry by Alyssa Sliwa

Gouache, marker and colored pencil on paper Even when I am overcome by sadness, I am concerned with my appearance. I want to feel pretty, and be seen as such. I’ve made a habit of looking in the mirror and taking pictures of myself when I cry, and I can’t say I’m very kind to my ever-changing self image. But this concern seems to follow me everywhere, into every situation, amongst actual company or in total isolation. And it’s exhausting. At The F-Word, we embrace and encourage vulnerability. Because these past few years have been difficult for all of us, we hope to stay a safe place for creative expression, in good times and bad.

Table of Contents Mission Statement About the Cover Letter from the Editor Editorial Board Content Warning Campus Resources Premature Missing Lila DuBois Vanity Esha Mishra Gender Egress Elysia Baskins Animals Jessica Bao third kultur chile ran amok Laura Santos Just Another Story A. S. N. Dear Sister Zhao Gu Gammage The Wolf That Labeled Me Victim Rory Botelho Chelo Alonso Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Please find someone to read my thoughts through their lips Anonymous Dear Body A. S. N. Women/Somebody to Love Maurice Henderson The Cosmetician Jessica Bao Double Standards Esha Mishra The Dad Drama Elysia Baskins Black and Woman in the Sameness of Time Maurice Henderson When the Depression Takes Over Lex Gilbert Invisible Man 2020 Pamela Blanding-Godbolt Acknowledgments Call for Submissions Contact Us

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Letter From the Editor Dear Reader, 2020 was a difficult year—there’s no doubt about it. It was filled with unprecedented challenges, so much so that the words “unprecedented challenges” feel empty. And while so many of us, myself included, had looked towards 2021 with the hope for a drastic change and recovery, the reality might have looked a little different. The pandemic, after all, could not disappear overnight. The return to in-person learning and the flurry of emerging activities on Penn’s campus, though welcomed, can also sting with the causticity of the sun after a long, sleepless night. Every day, the world seems to spin in place or lurch forward on its precarious axis. And every night, I sleep wondering if we are on the precipice of something great or something ending. However, maybe it does not matter which one it is: something great or something ending. Because if there is anything that this lukewarm, crazy, languid, wonderful past year has taught me—working with a group of the most wilful people out there to create a magazine as the world tilts around us—it’s that we can always choose to live as if we are in the midst of something great. Or at least, something good. An age of possibilities and hope. An age in which we can still effect change with the fearlessness and talent that we are each uniquely capable of. As I look back upon this semester and 2021, I see a lot of hardships: some that we may have left behind, and some that fill us with such anger and exasperation at their continued existence. Yet, it is due to these exact hardships that I feel prouder and more grateful than ever for every one of us here today. Doing the best that we can, whatever that may look like. Within these pages, we have infused our families and our souls, our fears and our successes. Our most fervent, tender hopes, and our most violent, seething rages. The F-Word is a space where we can share all these feelings and experiences. And in doing so, I have seen it start many things: an important conversation, a healing process, a step in the neverending fight for the equality of all people, and more. To our amazing authors and artists, thank you for entrusting your work with us. The F-Word would not be here without your unwavering support. To our general and Board members, thank you for all your hard work and commitment. Each of you is an essential part of this issue and our community, and I am excited every Wednesday for all your thoughts and insights. To our readers—whether you are joining us for the first time or a long-time friend—thank you so much for being here. As 2021 winds down, I find myself holding close both the banality and the wonder. The pain and the joy. With this issue, we hope to explore and celebrate all facets of the human experience: a laughter, a scream, some muchneeded happiness, and a good cry. — Jessica Bao 4

Editorial Board Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Managing Director Poetry Editors Prose Editors

Art Editors Copy Editors Design Staff Blog Editors Blog Staff Social Media Director Internal Finance Director External Communications Director General Members

Jessica Bao Evie Artis Kennedy Crowder Emily Campbell Laura Santos Keemia Sarafpour Alysha Ginel-Feliciano Tara Anand Alyssa Sliwa Hadley Rosenberg Sheehwa You Minfei Shen Alyssa Bebenek Agatha Raganas Emilee Gu Esha Mishra Mikayla Cassidy Chloe Hunt Aisha Njie Agatha Advincula Rachel Swym Olivia Rosenfeld Taeyeon Kim Gabi Galchen Sonya Stacia 5

Content Warning Some of the following work describes or touches on themes of sexual assault and violence, and may be disturbing and/or triggering for some readers. Because of the nature of this publication and the importance of the process of discovery that occurs within the walls of each text, The F-Word does not provide specific content warnings for individual works. That said, the health and safety of our readers is of the utmost importance to us, and we urge you to explore these pages with discretion, and to read what feels right for you.

Campus Resources The HELP Line: 215-898-HELP (active 24/7). For members of the Penn community who seek help in navigating Penn’s resources for health and wellness. Counseling and Psychological Services: 215-898-7021 (active 24/7). The counseling center for the University of Pennsylvania. Reach-A-Peer Hotline: 215-573-2727 (9 p.m. to 1 a.m, except holidays). A peer hotline to provide peer support, information, and referrals to Penn students. Student Health Service: 215-746-3535 (active 24/7). SHS can provide medical evaluations and treatment to victims/survivors of sexual and relationship violence regardless of whether they make a report or seek additional resources. Both male and female providers can perform examinations, discuss testing and treatment of sexually transmissible infections, provide emergency contraception if necessary and arrange for referrals and follow up. Penn Violence Prevention: 215-746-2642, 3611 Locust Walk. PVP is a collaborative program that aims to engage the Penn community in the prevention of sexual violence, relationship violence, stalking, and sexual harassment on campus through educational programming Sexual Trauma Treatment Outreach and Prevention Team: A multidisciplinary team at CAPS dedicated to supporting students who have experienced sexual trauma. Special Services Unit in the Division of Public Safety: 215-8986600 (active 24/7), 4040 Chestnut Street. Special Services offers comprehensive victim support for any member of the University community who experiences interpersonal violence. Penn Women’s Center: 215-898-8611, 3643 Locust Walk. PWC provides education, advocacy, and support groups for survivors of sexual violence. Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Center: 215-898-5044, 3907 Spruce Street. The LGBT Center provides advocacy, education, outreach, and support for and concerning Penn’s lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer communities. African-American Resource Center: 215-898-0104, 3643 Locust Walk. The AARC provides advocacy, counseling, information, referrals, workshops, and informational sessions for all members of the Penn community with a particular focus on those of African descent.

Premature Missing by Lila DuBois

how will I not come home to you how will I go home at all if not to see you there on the couch feet propped on the coffee table in only your underwear of course a fudgsicle, stickily dripping down the life line and the heart line of the palm which formed in our shared womb for the reader on Sunset to feel for $5 and then grin without teeth to say “this is good, baby you’ll live long and healthy” you see me walk in and smile that brilliant dopey fudgsicle smile laughing with your eyes obsidian brown shockingly intense though you carry them lightly gleaming in the way only kind people do then bound to the freezer swing it open, grab another popsicle and slam it shut in one practiced manipulation of momentum glimmering still you toss it to me and we sit down on the couch two pairs of feet propped on the coffee table matching melting body and soul into the late afternoon chatting over the TV slurping fudgsicles how sisters glow in the halo of each other how will I not come home to you 8

Vanity

by Esha Mishra

You scorn us For painting our lips A firetruck red And lining our eyes With the ashes of our enemies Yet wasn’t it you Who told us Poised, pleasant Perfection Was the standard? In our childhood You shoved a mirror In our hands And told us to fill it with beauty And when we dared to look And love You called it Vanity

Gender Egress by Elysia Baskins I’m not a damsel but I’m in distress I’m not a victim but I try my best I’m a lesbian that still can’t dress Can’t drive, can’t dance Can’t grow a breast Thought I’d be a woman if I showed my chest If I tried my best If I built a nest If I cooked the food Couldn’t be a dude if I wanted to Didn’t have the dick (Barely had the boob) Gee Scoob, What the fuck am I supposed to do? The world’s zero-one but I was born a two

Animals by Jessica Bao I wish I had teeth in my vagina, which I could retract and protract at will. I wonder how many people have the same wish. Both “a little” and “a lot” would disturb me, though I do not know what would be a comfortable, appropriate number. Dolphins, porpoises, and ducks have damp, twisted folds in their vaginas. Fleshy inverted corkscrews which serve not to open wine bottles but to be held between knuckles and stabbed into eyes and stomaches. A scientist in Massachusetts found that duck vaginas have evolved to make it harder for males to force copulation. Her colleague in Canada made silicon models of dolphin vaginas. Because the ocean is big and a female’s fertile period small, when male dolphins find a fertile female, they tend to pile on. Three or four male bottlenose dolphins may trap a female dolphin and drive away competitors, form an alliance and ride her hard/herd for a few weeks. She may have a few tricks up her sleeves too for avoiding this fate. She can try to outswim them, slap them, or roll on her back at the ocean’s surface to put her vagina out of reach. But finally, when confronted with very little choice, she can still choose which dad out of the herd might father her children. She can twist a little bit here and a little ways that, and she can divert some of the males’ sperm into dead ends and empty pockets. False turns and tiny, translucent traps. If you asked me what kind of God would have left our vaginas empty and straight, ready-or-not-here-I-come soft, I would have wondered what made humans so special that we are left without any covers, flaps, or external genitalia that we can tear off and throw away like a purse. So I did some research. Turns out God left all of us equally defenseless at first. The ducks had to evolve. The dolphins had to as well. It took them a long time—many generations—to figure out that swimming up and seeking the air meant that they could hold their most open parts out of reach. Did they pass that information down to their daughters through genetics or some undersea classroom? Ultimately, God left us a little bit more than he did the dolphins. A dusty book, the concept of a wife, a little vagina pedestal to keep it pure. It is not the escape that the air provides from the water, but it’s something, I suppose. I should be thankful for this scrap. Turn a little bit here and a little way that. It is not enough. I wish I had teeth in my vagina. 11

third kultur chile ran amok by Laura Santos

4th kultur chile / centrl american / caribean / imperialist or colonizer? / triad of pasaportes i cannt afford donnot hav a place to col home / wil nevr know caobana song / or ciboney’s son / mi lenguaje sin hospedaje / dialect of no tonge / spic español / valencià / english / türkçe / deutsch oll with a bean-y accent / stil teist no concrete nor compleat r azón like greengos withaut s azón buryd in tainoland / lost huesos faund / mami y papi mixed w santeria babalao blud / continew flavur of soviet tsong / wen papi was dying he only spoc ukraïnśka / cuban / und deutsch lullabies / seyin he needd home mami i nevr let u go / u com in eyesor dreams / spicking español donnut worry lreddy took ariprirazole / dem kulturd mrican chile howl / wher do u even com frm?

Just Another Story by A. S. N. Update: The food chain has evolved. Men satiate their greed and lust Through a child who feeds her horses. Those whose duties were to protect Turn into lurking horrors at night. Yet, mobs march in their defense. Colours of religion smeared over The red of rape, Turning a battle cry for justice Into a protest of faith. Pause. Like. Scroll down.

Dear Sister, by Zhao Gu Gammage

I am thirteen. Frozen in battle. Torn between fighting and

surrendering, paralyzed by fear. Arrows fly towards me, but I concentrate on our parents’ united battle cry towards you. Unlike me, they fight back, a joint front against you. They expect a miracle from me. But I cannot conjure a Trojan Horse. I am no Odysseus.

I watch helplessly. You are tattered, weary, yet manage to

launch a final javelin with a thud before exiting. Having spewed a final curse at our parents, I see your tears forming and your fingers vigorously typing on Snapchat. You storm out of our family dinner. Our parents exit a separate way. I am caught in the crossfire. I am defenseless on the battlefield of our divided home.

Since that first battle, I became everything you were not. I

became the good one. Complacent instead of hostile. Cautious instead of experimental. As a fourteen-year-old entering high school, I avoided social media and did not worry about petty drama. I worried instead about becoming just like you.

At sixteen, I thought about why you were so adamant upon

waging this war. At first, I felt guilt. By blaming myself for causing the war, I justified my tears, my confusion, my fear. Since I was the common denominator between you and our parents, I thought I was the problem.

I recall seeing you continually glance down to read your

boyfriend’s message. I recall overhearing you talk to him after each battle. I vividly remember sneaking a glance at one of his messages: “I’m the only person who loves you.”

I ran back to my room and questioned where I fit into our

family. Seeing you transform from my loving sister to a belligerent stranger forced me to analyze our relationship. Isolating myself in my room led me to think about who I was becoming. In trying to be your opposite I was becoming a shadow, defined by the outline of another. I was lacking the most human quality: autonomy. 14

As time progressed, the battles quieted into conversations,

and the fear faded. Still, I contemplated. We shared a special bond because we were adopted from China, and we understood each other because of this, but this war taught me there are parts of each others’ lives we may never know. This war exposed my vulnerability. I might never be able to truly understand you, but in learning more about you, I am learning more about myself, and that has to be enough. I’m learning I should stand my ground instead of cowering in the face of conflict, and I should not permit others to define me. I should define myself.

During the pandemic, we were thrown into a new life. I know

you have struggled with adjusting, isolating yourself in your room, and I have too. But in spending time with you, I got to know you not as the monster of the past, but as the sister of the present. Whether it was playing frisbee or walking together, we learned more about each other. I never knew your side of the war. I never knew you felt victimized and isolated from our family. I never knew how I could have helped you.

You told me the war was a cry for help. You were trapped in an

abusive relationship, further inflamed by his incessant messages. You begged for guidance, but our parents antagonized you. You lashed out so I would listen to you, so I could console you.

In reconciling our relationship, we are able to look back at

the war without animosity or fear. Understanding your pain and your vulnerability changed my perception of you. I now feel comfortable confiding in you, my loving sister, and I hope you feel similarly.

As I lay in bed, my eyes drifted toward a slip of paper,

decorated with blue glitter. The word “sleepover” rested on a cloud, waiting patiently. My mind flashed back to when you gave me that slip of paper as a birthday gift when I was an early teenager. I noticed the small creases, signs of age, from a childhood long forgotten. It instilled hope in me, and I prepared my blankets to go to your room.

The Wolf That Labeled Me Victim by Rory Botelho

I will never forget you, glaring at me with your hungry eyes reminiscent of a wolf on the prowl. Or the display of your fangs before you dug them into my neck, releasing a poison called self-hatred which courses through my veins to this day. I will never forget your filthy hands grasping my throat as I suffocated and your grimy claws digging into me like fresh meat. I will never forget my body being torn apart as my innocence was destroyed. I suppose the stench of desperation reeking on your breath should have warned me, but how does a fourteen year old distinguish between a man and a monster? How was I supposed to know that the alcohol in your system would mix with my blood, sweat, and tears, and the wolf would label me victim? I will never forget the sound of your grunts over my muffled screams. Or the way you screamed, “Shut the fuck up!” which plays like a broken record in my mind every day.

We deserve more than this. This is to the boy who was molested by a Catholic priest, accused of lying because a holy man would never do such a thing. This is to the woman at Planned Parenthood, getting an abortion because she cannot bear the burden of birthing the spawn of her rapist. This is to the girl who was told she was asking for it by wearing that dress, even though wolves were the ones to rip it to shreds. This is to the boy in my support group who was mocked after being raped by a woman and told he was just lucky that he was getting some pussy. This is to the woman who fears walking home alone at night because the streets echo with catcalls, and her body is littered with the mouths of hungry wolves drooling for a taste of her breasts. This is to those of us who lie awake at night, writing our suicide notes because when we were raped, our souls left our bodies and left behind nothing but skeletons and satchels of suicidal ideation. This is to those of us who don’t make it. When someone is bit by a wolf, it is natural to fear them. But after I was raped by a man, I was called irrational for fearing men. Not all men rape but I can’t help seeing men with the gristle of their victims flossed between their teeth like leftovers. All I see are wolves on the prowl. The wolves remind me of you. They remind me of how you taught me I am nothing but flesh. Hearing your name makes me taste the blood in my mouth all over again. The wolf may have named me victim, but after all these years I’ve renamed myself. My name is survivor. 17

Chelo Alonso

by Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Digital. Chelo Alonso was an Afro-Cuban and Mexican actress in the 1950s. She was known for her amazing dancing skills and was even called “the new Josephine Baker” in Paris. She began a career in acting and often played femme fatales, a.k.a. women that took power by force instead of asking for it. I drew Chelo to invoke and inspire unapologetic feminine energy. I hope Chelo inspires you to call back the energy that has been taken from you without your consent, and when you feel that energy flooding back, you begin to realize that you are powerful beyond measure.

Please find me someone to read my thoughts through their lips by Anonymous

Underneath my skin, the Caspian Sea churns. I’ve never been to the Caspian Sea, but my cousins and I always dreamed of going together, just us girls. There are eight of us, and because of this, eight has always been my lucky number. We never fit in one bed, but you can’t move us once we’ve knit ourselves into a tapestry of tangled limbs and hair and dreams. We wear long, handembroidered skirts bought off the side of the road in Tehran, next to the stand selling corn-on-the-cob slathered in turmeric, chili powder, and hot butter. We swim and dive and splash and pull at each other’s feet in our grandmother’s pool, plucking raspberries and apricots and tomatoes right off the vine with pruney fingers when the water gets too cold. We take turns showering in pairs, everyone squeezing from the same tube of shampoo; then we braid each other’s hair in a circle of fast-moving hands on the sun-soaked parlour rug. We sit hip-to-hip at the kitchen table, sharing platters of our grandmother’s food as she hums against the stovetop, knees knocking into elbows dipping into bowls of yoghurt tumbling into jars of spicy pickles. We find ourselves at our uncle’s villa and discover herds of mountain goats, Turkish coffee, narrow, snaking roads, honeybees the size of limes, and mud lakes with supposed healing properties.

At 11 years old, I didn’t need the promise of rejuvenated skin, but to this day I still feel nourished from the squeals of laughter echoing in my mind as we leapt into the ocean to cleanse our crackling, mud-encrusted bodies. Nothing can measure the love I have for these girls, none of whom can be considered “girl” anymore. And yet, in my mind, all that exists for them is tumbling hair in tangles, gangly legs, too much makeup, and the joyful tragedy that is childhood. I can still feel the mountain winds sending my hair streaming out the window as I waved goodbye, the villa slowly shrinking in the windshield, their seven figures distilling into a single smudge. How I miss them. How I wish they’d make me whole again. I used to think that this grief would be a temporary state, a shiny ball of obsidian lodged in my throat. I thought that with enough hacking, I’d be rid of it. I didn’t realize that when grief comes, it can feel like an embrace, oppressive in its comfort. Instead of leaving, it melts into the body as a second skin. When grief rests its slim fingers against your forehead, slowly feeling its way inside,it isn’t all at once. Sometimes you don’t even understand what you’ve lost until it’s been years of going without it, until a boy touches your back and everything goes cold, until white rage is all that exists. In reality, I’d lost very little—only the ability to trust, my warmth, bits of my culture, the memory of my family—but somehow I couldn’t piece together the collage of who I’d been before. Before that one summer when unwanted hands latched onto the fabric of my dress. Before I was no longer able to cross continents to be with my cousins, to let them meld me together like cracked china. I needed so badly to be understood by someone that whenever boys would kiss me, I’d search for familiarity in their saliva. Whenever their hands grabbed at my breasts through my bra, the lace turning on me and scratching my nipples, I thought they might see that I was the cousin who did everyone’s makeup before going out, that despite being the youngest, my hands

were the steadiest with the eye pencils. This is my favorite bra, I’d consider murmuring between kisses, the one I always dance before the mirror in, because I love myself in red, please don’t throw it on the floor like that. As their hands crept lower down my back, I willed them to see that one of my happiest memories was being alone in my uncle’s summer villa and wandering the sunlit tiles by myself, opening all the doors, waltzing with the ocean breeze. As they passed the heady reek of weed from their tongues onto mine, hot and urgent and invasive, one phrase kept cycling in my head on machine-wash—I THINK I MAY BE A MASOCHIST. I was so sure that they could hear it, that they would feel the words turning in my mouth and pull away, stop pinching the soft meat of my breasts, that they’d look into my eyes for the first time all night and decide that they wanted to stop. But they never did, so none of it stopped, and the words came rushing louder and faster—I THINK I MAY BE A MASOCHIST I THINK I’M A MASOCHIST OH GOD I’M A MASOCHIST I’M A MASOCHIST MASOCHIST MASOCHIST MASO— Yes, you are. The words are whispered hoarsely by the sting of that first intrusion, having crawled up the length of my body to pant into my ear. In the aftermath, amid the torn lace and cream-splattered plastic, the only two recognizable entities are myself and my shame, cradling together like mother and child, nurturing one another as they grow.

Dear Body by A.S.N.

As a child I was ashamed Of how you jiggled. Shunning from crop tops and shorts, I recoiled from your layers. Then the hairs began to sprout All over you, annoyingly. Razors combatted in daily battles, Cursing and denying your unrelenting growth. As you began embodying fifty shades of brown, I remorsefully tried whitewashing you. Every failure of mine Inflated my hatred towards you. Crooked nose. Askew spine. Flabby thighs. That was all I saw of you. Until now. Now I see: Crooked nose. Askew spine. Flabby thighs. And a smile.

Women/Somebody to Love by Maurice Henderson

Love was waiting at the door but She didn’t hear the knock Love called out her name but no sound was reflected upon her ears Love enticed her with a smile but her face was not fixed for its appearance, suddenly so Love blew its breath upon her but this sense was so lost to She, it’s just been so long ago Love reached out its hand but her fingers could not take hold Love asked - Can I see you tomorrow She responded - maybe so

The Cosmetician by Jessica Bao She tears off little rose pedals with gnats crawling all over them. She crushes the newts’ eyes to make for a shot glass of winelike liquid. She spits in her hand and rubs it in between her buttcheeks, for she has the bounciest, roundest ass in all the land. She peels the plastic film from the screen of her new laptop and lays it carefully across the granite mortar, like a nail tech prepping a fresh foot bath. She places all the ingredients in and adds a drop of blood, a fresh sneeze, and the fat from her last conquered bear. For a special client, she includes a dash of rhinoceros horn powder—not too much, as it is expensive. She pestles the mortar with one hand and moves the other over it with a quick, shiny chant. A most befitting curse. She pours the slimy liquid into a black tube and puts it in the fridge. Tomorrow, it will be ready for the Lancôme counter.

Double Standards by Esha Mishra

A night in the dark: Easy girl Triumphant guy A speck on the ultrasound: Stupid girl Poor guy A bastard child: The whore What do they call the man who never comes back?

The Dad Drama by Elysia Baskins We all have it: Whether we had one or we didn’t Whether he showed up or he quitted Whether he said he was sorry or never admitted to all the wrongs he did and all the rights he didn’t It’s okay if you want to deck him If you’ve had it up to here with him drinking beer, or mistaking respect for fear, or passivity as love This wound his father passed to him with a fist from the past; it fits like a glove, but breathes like a noose It’s time to cut ourselves loose

Until tantrums became mantra Until spirit surpasses trauma We’re stuck in it, like quicksand You can’t run from it Call it bad luck or a chip on your shoulder that becomes a black hole as we get older That’s the clincher, the suture in this picture (Also called the spine) You can either get sober or become colder (That’s between you and time)

Black and Woman in the Sameness of Time by Maurice Henderson

vital voice voyages, trials and tribulated complexities of conversations, accidental invocations, sistergirls summoned, when and where did you realize, the likelihood of being black and woman in the sameness of time? did it creep up on you or was it comfortably unsurprising? did it happen suddenly as the stunning silence of slow slumping happy days is no longer here again? was it an “oops” against your head rendering yourself no longer free of lasting impressions? an awestruck witness and testimony of a longing to suffer

reality has put you in check and outbalance, racing the indifference of being black and woman to wayfaring strangers, then, when things just fall apart whispers wondering Y/me Y/now why must they be like this? because behold, they do not see you in the future, drylongso an absence worth waiting for, yet I long for the promise of keepers, mother nature, and women warriors no longer bewitched or bewildered so, it is your time, to claim earth plants to planet, calling upon each and every woman of color to respond, to let the circle stay unbroken, yesterday, today, tomorrow, and forevermore

When the Depression takes Over by Lex Gilbert

if only he would Die. she wakes up sweating, heart pounding, he’s haunting her dreams, she remembers being bound to his control, coerced to say yes, the phantom touch creeps up and snuggles her hair, she barely keeps food from escaping her slender throat she forgets to eat sometimes on purpose, others not, she doesn’t bathe for days as dove cannot cleanse her soul, nothing can mend the brokenness laid bare by a man who gives no second thoughts to words or actions, yet leaves her psyche tattered escaping with a gentle reprimand no more than a slap on the wrist. so I wish you believed me when I said I wish he were Dead.

Invisible Man 2020 by Pamela Blanding-Godbolt Inspired by the Novel, Invisible Man (1952), by Ralph Ellison Inspired by the Illustration, Invisible Man (2019), by Gary Dumm For the labeled ENTRANCE to my descended Black hole I call home has served me well as both revolving and sally port doors. Each of these doors’ features uniquely distinct. My revolving door has been the lever that powered the switch of my double edged existence in your white world, me the nameless, featureless Black man. When am I invisible or visible for me and the world to see? Now you see me, now you don’t. On double duty too, my sally port ENTRANCE has imprisoned me in my Black hole, protected from the white man and his horrible and unforgiven games as I live cocooned hiding in plain sight, right inside his midst in a deep dark forgotten space where I have found myself. My footprints and those of every Black human to live or die by the white man’s rule or by your hand remain a visible and unaccepted invitation for you to take up a walk and try to live in any one of our footprints. My existence as an Invisible Man was brought to life as a literary expression by my creator Ralph Ellison over 68 years ago in a setting over 88 years ago. From then to now, what has changed, has anything changed in the white supremacy syndrome game? The greatest change I can see is the flipping of the calendar’s pages, bringing forth “the year of perfect vision” 20/20.

For the year 2020 has come to reveal precisely what it was called forth to do. Take center stage and cast its perfect vision spotlight upon the perpetual existence of the Great Racial Divide. For the image you were asked to hold fast in your mind’s eye marked my departure to deliver a passionate eulogy for my buddy and friend Tod Clifton. We shared the pages of Ellison’s epoch African-American fictional novel, Invisible Man. Tod was one of the many invisible Black men violently killed by the hands of white police officers, is a quiet memory in comparison to the deafening Krakatoa REAL-TIME CRIES OF MY PEOPLE in this the year of perfect vision 2020. 2020 offers numerous ground truth accounts of police brutality before and since George Floyd’s death took center-stage of the white police officer who posed proudly for the world to see, yet another BLACK BROTHER killed by a white man’s knee. Floyd’s public execution was the straw to broke the Black man’s back and made the world to finally see the ways in which America holds fast to and RE-DRESSED Slavery and White Supremacy. I am visible, you just refuse to see, ME. Our death at the hands of white men from yesteryear to yesterday has escalated a thousand fold, because the year of perfect vision 2020 reveals both the white and Black man should now be better equipped. James Baldwin instructs, “Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.” As we come to face this truth, both the white and Black man have a different view and reality to confront. Baldwin’s statement and question remains unaddressed. You, white man, created the Negro, the question remains, Why… Because if you think I am a nigger, it means you need him, so why did you create him? As I ascend from my BLACK HOLE once my prison, home, and sanctuary, I walk FREE and VISIBLE to SELF and for the WORLD to see. This Black man poses the question to my brethren, for all of our pain and suffering at the white man’s hand. Why we HAVE NOT taken up an unapologetic revenge.

Acknowledgements We would like to conclude this edition of The F-Word by thanking all those who supported us this year. Thank you to our advisors and friends at the Student Activities Council. Thank you to Jessica Lowenthal and the Kelly Writers House, Sherisse Laud-Hammond and the Women’s Center, and Melissa Sanchez and the Center for Research in Feminist, Queer, and Transgender Studies (formerly known as the Alice Paul Center). Thank you to our dedicated Board and our general body members, who worked so hard to make this post-virtual-learning Fall issue a reality. We are also tremendously grateful to everyone who submitted to the publication these past semesters, and encourage others to do so in the future. Finally, thank you to the University of Pennsylvania community for reading this edition of The F-Word and thereby participating in this vital conversation.

Call for Submissions The F-Word is officially seeking submissions for our Spring 2022 issue. As Penn’s premier feminist arts and literary magazine, we accept submissions from all members of the Penn community (undergraduates, graduates, faculty, staff, and alumni). Send us your poetry, fiction, nonfiction, academic papers, photography, drawings, paintings, anything—we’ve even had music! In other words, if there is a way to put it on a page, we’ll do it! Entries should be no longer than five pages and should explore topics related to feminism, race/ethnic identity, gender and sexuality, and social justice. Multiple submissions are encouraged, and we accept submissions in languages other than English. While we do accept submissions on a rolling basis, we ask that those who would like their work considered for the Fall issue submit to upennfword@gmail. com no later than April 1st, 2021. All work submitted may also be considered for publication on our blog at upennfword.com. We look forward to working with you!

Contact Us To learn more, connect with us at upennfword.com facebook.com/upennfword instagram.com/fwordmagazine/ pennclubs.com/club/f-word & issuu.com/fword Email us at upennfword@gmail.com Or meet us in person— Our meetings are open to all Penn community members and are held on Wednesdays at 8:00 pm upstairs in the Kelly Writers House.