Maurice Henderson

Ye Women Of Color

By Maurice Henderson

Ye Women of Color no longer stooping to be conquered by patriarchal monarchs the nonsense of naysayers

Still here in these uneasy of times to be or not to be bewitched, bothered and bewildered fortune seeking the rendering of yourself whole in the company of those who look, act and talk something just like you

Ye Women of Color take it slowly in the furious fastlane of once no longer upon a time to be free, accepted, wonderful gracious, gorgeous and gallactic majestically magical as a monumental memorial of mind, body and soul to be said, seen and shown as a happily Her/She Soul Sisters

“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.” – Prentis Hemphill

By Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Digital Art

Africa Is Where My Heart Lies

By Pamela Blanding-Godbolt

We Were Dismembered Long Before My Parents’ Birth. Africa: Home Base But Where On The Continent Do I Claim (Truly) For Me?

Pilgrimage Awaits Behold First, Alkebulan Robbed Of Exactness

Year 2020 Moment Of Perfect Vision What A Conundrum! My Great Nation Under-knee As The World Witnessed — George Floyd.

Today’s Goal — Blend In! For Africa’s Erasure. QUESTION For You: Is It Too Late… Do We Dare… For Separate but Equal?

White-Man’s Privilege Black-Man’s Misfortune, Seeking A Just Recompense

Forgiveness, Revenge For What Should I Ask To Heal World (Reimagined)

Its Air, Sunrise, Earth My Heart, Soul, Spirit, Yearning… Africa Restored.

On being greedy

By Kennedy Crowder

I watch you put on your skin every morning. You’re so pretty when you’re naked. Your bones are transparent. And I wait and watch flesh become skin become clothes become You Outside. I wish to create things duller, to not be reminded every time your hair catches sunlight, or the stray petal of a still-blooming flower, or the hand of some other person that I am witnessing in a moment of forgetting. You are unwinding and eating the cells in the hippocampus that replay the dilation of my pupils.

Do you remember my eye color? Yours is lavender, and whether or not that is correct, I’m right. I can imagine in the hazy film of false memory the simple ease of your company. I can almost reach through the inexactness, poke a hole in the gray matter to blur where your body starts, and my cell walls end. There is nothing between us but reality.

But for all my infinite faults, I am not greedy.

I can be satisfied. I can.

I can watch you put on your skin every morning.

Have I seen you somewhere before?

Bruised

By Anonymous

I’ve never been bruised. Never intentionally by someone’s hands. I’ve never bled, never broken a bone, never received a black eye. Never been questioned about my state of being. But the questions I asked myself were always the hardest to answer. Is this really happening? Am I really here? How did I end up here? Am I weak? Am I a coward? Am I unable to see through proper eyes and am I absolutely and utterly delusional? Is it, at the end of the day, my fault for not doing more? For not being more? For not being independent enough? For not being self-confident enough? For being trapped. At this point, it’s a blur. Everything. That’s the funny thing about trauma. It only takes a couple of days before it erases everything to protect your mind and soul. It doesn’t want you to remember. And honestly, I suppose I should be grateful.

But it can’t erase everything. There are small moments that stand out like red paint splashed across an empty canvas. Arm grabbed. Hit wall. Anger. Pain. Choked. Nails biting in. Not him. Not there. He would never. It didn’t happen. But it did.

It did. But my mind encourages me to live in a world where it didn’t. During a high tide the day after, I felt myself sink under. Falling into an endless abyss, skipping class, crying myself to sleep. And then, as though being struck by lightning, I was yanked back out and felt normal again. But something was still off.

I was like a bouncy ball. Each time a horrid thought materialized, I’d drop, smash into the ground, and feel as though my life were in splinters, before surging upwards and soaring through the air, forgetting everything that had happened. I should be used to this by now, but I never will be. I reach a point of confusion where I’m just far out enough from what happened, just displaced enough that it feels as though I’m speaking to a friend, that I can truly wonder whether there’s room for forgiveness. I’ve forgiven almost everyone in my life. The thought of leaving a bridge broken pains me. Even if it isn’t a cure, it’s a relief. A gasp of air. But this. This. Are there things in this world that are truly unforgivable? That once committed, you can never wash that sin from your hands? The biggest issue is that I don’t feel anger. I don’t want justice. I don’t want retribution. I just feel overwhelming sadness. And I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what is expected of me. I don’t know how to feel. But that’s okay. I’ve never been bruised, but I have been broken. And I will be okay.

By Alyssa Sliwa Charcoal

Ever since I began drawing when I was 5, I have always gravitated towards the female form in my work. I very rarely drew men or had the desire to, and until recently I hadn’t questioned it. But I now believe that I’ve always seen women as the epitome of beauty and strength, and I have always been extremely proud to call myself a woman because of this. In this piece, I wanted to highlight female beauty, especially the beauty of those who are growing older and might often be overlooked for their lack of youth—a supposed prerequisite by current beauty standards.

El Corazón

By Joanna Luna

I have been drawing for as long as I can remember. It is something I learned to love from my dad. The colorful murals on the drive home from almost anywhere would catch my attention as they each demonstrated a part of my culture. Having grown up playing Lotería, seeing the emergence of games like the Millennial Lotería made me see that the pillars of my culture evolved with me as I grew. Now, there is a Gen-Z Lotería. Wanting to fill my dorm room with art of my own making instead of posters, I began to work. I drew the heart card from the game. Little did I know that it would become this. Scrolling through TikTok and coming across a video about how the anatomical uterus looks like a heart made me think about how parts of my culture have evolved to encompass the ideas of younger generations. Before long, the uterus became the heart, a central piece of this artwork.

The piece itself alludes to the intersection between the politically charged world I grew up in and the pillars of my Mexican childhood. The flowers, not typically included in Lotería in this style, were my way of paying homage to another form of art that frames my memories: Mexican folk art. Vaguely reminding me of the embroidery I learned as a child, the flower frame also refers to the dresses I wore as the daughter of proud parents originating from Tamaulipas and Oaxaca, Mexico. This corazón, heart, is a piece of my own beating heart, representing two worlds that have melded together as I—a Mexican-American—have as well.

family without the i

By Laura Santos

famiy without the i #1

s ss

ssh h sh

sho o ho h or

rr r o rt tt sh

o ort f fffa a f fam

fa am mmi il ily l y (f) am (i) ly

ci iiii r ir ir c cu c u i i tt

i t c irc u it

fam - ly

family without the i #2

10:23:16am. the fam(i)ly in sections of division judgement in hearing parties and not I petition for natural shortcircuit therfore case #2017-003183-FC-04 rules with temporary self-help argues uncl. courtcustody r ape

is final fam (i) ly

family without the i #3

minor jurisdiction: custody-stench of (un)obtained consent for (un)reasonable care shortcircuit fam(i)ly.

Istel, securely withholding of psychiatric medicals: do all necessary but

care.

next best friend to child? burgundy-stained eye.

scent of rusting iron leaking nose (un)record mishandling touch (un)welfare enrolled in $57.6/m IRS supplemental for loss

tested and failed by

Miami-Dade County: 10th of April 2017

You Are a Prayer of Your Ancestors

By Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Acrylic on Canvas

Mattie Maria SimBarcelos (she/her) is an Afro-Brazilian/Black American artist who creates images of imagined ancestors, Orixás, and divine icons to inspire rituals with deep intention and connection. She makes art that invites BIPOC and LGBTQIA ancestors into the room to channel their vision of a balanced, connected, and just world—making it a reality for future generations. She believes that everyone is an artist and capable of becoming a channel for creativity.

Goddess Descending

By Maurice Henderson

I cried last knight because /I/ just couldn’t help myself no harm/no foul of the womb to tomb and there is that which I know now a goddess descending as the tumult of that which to come forever more beacon and hope

the remains of days gone bye the missing of breastfeeding hugs and lap time that still keeps me alive so it is true I cried last Knight just because I can as thine coming inside self too/two/to dwell

Sexy with a Dash of Dignity (And Other Reflections On Bean Teeth)

By Lila Dubois

I’ll keep it simple for you, as I almost never do but it’s how she’d refer to herself so that’s what we’ll call her too for now at least, until I can unjumble the whipping electric static in my head trying to describe someone who’s made my life, which how can you even do that anyway? so, yes, for now, she’s sexy with a dash of dignity. That’s not even a bad start too, if you’re lucky enough to know her you’d know it’s true dignity’s overrated when you could interpretive dance in the middle of the street in the near middle of the night, toes pointed in sneakers, moon beaming down at a someone making full shining use of his spotlight. or when you could put beans in your teeth. sexy.

She is though, sexy, pretty, beautiful, reverberating with the glowing heat of a sunset with somewhere to be, pouting in the mirror as Linda Ronstadt floats through soft orangey lamplight and the smell of old roses dried in the sun years ago and saved with delicate hands in that bottle” of Grandma Laurel’s crystallized brownish perfume while two little girls circle about her knees, big eyes looking up at an apparition of love, smiling down at them the smile that would be their home as they all move and grow up until all three share another wider mirror, peering in through corners of elbows sharing dabs of sparkling oils on noses and pink cheeks that look awfully similar, Ari or “9 to 5” or something made-up bouncing off shower doors and sliding down sinks and ringing happily in heavy freshly coconut oiled humidity three curvy angels glowing confidence because of the one smiled that smile of home curvy angels whose spirits fly with me in my heart wherever I go, fueling, pulsing creativity, and love and laughter and fire sometimes, it almost feels like cheating to have this power.

There are many names for God but I’m sure momma has to be one of them. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say and so now you understand how hard this task is! you were expecting me to light a candle and have the face of something close to Creator suddenly become clear in the the wick which of course I could not. This is just something to keep in your wallet, a quick reflection on shea butter kisses and sunblock reminders and everything that is right in my world, my heart is full in her wake.

Erotic as Power

By Ari Gewirtzman Digital Collage

Ari is a Jewish, disabled, trans/gender-defiant-fag who believes that art is a powerful tool for imagining paths toward our collective liberation. They explore the crossroads of politics and storytelling to make art about identity, survivorship, natural cycles, and injustice. Ari is a Queer Poet Fellow at Martha’s Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing and a member of the Babel Poetry Collective at Temple University. Their work has been published in Baby Shoot Whiskey Zine and Delicate Friend Literary and Art Magazine. In their free time, Ari can be found on stage at a drag show or covered in dirt at the community garden.

Articulate

By Kimmika Williams-Witherspoon

Tongue tied— Tied tongues Tired Of all the screaming Shouting Poet-tating Honoring all the narratives Without voice Screamed into the void Etched into silence Made-muted Because of age Or race Or sex Or class... Difference.

Asinine How power Punctuates “voice” Stymies, stifles Suffocates Each Line, phrase or sentence Before its start.

Ecologies & economies Work/want To keep it that way. The mass, marginalized, The multitude, The many Unable to get a word out— Which is not the same things as

“lost for words” (I expect, though, Without words Whole communities Can feel lost Get lost Be lost— Like...powerlessness)

But, we’ve got the words At our disposal & their proposal To shut us up. Struck dumb Dumbstruck Clear in the will to speak But speechless, Bereft of speech. No more! With Nommo— Word-magic Tying tongues To the language of the ancients We call up Call on Call out Wisdom of the sages--Poets, prophets, Storytellers & griots Of all ages— No longer silent. Tongue-tied, Tongue tired Tongue heavy Agathokakological Neither good nor bad right nor wrong— Black or white— No matter. Refusing to stay silent. I’ve got to tell their story.

37

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 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.

We would also like to recognize and acknowledge that the University of Pennsylvania stands on the Indigenous territory known as “Lenapehoking,” the traditional homelands of the Lenape, also called Lenni-Lenape or Delaware Indians. These are the people who, during the 1680s, negotiated with William Penn to facilitate the founding of the colony of Pennsylvania. Their descendants today include the Delaware Tribe and Delaware Nation of Oklahoma; the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape, Ramapough Lenape, and Powhatan Renape of New Jersey; and the Munsee Delaware of Ontario.

Call for Submissions

The F-Word is officially seeking submissions for our Fall 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, and more—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. We accept submissions on a rolling basis at upennfword@gmail.com. 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 every week at Kelly Writers House.

41

42