F-Word Fall 2010 (Color) by The F-Word

! D R O W F

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LETTER FROM THE EDITORS MISSION STATEMENT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

POETRY MONOLOGUE BRIDESISTER COR UNAM GIRL FOOLS HER MOTHER RECENTLY IT’S A GOOD THING YOU GOT THAT TATTOO THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS THREE HER SHIVER OBSESSIVECOMPULSIVE QUAINT PHILOSOPHY UNTITLED 1 AN INVESTIGATION OF WHY IT IS WATER RESISTANT UNTITLED 2 FINITE TO A SUN COLORED MAN

Valeria Tsygankova Anonymous Tranae Hardy Alexa Bryn Marion Smallwood Max Hass Wiktoria Parysek Florentina Dragulescu Rebecca Duncan Melissa Pavri Florentina Dragulescu Ali Caastleman Marion Smallwood Leo Amino Wiktoria Parysek Marion Smallwood Janet Chow Tranae Hardy

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Caitlin Leahy Alexa Bryn Cassidy Regan Rachel Romeo John Campbell Rebecca Levine Jenny Fan Elizabeth Knight

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PROSE PIES EASY SPOTLIGHT ON PENN MONOLOGUES THE PUSSY DIARIES YOU SILLY GOOSE PRETTY GIRLS A PERFECT SON OR DAUGHTER LETTING GO ONE DAY IN JUNE 1990

ACADEMIC LET OUR CHILDREN GO CAMP RESOLVING THE RIFT SWEAT ON THE UNKNOWN HISTORY OF JAP

Maya Brandon Anusha Alles Velika Nespor Caitlin Leahy Allison Carroll Goldman

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Litty Paxton Sarah Cohen Zoe Chronis Marc Blumthal Tay Cha Tay Cha Sarah Cohen Jiwon Lee Tay Cha Arielle Bokhour Ishan Asokan Jiwon Lee Jiwon Lee Katie McCabe Jiwon Lee Sarah Cohen Jiwon Lee Jiwon Lee

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ART CONSENT TURNS ME ON FUR COAT THE BLACK HEART MEDAL DAYS JUST WAVE GOODBYE MERMAIDS MASKED WOMEN GARDENING DESIRE I BINDING DONYELLE FWORD I WANT TO TALK WITH YOU HURDLES BETWEEN YOU AND I TRUST REINCARNATED LOST INNOCENCE SWIM UNTITLED 1 UNTITLED 2

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

MISSION STATEMENT

Like any other movement, we have our problems. It’s not easy putting a face to the needs of so many different people—people who struggle with physical abuse in the home, physical abuse by strangers, sexual harassment in the workplace, media, and politics; people who are silenced, who are afraid, who have internalized oppression and self loathing; people who wrestle with language, people who struggle with one another, people who try to transcend male/female, hetero/homosexual binaries…the list goes on. So what brings us together under that loaded word, feminism? Feminist ?4&#*)@$#&*).40-);*#)+,6*#)$,)20A)B:;*)1%/0)0;%0)>*)%#*);*#*)%,&)0;%0)C)-.*%D) these words is an attempt to break that silence and bridge some of those differences between us, for it is not difference which immobilizes us, but silence. And there are so many silences to be broken.” Penn is a community committed to breaking these silences—a fact that has become increasingly apparent over the past year. In the wake of three widely publicized rapes on campus, Penn students came together in anger, grief, and a conviction that our community could not only endure but also transform. The excited activism of last February’s Vagina Monologues, which raised over $32,000 for Women Organized Against Rape, buzzed throughout campus for much of the semester. The global art exhibition This is Not an Invitation to Rape Me came to Penn’s campus later that month— %,&)1$#)0;*)+#-0)02<*)E*,,)-04&*,0-)-;%#*&)0;*2#)$>,)32-2$,9))C,)20-)-*/$,&) year of revival, the national Take Back the Night movement returned to us in 14'')1$#/*9))?,&)+,%''(5)2,)?.#2'5)>*)04#,*&)'$/%'5)/#202/%''()*7%<2,2,6)E*,,) issues of sex, sexuality, and gender in the inaugural performance of Get Down: The Penn Monologues. That those telling their stories have had the courage to do so, and that there is a large community ready to listen, shows that there is a small revolution afoot on our campus—thus our decision to highlight some of the Penn Monologues pieces in this issue. We are evolving into a community in which dialogue is more often invited and open. The Fword has always been an outlet for all feminist voices on campus, and with each issue and each semester we hear more and more of them. We ;$.*)0;2-)2--4*)!$4#)'$,6*-0)(*0F8)>2'');*'.)0;*)/%<.4-)/$,02,4*)0$)6#$>)2,) that direction—whether it’s with quiet, steady courage or a badass comic book BAM! Fword love, Rachel and Anusha

Penn has an active feminist community, a fact vibrantly illustrated by campus organizations, from the Alice Paul Center to the Women’s Center and the Penn Consortium of Undergraduate Women. In Fall 2006, The Fword came together to join this community. We found inspiration in the out of print magazine Pandora’s Box, a publication of works by Penn women for a female audience; founded a decade earlier, Pandora’s Box offered an imaginative and graceful channel for feminist thought. We began to discuss how to shape and revive the magazine. Hoping to welcome a larger, more diverse group of both contributors and readers, we set out to create a space where all students could give literary and artistic voice to their ideas on feminism !"#$%&'()&*+,*&)%-)#*-.*/0)1$#)%'')2,&232&4%'-5)#*6%#&'*--)$1)6*,&*#)$#)-*74%') %1+'2%02$,89):;*)<%6%=2,*)>%-)0$)"*),$0)$,'()%)1$#4<)1$#)1*<2,2-0)&2-/4--2$,5) but also a catalyst for feminist awareness in the campus community. We titled it: “The Fword: A Collection of Feminist Voices.” This is the eighth issue of The Fword. Always faithful to our “Collection of Feminist Voices” mantra, we continue to highlight works expressing myriad opinions and experiences. We have biannually published our magazine since 2006, thanks to the support of our sponsor organizations, and we have increased our distribution network by joining the Penn Publications Cooperative. Since last year we have begun to organize campus-wide events, hoping to encourage the feminist evolution within our peers and ourselves. The following written and artistic pieces provide just a glimpse of the feminist thought on Penn’s campus. We are thankful for the tremendous progress feminism has made; yet we know that there is even more to be thought and said, written and photographed, captured and voiced.

CONSENT TURNS ME ON Litty Paxton

MONOLOGUE Valeria Tsygankova We are both a thin woman. I like wearing her coat and boots and shoveling her driveway. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m old enough not to look up at everything that passes, young enough to think about it. Sometimes I fall in love with compromise, sometimes trade %..'*-)1$#)%3%'%,/;*-5)<()+/02$,)1$# hers. She will only be written in sentences. Sentences in snow, wearing thin, I like the presence of her coat and boots both enough to look at everything for fallen women. To think a written way, a passing trade, avalanches enough to compromise. She, hers. Not up for apples, deceptions. Are we old, or everything 0;%0).%--*-)0;2,5)-$)($4,6)0$)"*)2,)'$3*)>20;)+/02$,9

BRIDESISTER

COR UNAM Tranae Hardy

Anonymous i care not to bridesmaid your wedding. so, relinquishing my role yields not the expected pain; vanquishing our supposed bond is indeed a pleasure. i could say the doing is partly mine, but i am often stubborn and you are sometimes cruel; i thus reason that yours is the blame. why do i fume en face de your nonsense? why do i cry alone in my childhood bedroom and clutch my transitional doll? you say i will die 0;*)1*2-0()+6;0*# the unloving and unloved sister and i yell, rather that than unstable! rather sisterless than motherless.

i imagine, it was quieter than it ought have been, the sound of my kamikaze heart colliding with yours, the sound of atria shattering and aortas intertwining. i imagine meeting organs to be like lightning, bright, and hot, and neverlasting.

but this is what we were bequeathed, and this is why we are this, mostly arguing mostly insensitive years apart and yet mostly similar, so similar, too similar. i will walk the aisle if you need, because i want.

FUR COAT Sarah Cohen

PIES Caitlin Leahy

I make pies. People like pies, especially mine. Their crust is buttery and G%D(5)<*'02,6)2,)($4#)<$40;H)0;*)2,-2&*-)0%#0)%,&)->**0A)/;*##(5)%..'*5)"'4*"*##(9)) I3*#()&%(5)C)<%D*)%).2*9))J272,6)0;*)G$4#)%,&)"400*#)0$6*0;*#5)D,*%&2,6)209))?&&ing the sugar and water, then rolling it all out. My biggest dilemma is what kind $1)+''2,6)0$)<%D*9))C).2/D)0;*)1#420)1#$<)<()6%#&*,9))C0K-)>%#<);*#*5)%,&)1#420) grows pretty much all year. I moved here when I was eighteen, like everyone sick of the cold does. I like pies. Good things come from them: friends, warmth, happiness. I don’t have too many friends, just Mary. I’m getting older; maybe I’m getting odd. I used to care, but now I don’t mind. But Mary, she’s a good listener. No one gets me like she does. She doesn’t care that I’m gray, that my skin’s wrinkled or that my breasts sag. So I talk to her and I make the pies. I talk to Mary. She’s not hard to like, and sometimes, I swear I see her lips move like she was trying to say something to me. Some days, I sit in my chair all day and just stare at her; she stares back. Most days, she looks kind of wistful, like she wants to talk to me. She never does, placidly gazing from the corner. Sometimes, Mary infuriates me. I wish she would say something. “Maybe I’m crazy,” I shout at Mary. She just watches me with her big blue eyes and her red-brown hair. Muttering, I go into the kitchen and make a pie. Some days, I could just cry, or die. Instead I make pies, and I talk to Mary.

THE BLACK HEART MEDAL Zoe Chronis

LET OUR CHILDREN GO

EXAMINING THE USE OF INTERSEXED CHILDREN TO SUPPORT THE GENDER BINARY 1

Maya Brandon I3*#)-2,/*)C)+,2-;*&)#*%&2,6)?,,*)L%4-0$MN0*#'2,6K-)*--%()BN;$4'&) There be Only Two Sexes?” and Bruce E. Wilson and W.G. Reiner’s “Management of Intersex: A Shifting Paradigm,” one question has lingered in my mind: had I been born with an intersex condition, would I have wanted my parents to have opted for “reconstructive” surgery? Both texts help answer this question by exploring how intersex cases have historically been handled and how they ought to be handled. Contending that intersexed children can no longer be forced to conform to a two-gender, two-sex norm, Fausto-Ster'2,6)%-)>*'')%-)O2'-$,)%,&)P*2,*#)%#64*)2,)1%3$#)$1)0;*)<*&2/%')<%72<)B+#-0) do no harm” with regard to handling children with intersex conditions. By showing that performing cosmetic surgery on intersex individuals is consistent with the two-sex system, the authors reveal that society is correspondingly organized around a socially constructed, two-gender binary . Wilson, Reiner and Fausto-Sterling argue that this binary seeks to enforce sameness within society. Although Wilson and Reiner emphasize 6*,&*#)%-)B0;*)2,&232&4%'K-).-(/;$'$62/%')%,&)*<$02$,%')2&*,02+/%02$,)%-) *20;*#)<%'*)$#)1*<%'*5Q)0;*()$"-*#3*)0;%0)2,)0;*)+#-0)&%(-)%10*#)"2#0;5)&211*#*,0) maternal and paternal behaviors towards boys and girls begin to reinforce the two-gender paradigm. For example, this paradigm is enforced by the genderbased “choices of style in clothes and types of toys” for children.2 In turn,

Fausto-Sterling shows that this male/female binary continues to remain an important societal division long past childhood; when applying for a license, a passport, or numerous other documents, one must select “M” or “F” in the gender box.3 Gender is limited by the societal constraints of a system that permits only two sexes and two corresponding identities: male and female. Fausto-Sterling and Wilson and Reiner begin their writings by highlighting the role of sex in molding people to societal norms. Wilson and Reiner argue that gender may not correspond to a person’s biological sex, regardless of “reconstructive” surgeries that assign one sex to one gender.4 Furthermore, Fausto-Sterling and Wilson and Reiner assert that intersexual children should be able to discover their own sense of gender identity, and should not be forced to conform to gender and sex norms under the knife. Wilson and Reiner discuss a case in which a surgeon, who was only supposed to correct a problem with an eight-year-old intersexed child’s urinary tract, also built a vagina at the same time in order to “reduce and reposition her clitoris.”5 C,)$0;*#)>$#&-5);*).*#1$#<*&)0;*).#$/*&4#*)2,)$#&*#)0$)<%D*)0;*)/;2'&)+0) into the established two-sex system. This is the system that Fausto-Sterling 0#2*&)0$)/;%''*,6*)2,)STTU)>20;);*#)2&*%)$1)%)+3*M-*7)-(-0*<5)>;2/;)2,/'4&*&) B0#4*Q);*#<%.;#$&20*-)!;*#<-85)<%'*)B.-*4&$M;*#<%.;#$&20*-Q)!<*#<-8) %,&)1*<%'*)B.-*4&$M;*#<%.;#$&20*-Q)!1*#<-89)V$0)-4#.#2-2,6'(5)0;*)W%0;$'2/) @*%64*)1$#)P*'262$4-)%,&)W232')P26;0-)%00%/D*&)0;*)+3*M-*7)-(-0*<)%,&)-%2&) that only two sexes are “rooted in nature,” and the gender binary naturally follows from them. Wilson and Reiner and Fausto-Sterling argue that the surgeon and the League each acted to protect the stability and the uniformity of the two-sex, two-gender binary upon which society is organized. The authors agree that a surgical reconstruction of intersexed children is .*#1$#<*&)>20;)-$/2*0%')/$,-2&*#%02$,-)2,)<2,&H)$-0*,-2"'()X+72,6K)%<"264ous body parts to make them conform to the two-sex system. Citing the example of Cheryl Chase, Fausto-Sterling discusses an intersexed child who was raised as a boy but, after a complete cliterectomy, was subsequently raised as a girl. The cliterectomy was performed for cosmetic purposes rather than for sexual function; Chase cannot achieve an orgasm.6 Arguing that “ambiguous genitalia are essentially the only congenital anomalies viewed as a surgical emergency for cosmetic reasons,”7 Wilson and Reiner #*3*%')0;*)/*,0#%'5)&*+,2,6)#$'*)$1)0;*)0>$M-*7)-(-0*<)>20;2,)$4#)-$/2*0(9)C,) addition to making children conform to a physical two-sex system, surgical X#*/$,-0#4/02$,5K)%-)O2'-$,)%,&)P*2,*#)-466*-05)-$'2&2+*-)0;*)-*74%')&232&*) between men and women, making “sexual function for genetic males and fertility for genetic females” primary goals.8 Fausto-Sterling and Wilson and Reiner show that cosmetic “corrective” surgery has therefore been built on the premise of heteronormativity: male virility and female fertility, all of which are based on the male/female sexual and gender binary. FaustoSterling implies that surgical “reconstruction” is based on socially accepted heterosexual sexual practices. Efforts to reconstruct a ‘normal-sized’ clitoris

or penis often also include measuring penile growth by masturbating intersex boys and inserting a dildo into infant and toddler “intersexed” girls to keep the openings from closing, paving the way for these female infants to eventually be penetrated during heterosexual sex.9 Moreover, given the opportunity to have a dominant male societal role, rather than a passive female role “in a culture that prizes masculinity,” it is no wonder that in a survey of intersex people, 16 percent of those raised as female decided to change their gender identities to male.10 Fausto-Sterling’s statistic reveals the extent to which individuals—in this case intersex children—within the society are aware of the gender binary and of male and female societal roles within it. Fausto-Sterling evidences how intertwined body and gender identity have become. Although transsexuals have since forged a new, uniquely transsexual identity outside of the constraints of a two-gender system, the gender binary still exists and can be seen simply by stepping into a children’s clothing store and seeing the different clothing and designs for each gender. With the enforcement of a two-sex, two-gender system comes severe consequences for transgressing these binaries. Fausto-Sterling discusses a court case in which a transvestite died because paramedics withheld treatment after discovering his genitals. In the absence of the structure of the standard two-sex and corresponding two-gender binary, societal rules and obligations crumble. O;2'*)20)>$4'&)"*)4,R4*-02$,%"'()&21+/4'0),$0)0$)/;$$-*)%)-*7)$1)#*%#2,6)1$#)%) /;2'&5)0;%0)&21+/4'0()2-)2,&2/%023*)$1)0;*)*70*,0)0$)>;2/;)0;*)0>$M6*,&*#),$#<) still exists within our society. It will be challenging to try to break down the gender binary within society if we continue to play by its rules.

1. Throughout this analysis, I use “sex” to refer to a biological distinction between males and females based on the two most common types of genitalia, whereas I use the term “gender” to refer to the characteristics frequently ascribed to individuals who belong to either sex; 2. Reiner, William G., and Wilson, Bruce E. Intersex in the Age of Ethics. Hagerstown: University Publishing Group, 1999; 3. Fausto-Sterling, Anne. Sexing the Body. New York: Basic Books, 2000; 4. Reiner and Wilson, 130; 5. Reiner and Wilson, 119; 6. Fausto-Sterling, 80; 7. Reiner and Wilson, 132; 8. Reiner and Wilson, 123; 9. Fausto-Sterling, 86; 10. Fausto-Sterling, 95

DAYS JUST WAVE GOODBYE

GIRL FOOLS HER MOTHER Alexa Bryn

Marc Blumthal They are walking to the Met when he calls, the boy who never calls, pleading only an hour or two go on without me the cramps are back I have to lie down in his bed, she imagines her mother studying Cassattâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mothers, soaping young limbs combing shampooed hair kissing foreheads goodnight unaware that soon the children will be too large for tubs and one day even bad daughters will be bathing their mothers.

RECENTLY Marion Smallwood

MERMAIDS Tay Cha

i am fading awkwardly along the edges like kindergarten breath stuck to window-shaped nothing. your +,6*#.#2,0 is in the middle of me, sop me up like a brand new rag. i am still sort of foggy and worn, awkward and melting. just +,2-;) already and erase me.

“You’re crazy,” I protest. “We’ve been friends since we were three. And I know a boy could never think this way, but there is such a thing as platonic friendship.” “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “That’s what they all say.” I’ve only known Nick a month, but already his obsession with “reading me” is starting to get annoying. Trying to block him out, I look myself over in the mirror one last time. I suck in my stomach, brush bronzer over my cheeks, decide on a darker, lower cut tank top. “Just so you know,” he says, opening the door widely, “boys can tell when you’re wearing makeup.” I send him a glare, threatening him with the sizzling hair iron between my +,6*#-9)) He smiles helplessly. “But not you, you look perfect.”

EASY Alexa Bryn Nick is sitting on my couch, studying me as I put on my makeup. I hate having boys in the room when I’m getting dressed for a party, for them to know the type of effort it takes. I sit at my desk, applying eye shadow, lip gloss, mascara—smudging, blending, wiping away. BW$<*)$,)%'#*%&(5Q);*)-%(-9)BO*K#*)6$,,%)"*)'%0*9))[$4)'$$D)+,*5)#*%''(9Q “If you want to get there so badly, just go without me.” Through the <2##$#5)C)-**);2<)G2..2,6)0;#$46;)<()#$$<<%0*K-)/$.()$1)\$64*9)BV$0;2,6) starts before 11:30 anyway. And you’re so engrossed by women’s fashion, I don’t want to disturb you.” BO*''5)>;%0)*'-*)%<)C)-4..$-*&)0$)&$)>;*,)($4)0%D*)+3*);$4#-)0$)6*0) dressed?” I ignore him and continue to straighten those last few stubborn curls. “So where are we pre-gaming?” he asks. Focusing on a smudge in my eyeliner, I’m slow to answer, “Umm, my friend Jake’s room. I think I introduced you guys.” “Tall Wharton boy you’re always with? Kind of a tool?” I shoot him a look. “He’s not a tool. But yeah, that’s who you’re thinking of.” “You wannnntttt him,” Nick sings, smiling. “I have radar for these things. I give it two months at most.”

Jake’s room is packed with bodies, faces I only vaguely recognize. This is how it’s always been: Jake introducing me, bringing me along, forcing me to go out. I can almost hear my mother taking him aside, whispering, show her a good time, all she ever does is study. BO*'')'$$D)>;$)+,%''()&*/2&*&)0$)-;$>)4.5Q);*)-%(-5)D2--2,6)<*)$,)0;*) cheek. He smells faintly of weed and Old Spice. He passes a red cup to the boy pouring vodka in the corner and says, “Not too much. And give her a good chaser, she’ll need it.” He hands the cup back to me. I study the murky liquid inside nervously, &#*%&2,6)0;*)+#-0)-2.9))Y%D*).4''-)<*)0$>%#&-);2<)%,&)>;2-.*#-A)BZ#2,D) up. This stuff’s good for you.” Then he smiles, and it’s like I have no other choice. It’s only late September, but already Philadelphia’s freezing. The tiny hairs on my arms stand upright, and I try to mat them down, hugging myself for warmth. I’m coatless, shivering in a tank top and open-toed heels. I can already feel the blisters forming on the side of my pinky toe, and I wonder why I torture myself this way each time I go out. I watch as everyone disperses into four-person cabs, losing Nick. He doesn’t say bye, just runs in after Danielle, a redhead from the end of our hall >20;)>;$<);*)G2#0-)-;%<*'*--'()*%/;)02<*);*K-)&#4,D9)) Waiting now, it’s just me, Jake, and this girl Sophie he knows from Bio. I study her—her slim hips, jet black hair, long, tanned limbs. She looks French, sophisticated—warm, even—in her sleeveless dress, balanced in stiletto heels. I am suddenly more aware of my thighs and pale skin, feeling less put together than I did twenty minutes ago. In the cab, Jake sits between the two of us. He hangs on her every word, and though I’m already getting sleepy, I try to follow their conversation. Slowly, my head becomes heavy, and I lie it down against his shoulder. Their words begin to mix together, and I focus instead on the lights of

the downtown skyline. The landscape is slightly familiar, as if I’ve seen it all before in a dream. I realize now that the only times I ever actually see the city are these hazy Thursday midnights. “Oh no,” he laughs. “She’s gone already. You don’t know what her mother would do if she found out I let her have this much to drink.” As we brave the long line at Atrium, Jake tells us to get our IDs ready. C0K-)<()+#-0)02<*)%-)0>*,0(M0>$)(*%#)$'&)N%#%;)J2''*#)$1)J%&2-$,5)O2-/$,-2,5) and I couldn’t look any less like her. The only thing similar about us is our blond hair, but Sophie says not to worry, clubs like these are easy. I squint, numbers jumbling in my head as I try to memorize my new birthday. Jake turns to me, “Don’t mess this up, okay?” And then, registering the ;4#0)$,)<()1%/*5)%&&-5)B[$4K'')"*)+,*9))C).#$<2-*9Q The bouncer lets Sophie through like it’s nothing. Jake motions for him 0$)0%D*)<*)+#-05);$'&2,6)<();%,&)%-)0;*)"$4,/*#)-/#402,2=*-)<()CZ9)) “So, birthday…” he says. I hesitate. “June 8th?” “Yeah, and year?” I hesitate again, trying to do the math in my head. He stops me, winking at us. “Listen blondie, you look like a nice girl. I’ll let you in just this once. “ Jake and I exchange smiles. He takes my hand in his and leads me towards the stairs like I’m a child, helping me maintain balance. The club is small, stuffy, overtaken by frat boys and freshmen. Everything is bathed in pink and purple neons, colors that make everyone look happier and more glamorous. I don’t know many people at school yet, but all those I do know have somehow ended up here tonight. I register random faces – Lisp from Art History, Slow-Talker from English, Eye-Tic from Econ recitation. We are all friendlier than we usually are, hugging, shrieking, kissing each other on the cheek. I see a blonde girl who lives in the dorm room next door. She waves at me and I tell her how gorgeous her hair is. Unabashed, I call Eye-Tic over and ask him his name. Nick emerges from the corner, a lanky brunette almost twice his height hanging on his arm. “This is my bestest friend in the whole world,” he tells her, kissing me on the forehead. Before running off to dance, he whispers in my ear, “I have a secret about Wharton boy, but I’ll tell you later.” All of a sudden, Jake’s roommate, Dan, comes up behind me. Usually he and I barely speak when I’m in their room, but tonight I hug him enthu-2%-02/%''(9))]*).4''-)<*)0$>%#&-);2<5)'*%&2,6)<*)0$)0;*)&%,/*)G$$#9))CK<) ,*3*#)<4/;)$1)%)&%,/*#5)"40),$>)C)1**'),%04#%'5)/$,+&*,0)%,&)1#**9)):;*)1%-0*#) I move, the closer he gets. He starts running his hands down my back, up my thighs, holding my waist even tighter than before. I turn around for a second, scanning for Jake, nervous that he’s left without me. But my head is

redirected by Dan’s hand, moving my face, my lips, towards his. As we kiss, I get dizzier. His breath has the strong taste of Listerine. I3*#()02<*)C)0#()0$)"%/D)%>%(5);2-)0$,64*)6*0-)<$#*)%66#*--23*5)+,&2,6)20-) way into each nook and cranny of my mouth. Eventually, I push him off. I 0#()0$)<$3*)%>%()1#$<)0;*)&%,/*)G$$#5)'$$D)1$#)%)/$4/;)$#)%)/;%2#5)%).'%/*)0$) catch my breath. I spot Jake a few feet to my right with Sophie on his lap, ;*#)1%/*).#*--*&)%6%2,-0);2-9))]2-)+,6*#-)"#4-;)%>%()'$,6)>2-.-)$1);*#);%2#5) and for a second, I see them both just smile at each other. I have heard all about Jake’s conquests, usually in passing between him and his friends, but ,*3*#);%3*)C)>20,*--*&)$,*)+#-0M;%,&9))C)04#,)%>%(5)"$'02,6)1$#)0;*)"%0;#$$<9)) But Dan intercepts me, taking my hand in his. BC),**&)0$).**5Q)C)0*'');2<9))BW%,)($4);*'.)<*)+,&)0;*)"%0;#$$<^Q)]*) places my head on his shoulder, stroking my hair, avoiding my question. I 0%D*)$40)<()/*'').;$,*)0$)/%'')Y%D*5)"40)/%,K0)+,&)0;*)#26;0)D*(-9 “Leave Jake alone,” Dan says, “Can’t you see he’s busy?” Before I can respond, he grabs me, kissing me harder this time. I don’t want to be doing 0;2-5)"40)C)/%,K0)+,&)0;*)>$#&-)0$)-0$.);2<9))N$)C)D**.)%0)205)>*%D'(9))_,/*) or twice, I try to push him away, but he pulls me closer and I let myself fall back in. I’m not sure how much time has elapsed when Jake taps me on the shoulder. “Uh, I think I’m gonna bounce,” Dan says, slinking away. “Sorry, man,” he whispers to Jake. I turn my back to Jake, scared of what he’s thinking. He hugs me, pulling me towards him. “So, you and my roommate… I never would’ve seen that one coming. But then again, I wouldn’t put anything past him. The guy’s an animal.” I just nod, pressing my head against his chest, the room spinning. He takes my hand and walks with me through the crowd of gyrating bodies. Outside, cars honk and halt and screech. I sit on the sidewalk, my head in my lap, my hands tracing circles along the dirty pavement. Jake laughs. “What?” I ask, looking up. “Nothing. It’s just nice to see the high and mighty fallen for once.” I think I should be offended but don’t have the energy for a retort. When a cab pulls up, Jake helps me in, guiding me towards the warm air. I sprawl $40)2,)0;*)"%/D)-*%0)>20;)<();*%&)2,);2-)'%.9))]*)#4,-);2-)+,6*#-)0;#$46;)<() hair, keeps my neck steady. I remember lying on him this way before, when we were eight and I was nauseous on the way back from Disney World. I inch closer, lifting my face slightly. “I saw you,” I whisper, “kissing Sophie.” “Well, I saw you kissing Dan.” “I wasn’t, ” I say coyly, “I only kiss my boyfriends. Promise.” He raises his eyebrows, “I think that changed tonight.”

“But you know me, right, Jake? You know I’m not usually like this?” “I know you,” he says softly, massaging my shoulders. “I know you.” “And either way,” he adds, “it’s not the biggest deal, you know, who you kiss.” When we reach Jake’s room, I collapse on his bed. He has the same sheets here as he does at home, blue and grey plaid. He props up my head and undoes the clasp on my necklace, knowing I’m afraid to sleep with it on. He still has some of the same posters up: the Miami Heat cheerleaders %,&):;*)_1+/*)/%-05)%)'%#6*M"'$>,)4.).2/04#*)$1)0;*)W$46%#-5)$4#);26;)-/;$$') basketball team. “Do you want me to go?” I ask. “Do you want your bed back?” “No,” he laughs. “Of course not.” He lifts up the comforter and as I lie back down, he slides in beside me. ]2-)0$*-)0$4/;)<()0$*-5);2-)'*6-)'$/D)2,0$)<()'*6-5)%,&)+,%''(5)$4#)'2.-)<**09)) Minutes go by. Our kisses are sloppy. My hair is in his face, and he tries to brush it away. Quickly, I close my eyes, afraid to see him, to be seen by him. He lifts me up on top of him and takes off my shirt. His hands struggle with the hooks on my bra, and I slide away shyly onto my side. For a second, I see myself in the mirror, eyeliner caked beneath my lids, my hair mat0*&)&$>,)>20;)->*%09))J()/;**D-)%#*)G4-;*&5)%,&)%#$4,&)<(),*/D)2-)%)02,() red trail. Trash, my mother would say. You look like trash. I stare at myself in disbelief. This is my long awaited moment with Jake? I was supposed to look a lot better than this. “I want to go to sleep,” I whisper, turning onto my side again. “I’m so tired.” “Okay,” he says, wrapping his arm around my waist. “So we’ll sleep.” “No,” I say. “In my bed.” “Are you serious?” he asks. “It’s not like I’m some stranger. You always make everything into a bigger deal than it is.” I use all the strength in my body to lift myself up. “Well I’m sorry, “ I say, my back to him. “Sorry I can’t be as casual about everything as you, Jake.” “You know that’s not what I meant,” he insists, rubbing my shoulders. “It’s cold and it’s late. It’s ridiculous for you to leave now. I’ll tell Dan to sleep somewhere else if that’s what you’re worried about.” Suddenly, I remember Dan and Sophie. Round one of the night. C).40)<()-;2#0)"%/D)$,5)-0#466'*)>20;)<(),*/D'%/*9))C)4-*)<()+,6*#-)0$) comb my greasy hair, collect my cell phone and my keys. I see that I have +3*)<2--*&)/%''-)%,&)<4'02.'*)1#%,02/)0*70-)1#$<)V2/D9))Y%D*)/$<*-)4.)"*;2,&) me, starts kissing my neck. BY4-0)-0%();*#*5Q);*)/$%7*-5)B>*K'')+64#*)20)%'')$40)2,)0;*)<$#,2,69Q In my exhaustion, the offer is tempting, but morning has never seemed

farther away, and my dorm room has never been more appealing. I head towards the door. “What the fuck,” he says, “do you know how unsafe West Philly is at night? Your parents would kill both of us for this.” Still, he just watches me from the doorframe, fading as it closes shut. The night is windy and the streets are deserted. As the stones pierce my feet, I realize I’m missing my shoes. I pass boys in my Econ class, smoking cigarettes on a bench. They ask me if I’m okay, and I just keep walking. I pass rows of dorm rooms, dark window after dark window. By this point, I imagine, most of campus is sleeping. Some in their own beds, some in beds they have never seen before and will never see again. Some with people they care about, but most with strangers who will disappear before the rush to Friday morning classes. By the time I reach my room, it’s already 5:30. I undress, wrap myself in a towel, and venture into the quiet of the hall. The shower is scorching, and I scrub myself as I never have before. There is dirt caked on the bottom of my feet, around my ankles. It barely comes off, and I scrub so hard that my skin turns red and begins to peel away. I curse beneath my breath, the sound of my voice drowned out by the shower’s hum. This isn’t me, I tell myself. I don’t know who the hell this is, but this isn’t me. In the shower, I think about the California trip my family took Jake on when we were fourteen. I hear him commenting on all the hot girls in the resort pool, and remember how badly I wanted to be one of them. I hear him explaining chemistry equations at my kitchen table before midterms. I think of the one answer I gave him on the SATs and all the papers I wrote for him while he played Xbox with my brother. I think of our parents, forcing us together after prom and graduation, begging for “just one more photo.” Of my mother saying, “What you need is a nice Wharton boy like Jake,” of his mother, hugging us both goodbye: “Take care of each other, you two. Try to stick together.” I think of my friends, all of whom have done this, who do this weekly, who have told me repeatedly that this is what happens in college. I think about Dan and Jake and about how all boys are the same, really. Or all of us, even. How we only touch each other with our eyes closed. How we just fall into the arms that will have us.

MASKED WOMEN Tay Cha

IT’S A GOOD THING YOU GOT THAT TATTOO Max Hass it’s a good thing you got that tattoo. because when I do you from behind - the thought of the phrase itself rends the heart of that within me >;2/;)`4&6*-5)%,&)+,&-)>%,02,65)0;*)2,;*#*,0)<2-$6(,() that is male sexuality; rejects the idealization $1)0;%0)>;2/;)2-)2,G%0*&5)6'$"4'%#5)&2-0*,&*&H) revulses at the thought of your head going lower than my nape for a split second my mind races and I forget who you are, apart from the action and to the sole act. I prefer to feel your heart, your breath, and feel myself, becoming a part of you. These months, how they have ripped us apart but how we’ve battled back, to challenge their curse. I want to become: singular, synonymous, side-by-side. From my six-bedroom to our one; from two glasses of milk, we’ll melt into one.

CAMP QUEERING TENNESSEE WILLIAMS

Anusha Alles In 1948, a year after the premiere of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, critic John Gassner glowingly described the playwright as a “painter of a segment of the American scene, a dramatist of desire and frustration, and a poet of the human compensatory mechanism.”1 Williams’ plays are semi-autobiographical works that explore the struggle of artists and dreamers against society’s sexual and artistic repression.2 Due to Williams’ genuine concern for humanity, countless strangers identify with his work. In spite of this, a zealous excess of romanticization and self-consciousness reduces the artist’s honest sentiments to contrived, overly aestheticized and theatricalized works, creating awkward incongruities that in turn subject his plays to camp criticism; his homosexuality further contributes to this, 2,14-2,6)!.*#;%.-)4,/$,-/2$4-'(8)0;*).'%(-)>20;)%)6%()-*,-2"2'20()0;%0)W%<.) delights in exposing. Although heterosexual audiences revere The Glass Menagerie and A Streetcar Named Desire as works framed within normative ideologies and relationships, the plays offer a “queered” subtext that straight audiences unwittingly accept, an irony that Camp cherishes in the parodies For Whom The Southern Belle Tolls, by Christopher Durang, and Belle Reprieve, the joint effort of Bette Bourne, Peggy Shaw, Paul Shaw, and Lois Weaver. Camp humor centers around a gay sensibility that heterosexual norms

%#*).*#1$#<*&)%,&)%*-0;*02/2=*&9)?)B->**0)/(,2/2-<Q)0;%0)*7.$-*-)%#02+/2%'ity in mainstream works through “the sensibility of failed seriousness, of the theatricalization of experience,”3 Camp subverts normative work in order to deconstruct the prevalent conception of “gayness as a moral deviation.”4 It invalidates an accepted reality, functioning as a “solvent of [normative] morality”5)%,&)R4**#2,6),$#<%023*)/4'04#*9))N.*/2+/%''(5)%-)?'*7%,&*#)Z$0() explains, camp readings “exploit the spectacle of heterosexual romance, straight domesticity, and traditional gender roles gone awry,” rendering “everyone’s pleasure in these genres [...] ‘perverse’ [and] queer.”6 Camp unearths a gay sensibility in mainstream work, humorously invalidating its ,$#<%023*)>$#0;)>;2'*)%11*/02$,%0*'()+,&2,6)3%'4*)2,)20-)R4**#)&*32%02$,-9 Williams’ sentimentally constructed characters constitute the dominant W%<.)*'*<*,0)2,);2-).'%(-9)):;*()%#*)'%#6*'()G%05)-(<"$'2/)+64#*-)>;$)1%'') short of human complexity, a failure that Camp humorously responds to. As Susan Sontag declares, “[to] perceive Camp in objects and persons is to understand Being-as-Playing-a-Role. It is the farthest extension in sensibility of the metaphor of life as theater.”7 Belle Reprieve highlights this theatricalization through its characters’ consistent, open acknowledgement that they are acting in a play. At the conclusion they sing together: “Now I realize my one ambition/ I can make a full and frank admission,/ I am madly in love with my art, I love to play my part [...]/ I love the glamour, I love the drama.” Far too dramatic to be real, Williams’ characters become campily self-conscious demonstrations of “life as theater.” Camp seizes on Williams’ overly poetic, dramatic dialogue, which particularly evidences his characters’ theatricality. As Signi Falk observes, “Williams tends to give to a character a kind of punch line of philosophical comment which might, perhaps, be considered a thesis statement of the play [...] Its relationship to the characters and the action is usually peripheral.”8 It is precisely this strange distribution of rhetoric that most emphasizes 0;*)/;%#%/0*#-K)%#02+/2%'20(9)):;*2#)%#02/4'%0*5)*'$R4*,0)-.**/;*-)0$$)-;%#.'() contrast their confused self-destruction. Occasionally, as Falk notes, a character’s declaration is completely incompatible with his nature; he is merely %)"'4,0)2,-0#4<*,0)1$#)3$2/2,6)O2''2%<-K)"*'2*1-9))L$#)*7%<.'*5)0;*)-4.*#+cial, ambitious and insensitive Jim O’Connor voices one of Williams’ most profound sentiments: “The power of love is really pretty tremendous! Love is something that—changes the whole world, Laura!”pg. number Although the sentiment is powerful, the self-absorption and glibness of its deliverer reduce it to a campy joke. Likewise, Blanche’s many elegiac declarations contrast her reckless and crude behavior, as when she pitifully remarks: “Whoever you are—I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”9 The remark becomes ironic when one considers her behavior as a whole. She is in fact a highly manipulative character who knows how to get what she wants from friends and strangers alike; she lounges in the tub while her pregnant sister waits on her, steals and chugs half of Stanley’s liquor, and even carefully

arranges ambient lighting in order to deceive Mitch about her age. As with many other lines in the play, the grace of Blanche’s remark is undermined by her character’s crudeness. Though this “life as theater” reading subverts the tragedy that Williams .%2,-0%D2,6'()*3$D*-5)W%<.)%4&2*,/*-)&*'26;0)2,)-4/;)%#02+/2%'20(9))N4/;) incongruities are not only a means of resisting a mainstream, marginalizing culture; Camp uses incongruities to discover elements in normative work that are in fact sympathetic to a gay audience, such as the idea of self-creation. Stylized, aesthetic performances serve “as ways of shielding the inner self from those on the outside who are too insensitive to understand”10, paralleling the mechanism many homosexuals must resort to in a homophobic >$#'&9))a'%,/;*)2-)%).%#02/4'%#'()/%<.()+64#*9))C,);*#)>*)-**)0;*)%#02+/2%'5) odd juxtapositions of “masculine/feminine,” “youth/old,” and “sacred/profane”11. Blanche is boldly, crudely sexual and an aging alcoholic, but she %&$.0-)&*'2/%0*)'%,64%6*5)*'*6%,0)+,*#(5)%,&)0;*)($40;14'5)32#62,%').*#-$,%)$1) the Southern belle. She hides all the unacceptable elements of this persona, disguising her age with lies and lighting, carefully washing and replacing her tumblers, and putting her wanton sexuality behind her. Amanda, likewise, embodies these juxtapositions of self-creation; a nagging, pedantic, and insensitive older woman who has endured a bitter life due to her spouse’s abandonment, she persistently dons the costume and persona of the blindly optimistic mother and the girlish, vivacious Southern belle. With curtains, sofa covers, and shades, she physically disguises her family’s poverty; with powder puffs, she transforms her daughter into a “pretty trap”12; with a treasured cotillion dress and a meticulous Southern accent, she convincingly and "#2*G()#*%>%D*,-)B0;*)'*6*,&)$1);*#)($40;9Q13 ?-)+64#*-)>;$)/$,-2-0*,0'()-0#466'*)0$).#$`*/0)%)<$#*)%//*.0%"'*)2&*,tity to society, Blanche and Amanda are characters whose campy, deliber%0*'()%#02+/2%')"*;%32$#)2-)"$0;)*%-2'()#*/$6,2=*&)%,&).'%(14''()#2&2/4'*&)"() a Camp audience. Durang’s Amanda drops her transparent Southern charm to reveal a bitchier but more honest, complex and charismatic woman: “You and Betty must come over some evening. Preferably when we’re out.”14 Similarly, Belle Reprieve’s Blanche is fully aware that her hypersensitivity is a farce and honestly acknowledges her more relatable, pushy inner self: “I must admit, I do like being waited on.”15 Unlike many other critics, Camp audiences can both mock and lovingly relate to the pretenses of Williams’ characters. W%<.)#*%&2,6-)%#*)*-.*/2%''()-*,-2023*)0$)0;*)%#02+/2%'20()$1)-$/2%''() assigned gendered roles and a male/female dichotomy. As homosexuals, Camp audiences fail to conform to such roles, and they recognize normative gender performances as a means of repressing or hiding deviations. In deconstructing gendered heterosexual performances, Camp readings ironically queer the characters with whom heterosexual audiences identify.16 Lacking depth to begin with, Williams’ characters easily betray traits incon-

gruous with their gender performances, suggesting an inner, homosexual self—an irony both humorous and sympathetic to Camp audiences. Laura and Blanche are absurdly delicate and fragile; Stella is gentle, patient and strangely desirous of male domination; Stanley is a sexual dynamo who leads a pack of moronic male friends. Williams writes of Stanley: Since earliest manhood the centre of his life has been pleasure with women, the giving and taking of it, not with weak indulgence, dependently, but with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird among hens. Branching out from this complete and satisfying centre are all the auxiliary channels of his life, such as his heartiness with men, his appreciation of rough humour, his love of good drink and food and games, his car, his radio, everything that is his, that bears his emblem of the gaudy seed-bearer.17 Williams uses normative values to illustrate Stanley’s masculinity. However, this characterization merely reduces Stanley to a caricature of the heterosexual male; this in turn suggests that his masculinity is little more than a mask for repressed homosexuality, which plays out in homoerotic male friendships that marginalize his relationship with Stella. The camp rendition explicitly suggests the homoeroticism of Mitch and Stanley’s friendship, morphing their conversation into erotic, orgiastic come-ons: “STANLEY %,&)JC:W]A)!2,)%)1#*,=(8)a20*)<*F)a20*)<*F)N4/D)$,)<*FQ)18 Belle Reprieve casts Stanley as “a butch lesbian,”19 and its Blanche voices a Camp skepticism: “There’s something about the way he smells, something about the way he has to prove his manhood all the time, that makes me suspicious [...] This is calculated sexuality, developed over years of picking up signals not necessarily genetic.”20 Stella’s submissive femininity and attraction to Stanley’s brute masculinity are an equally suspicious phenomenon for camp and straight audiences %'2D*9))O2''2%<-K)N0*''%)`4-02+*-)N0%,'*(K-)%,2<%')'4-0)%-)-$<*0;2,6)B0;%0)-$#0) of [makes] everything else seem unimportant,”21 including Stanley’s abuse and vulgarity. As Falk sarcastically remarks, “It almost seems as if [Williams] has a theory that American girls are fed up with civilized lovers and would give their all to be beaten black and blue by alcoholically odoriferous Neanderthal men.”22 Belle Reprieve therefore exaggerates Stanley’s mental immaturity with a childish fear of the dark, and his animalism becomes pointedly ridiculous and disgusting: “STANLEY: You know, when I think about [Stella], it’s like food, I want to eat her, just put her whole leg in my mouth [...] I could eat my car, I could eat dirt.”23 Although Williams suggests that violence is merely an acceptable part of uninhibited sexuality, Belle Reprieve mocks this eroticization when Stanley burns himself in wax: STANLEY. I burned my hand [...] it hurts. STELLA. Some people think it’s sexy.24 Nauseatingly submissive, Stella becomes as much of a target as Stanley for Camp criticism. Belle Reprieve casts her as “a woman disguised as

a woman”25 who announces, “I’m supposed to wander around in a state of narcotized sensuality. That’s my part.”26 At the end of the play, Stella openly challenges Williams’ reductive portrayal of women: “You took me for a pushover [...] I’m not a pushover.”27 Excessively heterosexual and transparently gendered, Williams’ portrayals become highly susceptible to camp interpretation. Williams’ over-enthusiasm for his material and self-pitying angst coat The Glass Menagerie and A Streetcar Named Desire in an undermining, sac/;%#2,*)0;*%0#2/%'20(5)%,)%#02+/2%'20()14#0;*#)2#$,2/2=*&)"()0;*)R4**#)-4"0*70);2-) homosexuality imparts to Camp audiences. His genuine compassion wins him the love of Camp audiences; yet his blind sincerity damns him to the fate of Camp interpretation.

1. Gassner, John. “Tennessee Williams: Dramatist $1)L#4-0#%02$,9Q)W$''*6*)I,6'2-;)Sb)!STcd8A)SMe9H)f9) Skloot, Robert. “Submitting Self to Flame: The Artist’s Quest in Tennessee Williams.” Educational Theatre Y$4#,%')fg)!STeU8A)STTMfbh9H)U9)N$,0%65)N4-%,9)BV$0*-) on ‘Camp’” Against Interpretation And Other Essays. New York: Picador, 1964. Rpt. in Camp: Queer Aesthetics and the Performing Subject. Ed. Fabio Cleto. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan P, 1999. 53-65.; 4. Babuscio, Jack. “The Cinema of Camp (aka Camp %,&)0;*)i%()N*,-2"2'20(89Q)W%<.A)j4**#)?*-0;*02/-)%,&) the Performing Subject. Ed. Fabio Cleto. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan P, 1999. 117-34.; 5. Sontag, 7 ; 6. Doty, Alexander. “There’s Something Queer Here.” Making Things Perfectly Queer: Interpreting Mass Culture. Ed. Alexander Doty. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota P, 1993. 1-16. Rpt. in Out in Culture: Gay, Lesbian, and Queer Essays on Popular Culture. Ed. Corey K. Creekmur and Alexander Doty. Durham and London: Duke UP, 1995. 71-84.; 7. Sontag, 56; d9)L%'D5)N26,29)B:;*)E#$+0%"'*)O$#'&)$1):*,,*--**) O2''2%<-9Q)J$&*#,)Z#%<%)S)!STgd8A)SefMdb9H)T9) Williams, Tennessee. A Streetcar Named Desire. Ed. Ray Speakman. Oxford: Heinemann Methuen, 1980.; 10. Babusico, 121; 11. Babusico, 119; 12. Williams, Tennessee. The Glass Menagerie. New York: New Directions, 1949.; 13. The Glass Menagerie, 65; 14. Durang, Christopher. “For Whom the Southern Belle Tolls.” Christopher Durang Volume I: 27 Short Plays. Salt Lake City: Smith & Kraus, 1996.; 15. Bourne, Bette, et al. “Belle Reprieve.” 1991. Gay and Lesbian Plays Today. Ed. Terry Hellbing. Portsmouth: Heinemann, 1993. 1-38.; 16. Babusico, 25; 17. Glass Menagerie, 16; 18. Glass Menagerie, 18; 19. Bourne, 4; 20. Bourne, 26; 21. Streetcar, 53; 22. Falk, 178; 23. Bourne, 16; 24. Bourne, 11; 25. Bourne, 4; 26. Bourne, 6; 27. Bourne, 37

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS Wiktoria Parysek this is a triangular purple pill inscribed with the letters S E X only take as prescribed by your [male] doctor she suffers from hysteria due to an overabundance of estrogen and compassion [male] prescribes two slaps to the face every 4-6 hours or as needed no known harmful side effects use only as directed should see results in 25-55 years maybe

GARDENING Sarah Cohen

THREE Florentina Dragulescu Make me shiver [shiver] she shivers too some know, some watch, some join and touch Make me me. Tell me who I am while she’s deconstructing everything I thought I was and putting together something else, someone else who’s like Plasticine in her hands I tell her “break the mold, don’t make me like another. Don’t make others like me. I promise I’ll be my own someone else in between your tiny hands” Her small waist, touching my mouth like she wants to be swallowed bit by bit and ;*#)+,6*#-).'%(2,6)2,)<();%2#)>;2'*)-;*K-)-'$>'()-0400*#2,6)'2D* %)D2&)$,);2-)+#-0)&%()$1)-/;$$'9):;2-)>*26;0)2-)0$$);*%3()1$#);*#)0$)/%##(5 these words are too hard for her to say and I want to take it all from her, take the heaviness of her shoulders and sip every &21+/4'0)>$#&)1#$<);*#)14'')<$40;9 You’re on her shoulders proud and heavy our taboo, our conviction, our fulcrum, lever, one thing to hold on while our world is falling apart, you are our center of gravity and our 6%<*)>20;),$)>2,,*#5)($4)%#*)%)G2.)$1)%)/$2,)%,& one of us has to lose.

DESIRE I Jiwon Lee

HER Rebecca Duncan My vagina’s kind of like my alter ego—she has all the personality I’ve never had. Quite the thrill seeker, She’s always on the prowl for something scandalous and exciting “I know what I want,” she tells me. With high expectations and a prima diva attitude, she wants the best of the best when where and how she wants it. She’ll tell you when she likes it, and will tell you when she doesn’t. ?,&)-;*)*7.*/0-)-;20)%0)0;*)-,%.)$1);*#)+,6*#A “on your knees and at her service.” Sometimes I feel like she’s such a self-absorbed bitch. Never does she stop to think twice about anyone else but has the nerve to always scream for more, more, more; always about pleasing her and satisfying her every whim. And oh my goodness, she can be so loud and obnoxious. You know in fact, she doesn’t even think twice about herself sometimes or what’s good for her— but hey, she’s a go-getta… impulsive bitch. We go head to head at times: sometimes I win, sometimes she does

‘cause she knows my ins and outs. First she starts with my head, feeding me small thoughts and visions that play on my emotions and cloud my mind. Then she begins to tease my body, enhancing my sensitivity to unbearable heights 2,/#*%-2,6)0;*)"'$$&)G$>)0;#$46;$40)<()$&&-)%,&)*,&‘til she begins to get red in the face and warm with smug satisfaction. “Stop it,” I say. “Not here, not right now.” But boy does she love to get her way N;*)&$*-,K0)*3*,)/%#*5)2,)1%/0)-;*)+,&-)20)%<4-2,6 even though it twists my insides and eats away at my peace of mind.

BINDING Tay Cha

There are times when she takes it too far. _,/*)-;*)6*0-)<()"$&2'()`42/*-)G$>2,6)%,&);%-)<*)%0)0;*)02.)$1);*#)+,6*#she begins to effortlessly open up my heart, little by little instilling the small chance of hope and potential promise for what it is my heart genuinely desires. She knows how lonely we both get afterwards, When we’re both left alone. Am I not worth it? I ask her. Am I not good enough to expect more than the empty kisses that cover my face the blank eyes that roll back in his own ecstasy 0;*)+#<)%#<-)0;%0);$'&)<*)$,'()%-);*)>%,0-)<*^ Is this really what you want? How can she be like this? I ask myself O;()0;*);*'')&$)C);%3*)0$)&*%')>20;)0;2-)0#2G2,6)-;20^F Me, on the other hand, I just want to do me. I don’t want to expect and be disappointed. C)&$,K0)>%,0)0$)#%2-*)<();$.*-)$,'()0$)"*)-02G*&)(*0)%6%2,9 CK3*);%&)*,$46;)$1)($4)&#$>,2,6)<*)2,)($4#)-*'+-;)&*-2#*Bitch and moan all you want But I’m winning this one, I’m in control And we’re going to be alone because I say so.

SPOTLIGHT ON PENN MONOLOGUES Cassidy Regan

experience. Through poetry and comedy and honesty, in trepidation and solidarity, grief and strength, amid pillows and blankets and brightly painted posters, we wanted above all else for the performers to express themselves, and for the audience to become engaged in that expression. In the end, the Monologues covered more ground than we could have ever imagined. We had monologues about survival, about body image, about orgasms, about masturbation, about penises and hook-ups and the mastermind beginnings of EM\%65)E*,,K-)+#-0)64*##2''%)<$3*<*,0)&*&2/%0*&)0$)3%62,%-9))Z*-.20*);$4#-) spent in performance and in the talk-back session that followed, the volume of concerns and ideas revealed that there was so much more to say. Ten minutes before the performance began, Litty Paxton made it clear 0;%0)-0%,&2,6)#$$<)>%-),$0)6$2,6)0$)"*)%//*.0*&)%-)%)/#*%023*)-$'402$,)0$)+#*) hazards. With the room packed to capacity, it felt as if Penn’s community was demonstrating its commitment to a new conversation. What follows in this issue of The Fword is a sampling of some of the performed monologues. They are funny, raw, informing, and beautiful—as courageous as the authors >;$)>#$0*)0;*<9))?'0;$46;)#*%&2,6)0;*<)/%,K0)<%0/;)0;*)2<.%/0)$1)0;*2#)+#-0) delivery, I know you’ll understand how important this event was when you witness these words and the spaces they’ve created.

Penn Monologues began with a coffee-house concept. We had little funding, assumed little space, and weren’t sure how many people would be >2''2,6)0$)'*%3*)0;*)-0%/D-)$,)0;*)+#-0),26;0)$1)P*%&2,6)Z%(-9)):;*)*,&)#*-4'0) of these conservative expectations was truly inspiring—not only because of our incredibly talented cast and our incredibly dedicated crew, but also because of those who came to join them. The idea for the show originally came from a need to hear more of Penn’s voices on the issues raised by The Vagina Monologues, and the quali+/%02$,)4-*&)0$)642&*)-4"<2--2$,-)>%-)0;%0)0;*()"*)#*'%0*&)0$)>$<*,9))?10*#) hours of reading through the diverse and truly extraordinary monologues submitted, it became clear that the need to address “women’s issues” was one deeply connected to a need for many voices—not only those speaking about women, but also those speaking about gender, relationships, sexuality, violence, culture, self-respect, and so many more of the concerns most immediate and relevant to the Penn community. While there were many on the production team and in the audience who had previous experience with the Women’s Center and with women’s groups on Penn’s campus, there were many more who did not. From the start, Penn Monologues had the goal of creating a safe space in which all members of the Penn community could share their thoughts and feelings about the female

very consoling. I hope all gay males out there appreciate my substantial contribution to your dating pool. I feel like the girl in that movie whose vagina has vicious man-eating teeth.

THE PUSSY DIARIES Rachel Romeo October 28, 2009 C)%<)fb)(*%#-)$'&5)$1+/2%''().%-0)0**,%6*#M&$<)1$#)+3*)<$,0;-)%,&)*'*3*,) days. My roommate g-chats me from abroad to tell me she’s Facebook-0%'D2,6)<()#*/*,0)*7M"$(1#2*,&5)%,&)C)G%-;"%/D)0$)0;%0)dM<$,0;5)'$,6M distance relationship rollercoaster from the year before. It had culminated in him proposing marriage, me considering for approximately 5 seconds 0;*,).#$<.0'()G2..2,6)$40)%,&)/%''2,6)20)R420-5)%,&);2<).#$/**&2,6)0$)2,/*-santly text me his unrequited love for the entire next semester. Nevertheless, despite my leaving him at the altar, he remains the only man ever to have seduced the L-word from my lips, though I never had the courage to tell him that, truthfully, I didn’t believe in love—that emotion had been robbed from my repertoire years and years ago. N,%..2,6)"%/D)0$)0;*).#*-*,05)<()/$<.40*#)-/#**,)G%-;*-)>20;)0;*)<$-0) recent message: “Um, I hate to break it to you, but, well...he’s a cheerleader ,$>9Q)O;%0^)N*/$,&-)'%0*#5)L%/*"$$D)/$,+#<-)<()1*%#-9))]*)2-)%)/;**#leader. And what’s worse, it appears from his pictures that he’s now cheering for the “other team.” If you catch my drift. Damn. That’s the third one. A friend tries to console me that I haven’t turned them gay—they were %'>%(-)0;%0)>%()%,&)C)>%-)`4-0)0;*)+,%')-0#%>)1$#)>$<*,)2,)6*,*#%'9))]$>)

May 8, 2009 I’ve been 19 for eleven months and twenty-one days. My sophomore year is at an end, and after my newest catch walks me home from our second date to my unfortunate freshman dorm residence, I try to salvage some dignity by snagging a key to the roof for some cuddly star-gazing. One thing '*%&-)0$)%,$0;*#5)%,&)-$$,)C)+,&)<(-*'1)>$,&*#2,6)21)%,($,*)2,)0;*)%.%#0<*,0) across the street can recognize me in such a horizontal position. While I take in a whole lot of night sky, the show screeches to a stop when he sees red, literally. “Why didn’t you tell me it was...you know...your time?!” J$#02+*&5)C)"*62,)0$)-**)-0%#-)$1)%)&211*#*,0)-$#05)D,$>2,6)20)>2'')0%D*) <$,0;-)$1)"42'&2,6)0#4-0)>20;);2<)"*1$#*)C)/$,+&*)0;%0)20K-),$0)0;%0)D2,&)$1) blood—that his touch had disturbed layers and layers of scar tissue. Think2,6)$,)<()1**0)!+64#%023*'(85)C)>$,&*#)21).*#;%.-)C)/%,)/$,32,/*);2<)0;%0);2-) “manly force” just popped a bizarrely located zit? Unlikely. Am I too young to plausibly have festering hemorrhoids? If things don’t work out between us, I can always just tell him it’s herpes.

August 17, 2005 I have been 16 for exactly three months, and with my mom out of town and older brother now gone to college, there is no stopping me from staying out ‘til sunrise in the car I worked two summer-jobs to afford, despite being grounded from driving. Windows down, I speed off to a very redneck ‘we-4#323*&M0;*M+#-0M&%(M"%/DM0$M-/;$$'K)"$,+#*)2,)0;*)>$$&-5)>20;)%)-27M.%/D) of Corona riding shotgun. A few hours and shots of cheap whisky later, I +,&)<(-*'1)-04<"'2,6)2,0$)0;*)"%/D-*%0)$1)<()"*'$3*&)/%#5)%//$<.%,2*&)"() some guy I only vaguely recognize, to the nearby shouts of “Yeah! Lose that V-card!”—like it was something I could misplace under a pile of papers or in a drawer somewhere. No, I have nothing to lose. Before the windows can even properly fog over, he’s lying panting hunched over the passenger seat. He congratulates me on being the best rebound he’d ever had. The next morning I don’t remember his name, but I do have an impression of a seatbelt buckle on the small of my back, much like the four other <%D*-)%,&)<$&*'-)0;%0)>2'')2<.#*--)2,0$)<()G*-;)$3*#)0;*),*70)0>$)(*%#-9)) O;2'*)+64#2,6)$40);$>)"*-0)0$);2&*)/%#.*0)"4#,5)CK<)-*#2$4-'()/$,0*<.'%02,6) lesbianism.

May 17, 2002 CK3*)"**,)SUM(*%#-M$'&)%,&)+,%''()%)0**,%6*#)1$#)ce)>;$'*)<2,40*-5)*3*#) since my Hello Kitty watch struck midnight at my birthday sleepover. And here, surrounded by pigtails and ten different scented gift-packs of Bath & a$&()O$#D-)-.%#D'*)-.#%(5)C)+,%''()1**')'2D*)%,)%&4'09)) All freshly-shimmered eyes turn towards me. “Truth or dare?” taunts the girl now sporting an eyeliner-drawn unibrow that’s reminiscent of Frida Kahlo drowning in a heap of glitter. I know if I say “Dare,” they’ll make me run around the block with a tampon taped to my forehead or something. “Truth,” I say. Pigtails become horns as they sneer at the debaucherous secret they’re about to extract from me. “Are you a virgin?” My stomach twists and I try not to choke. What do I say? How do I answer their question when I don’t even know the answer myself? Because beneath their pigtails are dreams of being swept away by a Prince Charming to a blushing wedding night, a picket fence in the suburbs, and three rosycheeked children running around in the yard, while I lie awake wondering what guy in his right mind would ever settle for damaged goods—someone who might never be able to have children of her own. Here in my hot-pink press-on nails, I know that I will grow up an old maid with an apartment in Queens, whose only hope at contributing to the continuation of the human race is to adopt some unfortunate abandoned Eskimo child from an infomercial. By the time I’m sure they can read my silence like a book, I muster my last bit of courage and tape the tampon to my head.

September 1, 1998 C)/%,)/$4,0)<()%6*)$,)0>$);%,&-5)%,&)-02'');%3*)%)+,6*#)'*10)$3*#A),2,*9)) J()&%&).2/D-)4.)<()$'&*#)"#$0;*#)%,&)<*)1$#)$4#)+#-0).$-0M&23$#/*)32-205) which means a four hour drive from Nashville to Memphis for the weekend. After drive-thru dollar-menu whoppers and ice cream cones, we stop at my grandfather’s house for a rousing card game of hearts, where my dad tries unsuccessfully to shoot the moon eighteen times, and I win because I’m the youngest and the cutest. My dad mumbles something about checking on a raccoon, but we know that’s really an excuse to go sneak a cigarette and call his girlfriend, and my brother wanders off with his latest Gameboy addiction. My grandfather tells me I should probably take a nap so I don’t get cranky, and I do start to feel sleepy as he lays down a blanket on the living #$$<)G$$#9))BW%,)%,)$'&)6**=*#)'2D*)<*)`$2,)($4)2,)($4#),%.^Q)L**'2,6)3*#() regal in my Burger King crown, I tell him to be my guest. I remember it starts with a kiss on my forehead, my cheek, my lips. Is that... his tongue? How did the clasp on my Osh Kosh overalls come undone? I’m big for my age, but my four-foot-seven inch frame feels like a rag doll underneath him. I’ve heard that the big kids sometimes play a game called seven minutes in

heaven, and I spend the next seven minutes in a heaven deep in the corner of my own mind. I don’t know what is happening, and I don’t know that $3*#)0;*),*70)0>$)(*%#-)$1)32-20-)0$)<()E%.%5)C)>2'')#4,)$40)$1)+,6*#-)0$)/$4,0) those excruciating minutes on. C0)>2'')"*)0;#**)(*%#-)"*1$#*)C)/$,+&*)0;*)0#40;)0$)%,($,*k0$)<()<$0;*#5) who is my best friend and protector. It will be four years before she tells my father. Enraged, he calls me a liar and forces me to spend time alone with my grandfather to teach me the true meaning of the word “family”. C0)>2'')"*)+3*)(*%#-)"*1$#*)C)#*14-*)0$)*3*#)/$<*)>20;2,)-27)<2'*-)$1)<() grandfather until he is six feet under. It will be seven years before I stop blaming myself and carving my punishment into the veins of my arms. C0)>2'')"*)%)'21*02<*)$1)(*%#-)%10*#)0;%0)"*1$#*)C)+64#*)$40)>;%0)20)<*%,-)0$) be a woman.

May 2010 It’s the eve of my 21st birthday. I still don’t really know the meaning of the words family, love, sex, and beauty, though they’re getting clearer. I’ve sewed scabs of laughter and worn band-aids of smiles until they were genuine, because that’s what I do: laugh it off. When I look in the mirror, I can now accept the woman who stares back. Even if she does “enlighten” others to their true sexual orientation, at least all those seatbelt impressions have faded. I’ve burned all the pictures of the tampon taped to my forehead, and I’ve never convinced anyone that I had hemorrhoids, nor tried to. I decided not to become a lesbian. And I haven’t adopted any Eskimo children. Yet.

SHIVER Melissa Pavri There is a shiver of stars beneath the blue moon of climax quiet as creed. I wonder if men know the light year between trust and comfort the false skip of stone from ear to Jupiter when a sliver of sex shoulders a galaxy. Twisting from wishbone thighs are tales two lips shy of honest.

But there are still those who donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t know how to use the brush G$%0)<%#$$,*&)2,)%)-*%)$1)>*0).%2,0)>%202,6 1$#)0;*)-*'+-;)-0#$D*)$1)%,$0;*#9 This is for the women who do not rattle "40)>;$)-,%D*)-*'G*--)1#$<)#%.04#* for fear of waking the world. For the women who pinch constellations to shine their teeth and grin only because the moon is telling them to. There is no shame in spilling a secret. There is no shame in breaking, in wanting the sea and the sun in the same pant. The orgasm of life was born for the woman for the pomp of passion and the want of circumstance. There is no shame in a parade of pansies cracking at the same supple axis for a bud of joy and wrestling with the static of faces. Let them weep magenta and turn in unison from the December sky. So to every woman who has ever wanted, Touch, just touch.

But faces feign belief as often as young men sin; women blush like plums and burst for no good reason. They see the pulp of pleasure in the navel of orange %,&)0;*)1$#6232,6)G*-;)$1)<%,6$ beg two eager open hands too young to know the meaning of defeat. A mother who can teach her son 0$).**')%)1#420)>20;)0;$46;014')+,6*#-9 A son who knows a woman is an orchid with a silk ribbon of tender. ?)>$<%,)>;$)D,$>-);$>)0$)+-; the pearl from her oyster without a man. These are the artists of the earth who paint salvation with their tongues %,&)<4-;#$$<)"'2--)"()+,6*#>2&0;9

So, am I gay? Well, I’m a theatre major, so I’m at least suspect, right? I used to really care what vibe I put off. Now I think it’s pretty weird that I >%-)>$##2*&)%"$40)>;*0;*#)$#),$0)-0#%,6*#-)/%,)+64#*)$40)>;$)C)'2D*)0$)-'**.) with. So here it is: I’ll clear everything up for you. I’m just a guy. I might be pounding a six pack watching the playoffs, but that doesn’t make me straight. I might be doing a kickline to “Everything’s Coming Up Roses,” but that doesn’t make me gay. If it’s okay with you, I’ll just be myself.

YOU SILLY GOOSE John Campbell Some days, I’m really a guy’s guy. I scratch myself. I fart. A lot. If you turn on my TV, chances are it’ll be tuned to ESPN. Terms like 4-3 defense, dropping dimes, RISP, and triple crown hold no mystery to me. I waited $,'2,*)0$)+,&)$40)%"$40)0;*)fbSb)O$#'&)W4.)&#%>5)%,&)C)6*0)-%&)>;*,)C)0;2,D) about how the dunk contest doesn’t mean anything anymore. Then again, I also cry every time I watch Little Women. My favorite part of award season is watching Fashion Police: Red Carpet Edition. ESPN may be my television mainstay, but some of my favorite shows include Chelsea Lately and TRANSform Me. (It’s a show on VH1 where transwomen give women with low self esteem fashion, beauty, and life advice. Do yourself a 1%3$#)%,&)`4-0)>%0/;)2098) Even to me, this dichotomy seems kind of weird. It leads to questions, most notably: “John, are you gay?” My mother has asked me this twice. To "*)1%2#5)0;*)+#-0)02<*)-;*)%-D*&)<*)C);%&)`4-0)"**,)0%'D2,6)%"$40)<()-4.*#) awesome kitten calendar. I was all like, “You silly goose.” But I guess that didn’t quite settle the issue in her mind. I suppose I send mixed signals. Sure, I have a lot of carpentry skills, but I use them to build sets…for the all-male singing group I’m in. Yes ladies, you might catch me checking out your boobs, but I’m also going check out what shoes you’re wearing (and one day, one of you has to explain to me what the %..*%')$1)0;*).$2,0*&M0$*)-;$*)2-89

DONYELLE Arielle Bokhour

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE Florentina Dragulescu I like to organize my nights by color. Alphabetize my men. Prioritize all memories by pain pleasure possibilities. “After” always comes prior to “before.” “Consequences” comes in last. One hundred and two kisses in a month. Take two back. Take a purple night and three “B” starting named men. Take him home thirteen nights in a row and forget his name because it makes the nights bearable. And we don’t like that. I’ve yet to let you out. Exhale, cry, laugh, moan you out of me. “C” man. white nights. pain.pleasure.possibilities.

FWORD Ishan Asokan

RESOLVING THE RIFT JUDITH BUTLER ON QUEER THEORY AND FEMINISM

Velika Nespor Last spring, the Philomathean society was kind enough to invite the internationally celebrated academic, Judith Butler, to Penn’s campus. After delivering her speech to a packed house, Ms. Butler granted The Fword a brief interview. She is a public intellectual who made a splash in the 1990’s with her work, Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity, which made her one of the foremost gender theorists of the last twenty years. Grounding her work in philosophy, she coined the phrase “gender performativity” in her attempt to prove that sexual identity is socially produced, enforced by everyday routines. Her goal was, and still is, to expand the realm of gender possibilities, even going so far as to say that anatomical differences are mere perceptions thrust upon individuals by their environment. Nothing, in her opinion, is natural, especially gender identity. However, this view that the categories of men and women are mere social constructs has jeopardized her image as a feminist. After all, if she rejects the delineation of men and women, how can she be an advocate for one of these categories? Throughout her career, she has distanced herself from what she calls feminist “identity politics,” political arguments contin6*,0)4.$,)%,)4,&*#-0%,&2,6)$1)B1*<%'*Q)%-)%,)*--*,02%'5)&*+,2,6)/;%#%/0*#istic of a marginalized group. In recent years, Butler has attempted to mend this rift.

Velika Nespor (VN): In your last book, Undoing Gender, you claim that feminists and queer theorists are allies, whereas you were very critical of feminists in Gender Trouble)"*/%4-*)0;*()%00*<.0)0$)+,&)%,)2&*,020()0;%0) would designate something common to everyone in their movement. Feminists, according to you, were partaking in a kind of “identity politics.” Do you consider yourself a feminist or a gender theorist, and are the two labels inherently exclusive? Judith Butler (JB): I don’t accept gender roles or categories of sexual orientation, because they don’t line up with everyone’s needs and desires and only make the lives of some unlivable because they criticize a certain form of sexuality. Who is in what category? But I am a feminist in the sense that I am appalled by the abysmal literacy rate and poverty of women and the marital laws in which women are disenfranchised. We don’t have to accept that. VN: How have your views on exclusionary gender norms changed since the 1990’s? For our readers, what are exclusionary gender norms? JB: In order to ask that question properly, you would have to ask where something has changed, whether it be in space or sight. Right now, we see laws that have tried to decrease discrimination and have expanded the idea of gender and who is in the sexual minority. VN: For our readers who have not read Gender Trouble, can you explain the difference between sex and gender? How are anatomical differences experienced? JB: Most people think that sex is biological and that sexual differences are determined by nature, but the very science of biology is a product of culture. Gender is a product of society and just because you have certain parts &$*-,K0)<*%,)0;%0)($4#)2&*,020()2-)&*+,*&)"()0;*<9)O*)>%,0)0$)-**).*$.'*) living in all sorts of ways. VN: On a lighter note, do you have a picture of Martha Nussbaum on a dart board? JB: I have no feeling about her. I have never had a problem with her, but apparently she had a problem with me.

QUAINT PHILOSOPHY Ali Castleman i value platonic love. more than your arms, more than you value the movement in my lips, more than you value my words when i whisper them to echo the proof on the page. ‘friend’ is a condescending word. bodies pressed and breathlessness, means to the end in a shudder but i play a cruel joke to ask for your thoughts when you’d rather be a lover. easy, *%-()0$)623*)2,0$)G%00*#()%,&)G400*#are only foreplay to your name resounding at your mercy, 2,)($4#)->*%0)$#)($4#)-*<*,5)-$)-*'+-;5 -$)-*'+-;5)"40)($4).%'*)0$)0;%0)2,-4'05 *7/4-*-)G%D2,6)1#$<)<()-;*&&2,6)-D2,5 my poison, my pity. oh, how i must pity you. you, who’d ask me a question then turn your ear while i happily expelled the details, you never listened, you never wanted to be my friend, nor honestly cared about my musings on Plato love that, sincerely, i held out for free.

I WANT TO TALK WITH YOU Jiwon Lee

HURDLES BETWEEN YOU AND I Jiwon Lee

UNTITLED 1 Marion Smallwood I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t really remember. I think he was staring at the back of my head, lasting. Then he came on one of my darker thoughts and left. For good, I believe.

AN INVESTIGATION OF WHY IT IS Leo Amino An investigation of why it is that it is not a useful thing to congregate. One deduction being given an irretrievable point at which navel hovels inter'$/402,6)>*#*)/$,,*/0*&5)$,'()%)D2,&)$1)G2#02,6)>20;)-(<.0$<5)D2,&)$1)%).'%() at the outside and touchy-feely for representative. A second deduction being an analysis is an apple in your eye, and precluding you also from intercoursing sincerely. The silence is closing like a badly dressed exotic, the sides closing down for concerted interview with the boundary, the desire for language like the desire to be seen by foreigners, classically estranged, indicating obscenely, renouncing to the particularity of our actants in the scheming that is too heady and ironical. And posturing the arbiter, like a weight on him.

TRUST REINCARNATED Katie McCabe

PRETTY GIRLS Rebecca Levine It was me, Lily, and our friend Milton, sitting on Lily’s trundle bed with a bottle of Kahlua and a bowl of pretzels. The Kahlua was Lily’s dad’s—it’s the only alcohol he drinks, and there are always like twenty bottles of it in their laundry room, on a shelf underneath the detergent and fabric softener. Lily’s stepmom, Rosie, brought us the pretzels. They’re gourmet honey mus0%#&)G%3$#5)"40)@2'();%-,K0)0$4/;*&)0;*<9 @2'()2-)-0#*0/;*&)$40)$,);*#)-0$<%/;5)G2..2,6)0;#$46;)'%-0)<$,0;K-)\$64*5) commenting every few pages that a model’s eyes aren’t symmetrical, or that one has surprisingly large boobs for a model, or that the pixie cut one of the models has gotten since the last issue is ridiculous—but, Lily adds, in just the right way. She shows Milton a picture of a model in a jumpsuit, oil-stained and pretending to work on the underside of a car. “What do you think of her?” she asks. Milton says, “Doesn’t even look like a girl,” and dips a pretzel in his mug of Kahlua. “True,” Lily says. She closes the magazine. “Let’s play dress-up,” she says. Milton raises his eyebrows. He’s never been to Lily’s house before, and I can tell he thinks he knows Lily better than he really does. We only met him this September, because he took a year off of high school to build wells in Peru, so he’s a junior like us even though he’s a year older. He’s in A.P. Art

with Lily, and I have that period free so I bring Lily cereal in a Ziploc bag, or a piece of fruit, or a hardboiled egg, and the three of us hang out. I’ve asked ;*#)21)-;*)'2D*-);2<)"40)-;*)-%(-),$5)-;*)`4-0)+,&-);2<)2,0*#*-02,69)) “Yes,” Lily says, “dress-up.” “Grace,” Milton says, turning to me, “is she always this crazy?” I follow Lily through the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connects her room to another bedroom. It’s one of those houses that’s built for two parents and two kids, but Lily is an only child so she uses the other bedroom for her clothes. “Wanting to play dress-up isn’t crazy,” Lily says. “It’s art. And Gracias loves this game, don’t you, Gracias?” “Of course I do,” I say. “Gracias,” says Milton. “I love that you call her that, Lil.” Lily has called me Gracias since sixth grade Spanish because it sort of sounds like “Grace.” I told her it was stupid to name someone “Thank You,” but she says she means it with love so I shouldn’t object. When she explained that to Milton in Art one day, he told her he was fascinated by her philosophy of life. She offered him some of the Frosted Flakes I’d brought her. Milton follows us into the room of clothes. There are a few hangers on the curtain rod and some others on hooks around the room, but for the most .%#0)0;*)/'$0;*-)%#*)2,).2'*-)$,)0;*)G$$#9)):;*)>%''-)%#*)/$3*#*&)>20;)14'') length mirrors hung one next to another. Most of the clothes were Lily’s mom’s back in the eighties, and she was a model so her stuff is way too long $,)<*5)%,&)$,)@2'(5)0$$9))CK<)+3*M1$4#)%,&)@2'(K-)$,'()%,)2,/;)$#)0>$)0%''*#9 “Shit,” Milton says. “Your step-mom doesn’t make you clean this?” “We have an agreement,” Lily says. “I clean my room and we don’t talk about the closet.” “You call this a closet?” “I’ve explained to my stepmother the importance of adolescents’ privacy and personal expression,” Lily says. “She understands perfectly.” Lily starts pulling clothes off hangers and burrowing through mounds $1)/$404#*9))N;*)+,&-)%)04#R4$2-*)'*%0;*#)`%/D*0)%,&)0*''-)J2'0$,)0$)/'$-*);2-) *(*-9))O;2'*);*K-),$0)'$$D2,65)C).40)$,)0;*)+#-0)&#*--)C)-**5)-$<*0;2,6).2,D) and silky; I catch a glimpse of it in the mirrored walls and it looks okay. “Open your eyes,” Lily tells Milton, “I am transformed.” The jacket is thigh length and her legs are bare. “Azzedine Alaïa, fall-winter 1984,” she says, modeling it for Milton. “You like?” “Pretty hot,” he says. @2'()-<2'*-5)+#-0)%0);2<5)0;*,)%0)<*9))BCK'')-;$>)($4);$05Q)-;*)-%(-9))N;*) takes an old issue of Vogue off the bookshelf, which is the only piece of furniture in the room, and shows Milton a photo toward the end of the magazine. “Check this out,” she says. The photo is a black and white shot of a woman leaning against a column, wearing a white dress that’s slit to her thigh and plunges to her navel. There

are diamonds around her neck and wrists and hanging from her ears, and a man in a suit gazes at her from the other side of the frame. I’ve seen it a million times. “That,” Lily says, pointing to the woman, “is my mother.” “Seriously?” Milton says. “When’s this from?” “June of ’82.” “Your mom? For real?” Milton asks. “What’s her name?” “Lenore,” Lily says. “She was German.” “Shit.” Lily looks up. “That dress looks great on you, Gracias,” she says. “I never thought of you in pink.” Milton looks at me, then at Lily, tilting his head to the side like he’s imagining her as a German supermodel. “You look great, Gracias,” he says. “But Lily, I can’t believe your dad married a model. I mean, your dad seems like a cool guy, but—” “It’s not like it worked out,” Lily says. “You’re not supposed to marry someone who’s that much more attractive than you, or you get divorced. It’s been proven by scientists.” “Your mom left him?” Milton asks. “Yep. It’s his fault, though, he should have known better. When you’re that beautiful, you can’t live with normal people. Do you know why, Milton? Because when you’re that beautiful, normal people are ugly. We were too ugly for her.” Milton says, “Lily, God, you’re not ugly.” BO*''5Q)@2'()-%(-5)B20)&$*-,K0)<%00*#5)"*/%4-*)-;*)&2*&9))@23*#)/%,/*#5)+3*) or six years ago. Too much partying! No, seriously, it killed her. Cocaine is bad for you. And I’ll tell you what else: she didn’t look like much at the end.” “I’m so sorry,” Milton says. “She wasted away. She was skinny, and not in the good way—in, like, a starving person way. And, of course, all her hair fell out and her skin got all waxy. It was disgusting.” C)-20)&$>,)$,)0;*)G$$#),*70)0$)@2'()%,&)-;*)'*%,-)%6%2,-0)<*)%,&5)1$#)$,/*5) she feels heavy. “Gracias, Gracias,” she says. I stroke her platinum head— she dyed her hair last week—and I rub her skinny arm through the expensive leather coat, and Milton examines each page of Lenore’s fashion story, run,2,6);2-)2,&*7)+,6*#)$3*#)*%/;).2/04#*9))C1);*)>*#*,K0);*#*5)>*)/$4'&)*%0)2/*) /#*%<)%,&);%3*)/'$0;2,6)+6;0-k'2D*).2''$>)+6;0-)"40)'*--)-04.2&k%,&)0%D*) turns burying each other alive in couture. We go back into Lily’s bedroom and sit on the trundle bed again and drink more of the Kahlua. Milton keeps turning the pages of the magazine, staring at the pictures of Lenore. Lily tries to talk to him about their art class, but he’s not listening, and it’s not like either of them do anything in that class anyway, so she gives up and braids my hair.

“Lily,” he says as Lily ties a pink ribbon around the end of the braid, “not to be insensitive or anything, but you really look like her.” “Like Lenore?” “Yeah.” “Well. Thank you. Better than looking like my father.” B:;*#*K-)&*+,20*'()%)#*-*<"'%,/*9Q “I’m short,” Lily says. “I’m short, and, actually, I don’t look anything like Lenore. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looks at her, confused. Lily always changes her opinions fast, and her moods change with them, and people never know how to react. “Their faces are really different,” I explain. “If you look closely you can see that Lily has much more pronounced cheekbones than Lenore, and Lenore has a stronger jaw. Plus, Lily used to have dark hair, you know. Someone actually said Lily looked like Rosie—her stepmom, you know—a few weeks ago.” Lily stops tying the ribbon. “Why the fuck would you say that?” she says. “I fucking look like my actual mother, Grace. My mother was beautiful.” Then she says, “We need more Kahlua.” B@2'(5Q)C)-%(5)*3*,)0;$46;)-;*K-)<%&)%0)<*5)B*%0)-$<*0;2,6)+#-09))[$4) didn’t have dinner.” “I ate a fucking pretzel,” Lily says. She slams the door and her Audrey Hepburn poster buckles in its breeze. Milton looks at me with his eyebrows raised. He whistles. “We’re not really mad at each other,” I tell him. “You’re a saint, Gracias,” he says. “Lily’s way lucky to have you. She’s '2D*)0;*)<$-0)%>*-$<*).*#-$,)C)D,$>5)"40)-;*)/%,)&*+,20*'()"*)%)"20/;)-$<*times. She’s great, but she’s crazy.” “She’s not crazy.” “There you go. It’s like you love her unconditionally.” “I’m the only one who knows how to take care of her,” I tell him. He nods, then looks serious, like he wants to be an adult all of a sudden. “Is she healthy?” he asks. “Healthy?” “She’s so fucking skinny—that could be anorexia, right?” He looks so concerned about it that I hate him a little. I hate that he’s known her for two months and thinks he gets to be concerned. “Lily and I have feasts most Friday nights,” I say. “We play dress-up, and then we eat ice cream. Sometimes, we go to SuperValu—dressed in clothes worth thousands of dollars, okay—and we buy one of those pies, you know, the pies they always have in the front of the store, and you’re like, who buys those? We cut the pie into pieces and we put it on top of the ice cream, because there’s no reason ice cream should go on top of pie but pie shouldn’t go on top of ice cream.” C)&$,K0)0*'');2<)0;%0)@2'()0;#$>-)4.)%10*#>%#&-9))N;*)&$*-,K0).40);*#)+,6*#-) down her throat or anything, she just realizes how disgusting all that food was

and it makes her nauseous. I put the cartons and boxes in the dumpster and wash all the dishes, and then we sit in the kitchen and feel clean. Lily comes back a few minutes later with a bottle of Kahlua, which she throws on the bed, and a very expensive camera, which she hands to Milton. “Gracias,” she says, “you and I are going to model. Milton, you are going to take pictures.” Milton holds the camera gently in front of him, examining it like a precious object. “The cam is my dad’s,” Lily says. “It’s a Canon or something, and it’s the best there is. Look at it. Makes you want to come in your pants, right?” Milton says, “It’s beautiful.” BZ%&)%,&)P$-2*K-)"%'/$,()-;$4'&)>$#D)%-)%)+'<2,6)-.$05)#26;0^Q)@2'() says. “It overlooks the backyard and it’ll be cool with the bare trees in the background. Gracias? Coming?” Her rib cage looks so narrow in that leather jacket that for a second I imagine it on Lenore, not when she modeled but when she was dying, alone in the hospital, nothing but fashionable bones. I see us posing for Milton, Lily pouting and messing up her platinum hair, me not knowing what to do with my hands, Milton watching us through the best camera there is. “Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.” When we get out onto the balcony, it’s way too cold to stay out there for more than a minute. We’re barefoot in clothes that are more imagination than fabric, and it’s November. “Bad idea, Lil,” Milton says. “My hands are cold. I’m going to drop the camera.” “One shot,” Lily says. “Fine.” I arch my feet, trying to let as little of the cold wooden balcony touch my bare skin as possible. I smile at the camera, even though Lily always tells me that I’m more interesting-looking when I frown—frown slightly, of course, not enough to make my eyebrows scrunch. Lily stands behind me and puts her arms around my waist. Fresh goose bumps prickle up my arms as her cold turquoise leather touches my skin. “Lily,” I say, twisting my neck so I can look at her. “Why are you—” “Gracias,” she says, into my ear. “We’ll never be happier or more beautiful than we are right now.” I smell perfume, not Lily’s, but maybe her mother’s from a long time ago. Lily just smells cold. “Lily,” I say, but I don’t know what to say next. Milton looks at us through the camera. “Take the picture!” Lily says. She laughs. “I’m freezing, Milton, and I’m keeping Gracie Gracias alive with my own body heat. Hurry up!” :;*)/%<*#%)G%-;*-5)%,&)@2'()6#%"-)<();%,&5)%,&5)#4,,2,6)%,&)6266'2,65) she pulls me back into the house. The jacket is too big on her, and she looks less like she’s playing dress-up than like she’s wearing hand-me-downs because she doesn’t own anything of her own. Milton follows us inside to

Lily’s room. Lily is shivering but giddy. She turns on music, Pink Floyd, and grabs my hands and makes me dance with her. “That dress is perfect on you,” she says. “It’s yours, keep it forever. Lenore had tits, she’d want you to have it.” )?10*#)%)>;2'*5)@2'()6*0-)02#*&5)%,&)-;*)04#,-)0;*)<4-2/)&$>,)%,&)>*)+,2-;) the pretzels and don’t bother opening the second bottle of Kahlua. She takes off the turquoise jacket and slips under the covers in only her underwear and bra. Milton sneaks downstairs to put the empty bottle in the recycling bin, and while he’s gone, I change out of the pink dress and into a t-shirt and cotton pajama shorts. Before long they’re both asleep, Lily on her bed and Milton on the trundle. I lie next to Lily and her knee touches my leg and I can’t tell if the pulse I feel is hers or mine. Milton gets the trundle to himself and sleeps in his boxers. In the morning, Milton and I both wake up early and he offers me a ride home. We’re halfway to my house when I remember the pink dress, the inoffensive pink dress that Lenore would have wanted me to have because I have tits. I’ll probably never see it again—it’ll be at the bottom of a pile of clothes before long, and after a while it’ll be lost in that soft, delicate sea of couture, the legacy of a slender, unloving German fashion model. It doesn’t really matter. I’m only a B-cup anyway.

LOST INNOCENCE Jiwon Lee

WATER RESISTANT

You took me home and I walked slowly in the rain, soaked and frozen to the bone in a foreign desire. You pulled me along and rushed me inside. I suppose you had other things on your mind. J2,*)C)/%''*&)($45)%)14#023*M+*,& no one should have trusted. Next time, I’ll bring an umbrella.

Wiktoria Parysek The forecast must have overlooked the torrential downpour now fogging up my mind; the world outside the windows milky and drugged. Even the weathermen couldn’t explain where it came from or where it went. Where you came from or where you went. Shock showers they called them, a deluge no one could have foreseen. I certainly couldn’t predict the shy-sly corduroy-clad front on the horizon. You were a sight both smoky and drugged, wet palms and dry mouth. Where did you come from? :;*#*)>%-)%)'26;0,2,6)G%-;)%,&)($4)>*#*)0;*#*5 promptly followed by a thunderous roar – a wave of chatter in the crowded basement. The whole house was steeped in a damp air, a humidity unique to you. Slick they called you, a smooth-talker no one could have denied. Dark clouds tumbled ever closer as you sauntered over and took your place at my side, like you’d take a seat in your favorite bar. You looked into my eyes and winked. The usual, please. Yeah you’re a regular, alright. The crowd grew and you moved closer and there it was. That smell, that fresh, muddy, raw smell that forecasts the rain. I looked up, closed my eyes, and braced myself for the torrent.

SWIM Sarah Cohen

“SWEAT” A RETELLING OF GENESIS

Caitlin Leahy Delia sweats. This miniscule sentence encompasses the essence of Zora Neale Hurston’s short story, “Sweat.” Hurston tells the story of Delia Jones, a hard-working woman who must overcome her abusive husband in order to keep everything she has strived to achieve. During the time Hurston wrote “Sweat,” feminist literary theory was concerned with both how women have written as well as how they have been represented. Working within this framework, Hurston plays with both biblical and social stereotypes in order to take a feminist stance in her writing. She inverts gender roles by pitting a strong, resilient female character against the ineffectual, weak male characters in her tale. Similarly, Hurston sprinkles her short story with numerous biblical themes and references, all in an effort to retell the story of Adam and Eve through the eyes of a woman. Therefore, Delia becomes the ultimate symbol of womanhood--Eve. Hurston allows woman to triumph over her oppressor--man--just as Delia ultimately triumphs over Sykes. In “Sweat,” Zora Neale Hurston takes a decidedly feminist stance by reworking the biblical tale of Adam and Eve in order to redeem Eve and womanhood. Hurston wrote “Sweat” during the era of First Wave feminism, when >$<*,)>*#*)<%2,'()/$,/*#,*&)>20;)$3*#04#,2,6)$1+/2%''()<%,&%0*&)2,*R4%'ities. Hurston’s piece, however, is ahead of its time in that she looks at the 4,$1+/2%')2,*R4%'202*-)1%/*&)"()<$&*#,)>$<*,9))]*#)-;$#0)-0$#()BN>*%0Q)2-)

more concerned with how women are perceived, and especially how they are represented in literature. Essentially, women have been depicted in two lights: that of Eve, the temptress and destroyer of mankind, or her antithesis the Virgin Mary, who is chaste, meek and humble. Hurston works within this framework to retell the story of Genesis. The only two female characters within the text seem to represent these two drastically different stereotypes of women. Sykes’ mistress can be seen as a temptress who ruins Delia’s marriage: a fat, slovenly woman who disrupts the already precarious situation in >;2/;)Z*'2%)+,&-);*#-*'19))W$,3*#-*'(5)Z*'2%)/%,)"*)-**,)%-)/;%-0*)%,&).4#*9)) N;*)2-)%)>%-;*#>$<%,)>;$)B/'*%,-*-Q)%,&)B.4#2+*-Q)0;*)/'$0;*-)$1)$0;*#-9)) Described as “habitual[ly] meek,”1 Delia is, in a sense, pure and submissive. Ironically, Hurston turns these stereotypes completely on their heads. Delia’s name harkens back to the biblical story of Samson and Delilah in which Delilah represents the ultimate temptress. Similarly, Delia is meant as a representation of Eve herself, which Hurston uses to redeem both Eve and women in general. Through this, Hurston attempts to show the futility in stereotyping women along these lines. Hurston herself held strong beliefs in the power of women and thus takes a decidedly feminist standpoint when writing “Sweat.” By using Delia as a representation of Eve, and Sykes as that of Adam, she is able to alter biblical text in order to present Eve in a positive light. Rather than attempting to perpetuate the idea that women are inferior, Hurston retells the story to advance the plight of women. As Delia is a symbol for Eve and thus for all women, it is important to look at the numerous biblical references in “Sweat,” and how Hurston uses them to advance her feminist ideals. The most obvious and frequent biblical #*1*#*,/*)2-)0$)0;%0)$1)-,%D*-9))C,)0;*)+#-0)1*>).%#%6#%.;-)>*)'*%#,)0;%0)Z*'2%) is deathly afraid of snakes when Sykes drops his whip over her shoulder, causing her to believe it is alive. The snake is used to remind the reader of Satan and his possession of the snake in the Genesis story. Thus, the snake "*/$<*-)%)#*.#*-*,0%02$,)$1)*32'9))N2<2'%#'(5)N(D*-K)%1+'2%02$,)>20;)"$0;)0;*) #%00'*-,%D*)%,&)0;*)-*#.*,02,*)>;2.)%'26,-);2<)!%,&)0;4-)%'')<*,8)>20;)0;*) devil, and he becomes evil incarnate. On the other hand, in order to weather the storm of Sykes’ anger and abuse, Delia must build “spiritual earthworks” around herself so that his “shells c[an] no longer reach her.”2 Her extreme religion and reliance on God allows her to face the cruel situations in which -;*)+,&-);*#-*'19))@2D*>2-*5)i$&).4,2-;*-)?&%<)"()-%(2,65)Ba()0;*)->*%0)$1) your brow you will eat your food until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken; for dust you are and to dust you will return.”3 However, 4,'2D*)i$&5)]4#-0$,)<%D*-);*#)I3*)!29*9)Z*'2%8)0;*)$,*)>;$)<4-0)->*%09)) This sweat has allowed Delia to build for herself a sanctuary from Sykes and the outside world in her home and garden. She has created her own Eden, a paradise on Earth. On Hurston’s part, by making women the ones who must 0$2')%,&)->*%05)-;*)#*,&*#-)N(D*-)!%,&)<%,)2,)6*,*#%'8)2<.$0*,0)%,&)4-*'*--9

Just as Hurston inverts the scriptural roles of male and female, she also reverses their clerical roles. Take, for example, Delia’s job as washerwoman. As previously mentioned, this occupation holds connotations of cleansing and purity. It is equally important to note that Delia washes white clothes— in the sense that the fabric is white and also that she washes the clothes of white people. This cleansing with water is reminiscent of baptism, especially as Delia starts her washing on the Sabbath. By constructing Delia as a baptizer, Hurston makes her analogous to members of the clergy. Similarly, by creating a woman baptizer, Hurston reminds the reader of the reason for baptism—the washing away of original sin, the sin perpetrated by Adam and Eve. Delia’s ability to cleanse and purify allows her to wash away the sins 0;%0);*#)6*,&*#)2-)"*'2*3*&)0$);%3*)/$<<200*&9)):;*)+,%')%,&)<$-0)0*''2,6) biblical reference occurs during Sykes’ death scene. After Sykes is bitten by the rattlesnake, he and Delia end up beneath the Chinaberry tree in their yard. The tree is reminiscent of the Tree of Knowledge evoking Eve’s consumption of the apple and the consequent expulsion from paradise. It is telling that Hurston ends her story here, literally at the root of gender stereotyping. Delia survives; she is not overcome by evil as Sykes is, and her ability to feel pity for the man who troubled her speaks to the goodness of her nature. Her compassion is her redemption. The last sentence reads, “she could scarcely reach the Chinaberry tree, where she waited in the growing heat while inside she knew the cold river was creeping up and up to extinguish that eye which must know by now that she knew.”4 Delia, like Eve, receives knowledge— that of Sykes’ certain death—when she is beneath the tree. It is important to understand exactly how Hurston uses feminist ideas and biblical symbolism to redeem both Eve and women in general. Most importantly, Delia is able to triumph over Sykes. His death not only allows ;*#)0$)"*)1#**)$1)0;*)%"4-*);*)-;$>*#*&)$,);*#)0;#$46;$40)0;*2#)+10**,)(*%#-) of marriage, but it also allows her to remain in her home with her garden, the things she worked the hardest to achieve. Hurston puts a twist on the 1%<2'2%#)0%'*)$1)?&%<)%,&)I3*),$0)$,'()"()%''$>2,6)I3*)!Z*'2%8)0$)0#24<.;5) "40)%'-$)"()<%D2,6)?&%<)!N(D*-8)0;*)$,*)0$)"#2,6)*32')2,0$)0;*)6%#&*,)%,&) thus foist it upon mankind. In order to frighten and torture Delia, Sykes captures a rattlesnake, cages it and places it in their kitchen. By bringing the snake into his home, Sykes perpetuates his own downfall. The evil he "#2,6-)/%4-*-);2-)&*%0;5)<%D2,6);2<)0;*)+#-0)0$)'*%3*).%#%&2-*H)N(D*-)!<%,8) 2-)0;*)#$$0)$1)%'')-411*#2,65),$0)Z*'2%)!>$<%,89))Y4-0)%-)<%,)"#2,6-)*32')2,0$) Delia’s little world, so too is he incapable of stopping the tragedy her life has become. The other men in the story sit contentedly on Joe Clarke’s porch, railing against Sykes and his treatment of Delia. All the men express a desire to “take Sykes an’ dat ‘oman [his mistress] uh his’n down in Lake Howell swamp an’ lay on de rawhide.”5 These very actions the men talk so enthusiastically about never come to fruition because they are too easily defeated by the summer heat. Thus Hurston essentially renders all the male characters

2,)BN>*%0Q)%-)*20;*#)<$#%''()!29*9)N(D*-8)$#).;(-2/%''()!29*9)0;*)0$>,-<*,8) impotent. Conversely, Hurston crafts Delia as a woman of strong beliefs and convictions. It is this inner strength that Hurston uses to defy the stereotypes of weak, mild women: a stereotype that descends from Eve herself. It is arguably Eve’s weakness that causes her to eat the apple, leading to her expulsion from Eden and the ultimate suffering of mankind. However, Hurston contrasts this with Delia’s ability to stay with Sykes. It is her strength that allows her to stay, and it is her conviction that the house belongs to her— after all the sweat she has invested in it—that fuels her desire to remain in her Eden. In “Sweat,” Zora Neale Hurston takes a decidedly feminist stance in her reworking of the biblical tale of Adam and Eve by attempting to redeem Eve and womanhood. Hurston explores the role of women both as writers and as characters, thus thwarting many of the stereotypes women encounter. She uses numerous biblical references to remind the reader of Delia’s symbolic role as Eve, which ultimately serves as redemption for Eve and all >$<*,9)N;*);%-)>$#D*&);%#&)%'');*#)'21*)%,&5)%10*#)+10**,)(*%#-)2,)%,)%"4-23*) <%##2%6*5)2-)+,%''()%"'*)0$)0#24<.;)$3*#);*#);4-"%,&9)Z*'2%)%'$,*)2-)%/023*5) *,;%,/2,6)0;*)1%/0)0;%0)]4#-0$,)/#%10-)2,/%.%"'*)<%-/4'2,*)+64#*-9)N2<2'%#'(5) Hurston constantly strives to topple gender roles. Delia works while Sykes stays at home or goes off with his mistress, and she also takes on the role of 0;*)"%.02=*#)!%)#$'*)0(.2/%''()0;$46;0)$1)%-)"*'$,62,6)0$)<*,8)0;#$46;);*#) work as a washerwoman. Delia’s inner strength allows her to weather her abusive marriage and stay securely in her Garden of Eden. Throughout it all, Delia sweats.

S9)l$#%)V*%'*)]4#-0$,5)BN>*%05Q)!STfh85)Women Writers, ed. Cheryl A. Wall (New Brunswick: Rutgers University E#*--5)STTe8)feH)f9)]4#-0$,5)fTH)U9)i*,*-2-)UASTH)c9) Hurston, 40; 5. Hurston, 31

A PERFECT SON OR DAUGHTER Jenny Fan N;*)>%-)0;*).*#1*/0)+#-0"$#,)W;2,*-*)-$,)2,)*3*#()>%(k*7/*.0)0;%0)-;*) wasn’t a son. Mindful of the younger children, respectful and dutiful to her parents’ generation, and spending more time studying for calculus tests than frequenting malls and movie theaters, she would beam when her mother observed her habits and said in her offhand way, “I’m glad you’re not like $,*)$1)0;$-*)-2''()62#'-)>;$)G2#0-)>20;)0;*)"$(-)%'')0;*)02<*9Q)a40)*3*,)2,) the compliments, her mother’s threats were implicit. Most rewarding was ;*#)-0$2/)1%0;*#K-)-%02-+*&)6#4,0)$1)%..#$3%'9))N;*),*3*#)&2&)%,(0;2,6)0;%0) would disappoint him greatly, and his small disappointments in her transient G%>-)>*#*)`4-0)0;%0A)-<%'')%,&)2,-26,2+/%,09))BC)D,$>)($4)>2''),*3*#)&2-$"*() <*5Q);*)-%2&)$,/*5)%10*#)%)'*,60;()-.%09))B[$4)%#*)<()+#-0"$#,)-$,9Q)E%4-*9)) “Daughter.” She grew up reading more Jack London than Virginia Woolf, knew how 0$)"*)0;*)+'2%')W$,14/2%,)-$,)$#)&%46;0*#5),*3*#)>%0/;*&)%,)*.2-$&*)$1)i$-sip Girl. She listened to her mother’s harried naysaying and stayed away 1#$<)%''),$,MW;2,*-*)"$(-5);*#)+*'&)$1)32-2$,)%&`4-02,6)%-)21)0$)%40$<%02cally target and register every familiar Oriental face in the room when she walked in. She became a phenotypical bigot, attracted to the smooth, toned legs of Asian men and the messy way every black silk strand of hair fell into place. More than anything, she was attracted to their elbows, the place where

modestly toned biceps joined the powerful grip of a forearm. Whether it was toned by the powerful swing of a tennis racket or the possessed scribbling of a pen, she felt her heart beating faster at the thought of the unpredictable force it could unleash. In her eyes, the perfect statue of David was a chiseled Asian man, and she dreamed of taking one home to her parents one day. Look Ma, Ba, we’ve followed your wishes and will proceed to propagate the #%/*)$1)>;2/;)($4)%#*)-$).#$4&9))C)%<)($4#)+#-0"$#,H).'*%-*)*,0#4-0)($4#)1%<ily’s legacy to me. But it all fell apart in the game of seduction. Even when she managed to catch the eye of a handsome boy at a party, tall with a great haircut and clad in the fashionable plaid of the season, she’d say the right thing too quickly— which was, of course, the wrong thing. “What’s your name?” he might implore, feeling for his chances, and all too eagerly she would oblige. Wrong move. Boys like the chase more than girls like the attention. O;*,)-;*)+,%''()<4-0*#*&)4.)0;*)/$4#%6*)0$)%-D)%)"$()$40)$,)%)&%0*k /;%,62,6)02<*-5)#26;0^k-;*)G4-0*#*&)%0)0;*)*,&)%-);*)'$$D*&)%0);*#)*(*-) expectantly, and shook his hand nervously. He would never know what she >%-)%"$409))N;$4'&)-;*)"#2,6)G$>*#-^):*70)>20;2,)0;#**)&%(-^)):;$-*)>*#*) 0;*)#4'*-)1$#)"$(-5)#4'*-)$"-*#3*&);%.;%=%#&'()1#$<)/;2/D)G2/D-9))O;%0)>*#*) normal girls supposed to do, anyway? The movies made it look like they didn’t have to do any work at all. It was the guys that came back, always. To the men, she wanted to protest: Look, I’m an Asian girl and I love your kind, but even Asian boys got props for getting with the white girls. Respect for defying one stereotype, united resentment against Asian women for perpetuating the other. Don’t blame your own failures on me, she thought. And considered the deeper, harsher truth: these mainstream society rejects didn’t want her, either. She could have made any of those factions her enemy: the boys that weren’t interested in entertaining her sincere, if incompetently innocent ways; the parents that raised her to be socially inept until the ideal marry2,6)%6*)$1)0>*,0()+3*5)>;*#*4.$,)-;*)>%-)*7.*/0*&)0$).#$&4/*)0;*).*#1*/0) husband out of nowhere; or the media that told the American public that every Asian woman was a kinky, wily woman who could work magic upon Caucasian Male America via the bedroom and ancient Tantric/tropical/ Happy-Ending-For-You techniques. One look at her and you’d laugh at the preposterous proposal. She /$4'&,K0);%3*)"**,)%)1*>)2,/;*-)$3*#)+3*)1**05)%,&)>%-)"42'0)>20;)0;*)-0$/D(5) daikon radish legs of the Japanese. She had a moon face like the Koreans, %)G%0),$-*)"#2&6*)'2D*)0;*)J$,6$'2%,-5)%,&).#*&2/0%"'*)W;2,*-*)*(*-5)'%#6*#) 0;%,)<$-0)"40)4,1$#04,%0*'()<$,$'2&-)!0$);*#).%#*,0-K)/;%6#2,89))N;*)0;$46;0) her redeeming feature was her smile. Yet when she looked at herself in pictures, her smiles always looked forced and hesitant, as if they were the product of some earlier youthful shyness. Maybe it was an act of prudence

by the gods, but she was never allowed to see all that made her beautiful to $0;*#).*$.'*9))N;*)-%>)$,'();*#)G%>-)2,);*#)$>,).2/04#*-5)%,&);*#)32#04*-) #*G*/0*&)2,)0;*)1%/*-)$1)0;$-*)%#$4,&);*#9)) Still, she didn’t resent any of those factions, except one: the Asian girls who got it right. They were the dragon ladies of her Charlie Chan life. She might as well have been an unwitting peasant boy, ensnared by their charm and mystery. They knew how to say just enough and pull back, throwing up protective walls and reeling you in completely. They came in all shapes and sizes, but the most detestable ones were tall and sinewy, with high cheekbones and almond irises brilliantly set against smoky eyes. There were also the small, cute ones with ingénue doe-eyed stares, cherry blossom lips, and pixie cuts, their high-pitched voices etching into men’s memories. O;*#*)&2&)0;*)iOJki$$&)O21*)J%0*#2%'k+0)2,0$)0;*).2/04#*^)N;*) didn’t want to be an O-Lan and die from exhaustion like Pearl Buck’s Good Earth)0#$.;()iOJ5)$,'()%..#*/2%0*&)1$#);*#)-%/#2+/*-).$-0;4<$4-'(9))a40) the Lotuses of eternity seemed to always reign supreme, loved by men and envied by women, capable of manipulation and turning off their self-consciousness. She demanded retribution for Lotus taking O-Lan’s pearls. She wanted glory and recognition and love without being able to say so explicitly—to want so openly would surely be immodest and un-Chinese. She learned from her parents well. What a mass of contradictions. To earn her father’s respect, which was >;$''()*,/%.-4'%0*&)2,);2-)-2,6'*),$&)$1)%1+#<%02$,5)-;*)0#%&*&)"*2,6)%)62#') 0$)"*);*#)1%0;*#K-)+#-0"$#,5)0;*).#$4&);*2#)$1);2-)%,/*-0$#-K),%<*9))C,)-$<*) $0;*#)'21*5)-;*)/$4'&);%3*)"**,)32/02<)0$)1*<%'*)2,1%,02/2&*)%-)0;*)+#-0"$#,9)) In yet another life, such a heinous fate would have never crossed her mind. She would have spent her childhood playing with Barbies instead of curiously following the unwavering stroke of her father’s ink brush, tracing mysterious characters into old parchment. She might have helped her mother wrap dumplings in the kitchen for Lunar New Year, but ultimately, she would gravitate to her father’s side with his oolong tea in hand. She’d watch him smooth the wrinkles across his face, >2.2,6)%)&%()$1)-0#*--)%,&)+3*)<2''*,,2%)$1)$..#*--2$,)1#$<);2-)"#$>)"*1$#*) settling down to his calligraphy. He would write words like “strength,” “power,” and “honor,” as if he were willing himself to be reborn with the honor of the samurai. To curb Japan worship—all Chinese tread carefully in the aftermath of twentieth century history—he would listen to Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture and call himself a cosmopolitan. His Chinese hands mixed Japanese bushido tradition perversely with Russian symphonies and Oriental honor talk, set against the backdrop of existentialist suburban America. Each stroke he wrote had the precision of a katana blade, the meaning and the gravity of a single word slicing through the awkward bastion of her reservations and giving her courage to be more.

She learned loyalty and pride from her childhood heroes, a portfolio of legendary Greats: General Yue Fei, the patriot who tattooed “Loyalty to the Country” on his back and fended off the Northern invaders; Li Bai, the drunken poet whose poems formed the skeletal vertebrae of Chinese society; and Zhuge Liang, the military strategist whose legacy put the romance in the P$<%,/*)$1)0;*):;#**)m2,6&$<-)%,&)'2D*'()-.%#D*&)0;*)W;2,*-*)*#$02/)+7%tion on intelligent men. But smart women had no place in history. Hua Mulan disgraced her family and caused a national spectacle. The Four Great Beauties of classical W;2,%)>*#*)#*-.$,-2"'*)1$#)-0$..2,6)"2#&-)2,)<2&G26;0)>20;)0;*2#)-04,,2,6) looks, but also led men astray and brought kingdoms to their knees. It was all the work of failed brides and temptress concubines, coming from what sounded like a culture of whores and kitchen slaves. But she watched her father write majestic words and weighed the precious jade talismans of her culture against the polyester desires of her American existence. There were many things she could have been. She could have been a +#-0"$#,)-$,5)%),%<*'*--)&%46;0*#)"$#,)-*/$,&)$#)0;2#&5)%),$,MW;2,*-*5)%,) Americanized lao wai foreigner in her household, or even the Sexy Asian Girl. Instead, she was Good Wife Material, sharing in sexual impotence with her bitter Asian male compatriots but eclipsed by the Tila Tequilas and more %00#%/023*)!21)0#%,-2*,08)0*<.0%02$,-9))N;*)-'2..*&)2,0$)0;*)%''M%/;2*32,6)-D2,) of the model minority Asian, sexless and ageless and nameless and hopeless, /#4-;*&)"()$,*)/$,02,*,0K-)3*,*#%02$,)$1)0;*)+#-0"$#,)-$,)%,&)-<$0;*#*&)"() another country’s aspirations for a modern, independent woman. So, she fell in the space in between, this Asian American Other, this perfect son or daughter.

UNTITLED 2 Marion Smallwood I remember the way december looked like summer on your brow. I remember jumping off the roof of your mouth, down all those stories you told. I remember making showers a vacation. I remember you like really hard punches to the chest. I remember stopping the blood with bad words and smoke. I remember when my looks still had their training wheels on. I remember wondering if my bed were to one day be my casket, >;$)>$4'&)+,&)<*)0;*#*9) C)#*<*<"*#)<4<<21(2,6)($4)>20;)<()G*-;9 I remember back-laps and ink tongues, life lines and drowning my eyes in its own glaze. I remember feeling at home once. I remember thinking pearls were ocean teeth. I remember thinking it was all my fault lines. I remember being her aftermath. I remember wanting to keep you. I remember how much fun it was spooning the backyard. I remember being old enough to know this wasn’t supposed to happen but young enough to let it. I remember wrapping my hands in hurricanes and cupping them over my eyes to see in calm. I remember needing you like book vomit. I remember catching a plane to sleep, roundtrip. I remember peeling your prayers from my gut and wondering why they smelled like peaches.

UNTITLED 1

FINITE Jiwon Lee

Janet Chow Please receive my kind condolences That kiss I gave You didn’t mean anything to me at all. I know I told you Something or another led you to believe I felt something that I didn’t. You might call me Bitch C)0;2,D)CK3*);*%#&)0;%0)!"*1$#*89 No please don’t be so surprised I may have been insincere I’m just surprised you thought I was Serious. Not like you were just Looking For Something Fun But wait. You were.

ON THE UNKNOWN HISTORY OF JAP Allison Carroll Goldman Lately, I have come to understand how incredible and unique women really are. That this should come as such a realization, however, is a problem, and I think language holds some blame. Girls are constantly labeled catty, dramatic, gossipy, manipulative, cliquey, crazy…the list goes on, and the worst part is how actively we participate in the labeling. Words like “bitch” and “slut” are both distinctly negative and distinctly female. By using them loosely, we are inadvertently debasing our sex not only to men, but more importantly, to ourselves. Most dangerous are labels that subtly /$,G%0*),*6%023*)0#%20-)>20;)B1*<%'*Q)%,&)*72-0)4,,$02/*&)2,)$4#)3*#,%/4'%#) without even being considered offensive. Take “JAP,” for example. It’s an acronym for “Jewish American Princess” that has become an accepted term in everyday speech, but words are not innocent: they have history and come laden with associations that are relevant even if they’re unintended. We have to think critically about the language we use against each other and consider the message these terms essentially deliver. As it turns out, the familiar JAP stereotype actually achieved its current standing in popular American consciousness through a prominent joke cycle in the late 1980s and 1990s.1 These jokes featured a JAP interested only in money, shopping, and status. Highly manipulative, the JAP contributes nothing to society but worries loudly and excessively about her appearance. She

has likely had a nose job, gets frequent manicures, perpetually diets, refuses to cook, and is disinterested in sex. The JAP jokes circulating in the 1980s and 1990s were deeply offensive and often graphically sexual. As these jokes became increasingly popular, particularly on college campuses in the eastern United States, their inherent anti-Semitism and sexism became blatant. In 1989, Garry Spencer, a N$/2$'$6()E#$1*--$#)%0)N(#%/4-*)n,23*#-20(5)2&*,02+*&)<4'02.'*)2,-0%,/*-)$1) verbal violence associated with the JAP stereotype directed against women on various college campuses. He described t-shirts with the words “Slapa-JAP” written across them and disc jockeys who sponsored “Slap-a-JAP” contests at campus bars. Other instances included a school basketball game >;*#*)%)6#$4.)$1)>$<*,)!"$0;)Y*>2-;)%,&),$,MY*>2-;8)>%'D2,6)%/#$--)0;*) G$$#)&4#2,6);%'1M02<*)>*#*)2&*,02+*&)%-)Y?E-)%,&)f5bbb)-04&*,0-)-0$$&)%,&) pointed at them, chanting “JAP, JAP, JAP, JAP, JAP, JAP.”2 This was not an isolated case of JAP stereotypes used in the context of public harassment and humiliation. At a college fair booth at Cornell University, Spencer discovered disturbing examples of sexual harassment in the form of signs that read “Make her prove she’s not a JAP, make her swallow.” Very quickly, the JAP became a popular stereotype, widely recognized across communal lines. The JAP image became accepted into popular culture and represented in television sitcoms, commercials, greeting cards and in literature. C)%<),$0)0;*)+#-0)0$).$2,0)$40)0;*)4,/$<1$#0%"'*);2-0$#()$1)0;*)'%"*'9) At the height of the JAP joke cycle in the late 1980s and 1990s, depictions of JAP stereotypes received a great deal of academic and media attention. Women’s groups in particular became very vocal in pointing out the misogynist nature of these jokes and popular representation. In 1987, the American Jewish Committee held a conference on stereotypes of Jewish women at which Susan Weidman Schneider, editor of the Jewish feminist magazine, Lilith, noted several of the incidents recorded by Spencer. She observed that, through its “humorous” presentation and widespread acceptance among Jews and non-Jews, the JAP stereotype ultimately gave “permission for more &2#*/0)%,&)/'%--2/)%,02MN*<202/)6#%1+025)`$D*-5)/$<<*,0-5)o%,&p)$0;*#)D2,&-) of verbal abuse.” insert footnote While it was obvious to Schneider in 1987 that “Jewish women’s self-esteem is being critically damaged by the stereotypes,” her recognition of the sexism and anti-Semitism inherent in JAP jokes and stereotyping has been since lost. Schneider commented that, [T]he common assumption is that the term JAP refers to someone who is materialistic, spoiled and demanding, but we all know that these characteristics can be found in people of all groups and both sexes. So we have to wonder why Jewish women in particular have been singled out for derision in this way?3 Even if JAP can now be used in reference to anyone, it continues to play on images of the Jewish woman to convey its meaning.

The term “JAP” has become so commonly used in popular consciousness that its derogatory past has been generally forgotten. In 2010, JAP jokes of the kind circulating in the late 1980s and 90s are rarely told or remembered, but the term “JAP” has been inducted into popular vocabulary and has gained currency as simply another descriptive word. While the 1980s and 1990s saw an onslaught of academic and journalistic articles challenging the JAP stereotype, use of this term in recent years has received no such attention. Instead, the term JAP has come to be largely accepted as a word to describe a certain subset of women. Its embedded sexism, anti-Semitism, and connection with “JAP,” the derogatory word used to refer to ethnic Japanese people during World War Two, are often overlooked. The term “JAP” has been trivialized as just an expression in popular vernacular. Author Miriam Stone makes the convincing argument that JAP imagery 4'02<%0*'()#*G*/0-)%,)2--4*)$1)%--2<2'%02$,9))N;*)0%D*-)0;*).#$<2,*,/*)$1) JAP stereotypes as a reminder that Jewish women will “likely never be fully accepted or comfortable in the upper echelons of society, given their economic roots, their religion, and the fact that they are women.” She reminds us that “Jews, like women, aren’t supposed to take up a lot of room. We shouldn’t be loud or ostentatious, and we shouldn’t be in power.”4 What is really being ostracized through the JAP joke is an attempt on the part of 0;*)-$M/%''*&)Y?E)0$)+0)2,)%,&)0$)/$,-0#4/0);*#-*'1)2,0$)%)-$/2%')2&*%'9)):;*-*) are people willing to follow trends and change their physical appearance !0;#$46;);%2#)-0#%26;0*,2,65),%2')<%2,0*,%,/*)%,&),$-*)`$"-8)2,)$#&*#)0$)+0) in and be accepted within society. Although it is hardly ever acknowledged as such, the popular JAP stereotype remains misogynistic and deeply antiN*<202/9))n,"#2&'*&)%,&)-4.*#+/2%')/$,-4<*#2-<);%-)"*/$<*)%--$/2%0*&)>20;) Judaism in an ironic reversal; Jewish women who became too visible in their attempts to assimilate became the standard stereotype, representing all the negative characteristics of a socially constructed being, into which other con-4<*#-)>*#*).'%/*&9))Y?E-)>*#*)2&*,02+*&)%,&)#*`*/0*&)"()0;*)3*#()-$/2*0() into which they sought to assimilate. Instead of being accepted, they came to embody all the negative aspects of the society they wished to mimic. While seeming to stab at Jewish women in particular, it seems the JAP stereotype is debasing to a larger group of women in general. In his article on “The J.A.P. and J.A.M. in American Jokelore,” Alan Dundes proposed that the JAP joke cycle of the 1980s emerged as a reaction to the feminist-inspired >$<*,K-)'2"*#%02$,)<$3*<*,0)%,&)#*G*/0-)%)B>%#)"*0>**,)0;*)-*7*-9Q)]*) observes that “from the male point of view, women want to have it both ways. They want equality, but they also want to be treated as something special. So the JAP represents the modern woman who wants to be taken care of—to be given unlimited credit cards and taken on glamorous trips—but who doesn’t want to cook or participate in sexual intercourse.” As a result of the success of the feminist movement, “instead of cooking meals and providing sexual accommodation for male chauvinists, the ideal female is free to

spend time for and on herself, shopping for fashionable clothes and beautifying herself.”5 Beck expressed a similar hypothesis of the JAP joke and implicated stereotype as an “effective way of controlling people” through fear and humiliation.6 As humor is often used to address topics that are taboo, the JAP joke allowed the emergence of a high maintenance, overindulged product of American society to be criticized. As humor is often used to address topics that are taboo, the JAP joke enabled American society to criticize newly liberated women as high maintenance and over indulgent. It is my strong belief that the term “JAP” is just one of many seem2,6'()"*,26,)&*-/#2.023*)>$#&-)0;%0)/$,G%0*)$4#)6*,&*#)>20;),*6%023*)0#%20-9)) Although it is not overtly offensive, as are many other words associated with femaleness, the negative images embedded in it have a subconscious impact. Historically, the JAP stereotype has conveyed disturbing misogynistic and anti-Semitic messages. As we know only too well, history does not simply disappear. Social change comes slowly and stereotypes are hard to escape. As women and girls, we now enjoy more equality and freedom than any generation before us. Our mothers and grandmothers fought hard to get us where we are today—the least we can do is watch our language.

1. Alan Dundes, “The J.A.P and the J.A.M. in American Jocklore,” The Journal of American Folklore 98. 390 !STdg8A)cgeH)f9)I3*'(,):$#0$,)a*/D5)BL#$<)Xm2D*)0$)Y%.KA) How misogyny, anti-Semitism, and racism construct the Jewish American Princess,” Race, Class and Gender, eds. Margaret Andersen and Patricia Hill Collins (Belmont, W?A)O%&->$#0;5)STTf8A)TSH)U9)BY*>2-;)O$<*,)W%<.%26,) Against ‘Princess’ Jokes” The New York Times September 7, 1987 <http://www.nytimes.com/1987/09/07/style/ jewish-women-campaign-against-princess-jokes.html>; 4. Stone, Miriam. “The Shame of JAP.” Lilith Magazine Summer 2005: 31; 5. Dundes, 471; 6. Beck, 91

UNTITLED 2 Jiwon Lee

LETTING GO ONE JUNE DAY IN 1990 Elizabeth Knight The pain starts in my abdomen. It makes my toes curl, my mouth open in an ‘O’ perfect for a scream. But I don’t scream. I wait for the contractions to be closer together, just 5 minutes apart, before I get up off the green duvet cover of my twin bed. Closing my eyes, I shout for my mom to come into the room, now. I feel obese as I struggle to the passenger side door of our beat-up navy blue 1977 Toyota Corolla. I look like a little girl putting a pillow under her *'*<*,0%#()-/;$$').$'$)%,&).#*0*,&2,6)0$)"*).#*6,%,05)-;41G2,6)%,&)-04<bling and laughing. But I’m nothing like that at all. Make believe is for children. Make believe won’t do me any good now. My stomach’s trying to protrude its way right off my body, fake pearls strangle my neck, lip gloss is smeared over my clown’s mouth. None of this seems real. But it is. When we get to the hospital, the speed bumps in the parking lot nearly D2'')<*9)):;*)/%#)0#4&6*-)4.)%,&)G$.-)&$>,)0;*)'200'*)"4<.-H)C)1**')'2D*)C);%3*) to pee and I can’t cross my legs. My water breaks when I slide into the steelhandled wheel chair. My memory goes fuzzy after I get my feet up in those stirrup things on the bed, my legs spread open for the whole world. I tell my mom how scared I am. All she says is, “It’s a little too late to care about keeping your legs closed, isn’t it, Anne-Marie?” It doesn’t bother me; I’ve heard it before.

Letting my mind wander to Scott and his soft blond hair, I wonder what girl he’s with right now, skin prickly with sweat and mind empty of guilt. Nine months ago. Well, nine months ago isn’t now. Nine months ago, I was in love. Seven months ago, I stopped being %"'*)0$)+0)2,0$)<(),2/*).%2#)$1)"#$>,)-4*&*).%,0-9))L23*)<$,0;-)%6$5);*)0$$D) his pencil, broke it in half to show off, and threw it at me as I took my seat in our European History class. Who’d want to knock you up, he laughed. I never bothered reminding him that he was the father. Three months ago, my mother told me that we couldn’t give this baby up, it wasn’t Christian. Three months ago, I didn’t have the strength to tell her it wasn’t her choice. Three months ago, I cried until I threw up and threw up and threw up. Everything hurt. When I got pregnant my mom didn’t even bat an eyelash before telling me to keep the baby. But I couldn’t handle it. I just wanted it gone. Toying with the idea of an abortion made me feel powerful, like I had some kind of control over everything, like I had a say. And that say was directed at my mother and the rest of the world and it sounded something like ‘Go to hell.’ Sitting on the rocking chair in the living room and watching Wheel of Fortune reruns, I lifted my shirt, pushed down the elastic waist of my jeans %,&)'*0)0;*)G%0)$1)<().%'<)#*-0)%6%2,-0)<()-0$<%/;9))m2/D5)C)>2''*&)0;*)"%"(9)) Z$)-$<*0;2,65)<%D*)<*)>%,0)($45)<%D*)<*)'$3*)($49))V$0;2,69))C)'*0)<()+,gers trace along the jagged stretch marks, thought about how no boy would ever want to touch me again. And maybe that would be a good thing. I could do it, I thought at the beginning; it wasn’t too late. A simple procedure really. By ending one life I could save my own. Then I thought about this 0;2,6)2,-2&*)<*A);*%#0"*%05)+,6*#,%2'-5)-$4')%,&)%''9))C)0;$46;0)$1)-$<*).%2,fully sterile clinic with a faceless nurse scraping out the lining of my uterus with a curved hook, shoving it around in there to get rid of any remaining hope for a baby. I would come out a few hundred dollars poorer and a little broken inside. I decided adoption was the only way. I left my high school and went to St. Anne’s Home for Unwed Mothers. That’s where I found Nancy and Tony. I guess it was a win-win for everyone, or at least it didn’t mess anything up any more than I already had. I didn’t really care who I gave the baby to, just somebody who looked nice. They looked nice. )C,)G4$#*-/*,0);$-.20%')'26;05)V%,/();$'&-)<();%,&)2,-0*%&)$1)<()<$0;*#9)) It makes me feel stupid and young. Wishing she’d stop, I fake a contraction and let go of her hand. Those mothers who want a natural birth are natural born idiots. All that screaming, blubbering, and attention-seeking—for what? A child I’m not even going to keep. By the time the painkillers wear off, I don’t remember much about the .4-;2,6)%,&)0;*)"#*%0;2,6)%,&)0;*)"2#0;2,69))CK<)G$%02,6)$,)0;2-);26;)>;*#*) my whole body feels like it’s just free-fallen for hours. Then this little baby

girl is put in my hands, all tiny and vulnerable in its scrunched-up skin. I did that. I made this life-size doll that’s crying in my tingling hands. I think I cry, but I don’t remember. I look at Nancy and she looks scared, which is weird. I’m the one who should be freaked out. You can keep her if you want, we won’t hold it against you, she says. You can change your mind. The baby’s crying all open-mouthed and writhing; I think about nothing in particular as I take her little open mouth and let her pull my nipple in. Magnet to magnet, there’s force between us, a bond. They say they’ll call her Elizabeth Claire, but I’d name her Kathleen, if I could. It means pure. I looked it up in this book of baby names a few months ago, before I made a plan. Before I chose not to care, not to feel. I’m struck with an overwhelming sense of want, an inextinguishable longing to keep my baby, that’s what she is, my baby. I turn my gaze towards Nancy, her eyes all clouded over and black, and she’d let me do it. I can tell. But I know what Nancy’s really doing; she’s giving me an out. I shouldn’t need an out. I shouldn’t even be doing this. Its stupid sucking mouth is wet and gross. There are goose-bumps where its raspy little "#*%0;-)%#*).41+,6)$40)%6%2,-0)<()-D2,9))E#(2,6)20-)<$40;)$11)<*5)C);%,&)20) over to the nurse to give to Nancy. I think: It’s not mine anymore. It’s not mine. It’s not mine. It’s not mine.

TO A SUNCOLORED MAN Tranae Hardy I. dear sun-colored man, some days you remind me of laughter, i don’t know i miss you until you return.

IV. i am afraid that some days i become Copernicus, heliocentric, stuck in your rotation, i don’t think im ready for such permanence. V. to a sun-colored man i am a woman with the moon in her heart, there is no point in a chase i am ever out of reach.

II. even with my eyes closed, you remind me of the sun, just as radiant, burning yourself out just as quickly. III. i am afraid, that one day i will grow out of you, like old shoes or bad habits. like dandelions through cracked cement,

! D R O WF EDITOR IN CHIEF Anusha Alles COEDITOR IN CHIEF Rachel Tashjian MANAGING EDITOR Tranae Hardy

DESIGN EDITOR Genevieve Fischer CODESIGNEDITOR Naeemah Philippeaux

ACADEMIC EDITOR Serena Ghanshani POETRY EDITOR Janet Chow

SUBMISSIONS COORDINATOR Pallavi Podapti COPY EDITOR Sahan Rao

BLOG EDITOR Victor Gamez COBLOG EDITOR Velika Nespor

EVENTS COORDINATOR Emily Gerard GENERAL BOARD MEMBERS

Ali Castleman, Ruani Ribe, Caitlin Leahy, Julia Graber, Laura Koehler, Hoa Hoang, Sanai Lemoine, Leah Abrams, Jordan Lenkin, Morgan Privitte, Anne Huang, Melissa Stangl

FWORD 2010 ALUM

Lindsay Eierman, Dalila Boclin, Rachel Squire, Ilana Millner, Liza St. James

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The Fword editorial board would like to thank the Alice Paul Center and its Associate Director, Shannon Lundeen, our faculty advisor. We are also very grateful to the Penn Women’s Center and director Litty Paxton, the Kelly Writer’s House and direstor Jessica Lowenthal, the Center for Contemporary Writing and director Al Filreis, the Student Activities Council for ther dedicated support over the years, and Campus Progress.