our thanks to: Pride Alliance Executive Board 2018 – 2019 all members of our Zine committee Travis Tucker and Ilia Silverman-Esrig, our advisors, for their dedication and support all queer artists, now and forever, for their legacy, inspiration, bravery, and love – Miles (Bread) Lee & Eliot (L.) Cohen
Pride Alliance Public Relations Co-Chairs 2018-2019
introduction Pride Alliance’s annual zine, Iridescence, is full of work by queer creators here at Washington University in St. Louis from over the past year. It has been an incredibly challenging year politically, emotionally, creatively, and physically for the global queer community, but in times of such grief and darkness we know it is our job to ensure that there is joy, love, and light in being queer and continuing to exist. Sometimes we create to make our voices heard, sometimes we create to keep the breath in our lungs, sometimes we create for nothing other than the satisfaction of having made something – all of these endeavors are worthwhile and meaningful, in our eyes, because they represent the heartbeat of our people persisting despite the horror, anger, fear, and hate of the world around us. We believe wholeheartedly in supporting queer creators and the importance of sharing their work to keep our community thriving and strong, and thus we are incredibly honored to present their works to you. We know it’s a tough world out there, so we hope this zine can serve as a reminder that the queer community is vibrant, beautiful, and here for you whenever you need it. Keep making, keep doing, and keep existing – no matter what, we promise it is worth it. – Bread & L.
Nostalgia Dallas
Nostalgia slips through cracks in my bones. I feel warm, Remembering summers of years before Filled with snow cones And roller skating. Scraped knees and blistered palms As I reigned queen of the monkey bars. 4’2 and a full head shorter than all the other kids, I remember those summers. Jamie and Madeline diving head first into the deep end. I, who couldn’t swim, I, who couldn’t touch the floor even in the shallow ends, I sat at the edge Feet dangling into the water. Cold, wet hands pressed into my shoulder blades And I learned to swim that summer.
I remember the end of summer, Blonde hair down to my waist Pulled together with two ponytails. Pink light up sneakers pressed against gravel roads, Running from God only knows what Or who. That summer my best friend kissed a boy, I learned to swim. We ate candy till our teeth feel out And played soccer till we dropped. Anna sprained her ankle, Jamie got a black eye, And I broke two toes.
Hundred Acre Wood
We laughed And we cried And we loved that summer Before boy troubles And girl troubles And everything in between. But I’m warm with that memory still Of a summers end and a life’s beginning.
Eddie Ho
Honey Bread Lee
Untitled
Charlie Bosco (previous)
A Woman’s Body Dallas
When I was 9 years old I came into a woman’s body. Double D’s and double digits Went hand in hand And my mother’s hips became my own. Mrs. Miller told me My shoulders were a distraction. She said it As if she hadn’t been this age once, With people telling her The same thing About a girl in a woman’s body. When we were still young enough To be asked, “What do you want to be when you grow up.” My spoken response was never the truth. Geologist, Engineer, maybe. The truth was something deeper, Something bigger but simpler. I wanted to be respected To be a girl in a girl’s body Or even a woman in a woman’s body.
Frankenstein’s Lesbian Dee Cea
Indelible in the Hippocampus Andriana Levytsky
This piece was created in response to Brett Kavanaugh’s confirmation to the US Supreme Court
At 13 Ms. June sent me to the office For shoulder blades That warranted punishment. It was either jacket or detention. Mississippi, 98 degrees, And I was supposed to wear a jacket. But anything was better than a detention Permanently etched into a record. A lesson that a boy’s attention span Was a girl’s, Excuse Me, A woman’s fault. When the boys became closer to men And other girls faked bodies They’d begged God to give them, Things changed. No more office visits For clothes that were never out of dress code. No more “You’re distracting the boys.” But boys did still stare, And girls. And the teachers stared too, Never spoke words they were afraid of. But I’m not a fool. When a teacher or principal stares at you like that. Like you’ve offended them (And to some extent yourself), Like a fitted t-shirt is something to be ashamed of, Like you don’t have to right to be a woman at 15. I know what they were really thinking. A girl like thatA girl like meCould blame all her troubles on herself.
Untitled
Gabrielle Jung long gone girl remember how we potted plants with dirty hands, soft around my neck. how we left the shower dripping, frosted glass and me, shutting all the curtains closed. wait and watch our dumplings rise, how they float just the same in water, broth, or blood.
bald beauty to dirty boy hold my sunrise hands, pink and sweet as sun, warm and sure as jasmine green. send me one-hitter kisses, postcard pictures—all orange peels and cigarettes. say less, say more about the holes in our overalls, my denim demon, my teapot queen. smoke me up, all bicycle tire air or cumulonimbus fog, shifting in the orange-blossom breeze. darling, do me dirty—my velvet sky, unruly baby, pull me towards all your sheets of jagged earth.
Bloom Bread Lee
Kei 2
Nasja Wickerhauser
1:35am l.
Home at Last Zhu Lee
bars
richy mitch & the coal miners
pools
glass animals
wasting my young years london grammar
the fear
ben howard
vertigo khalid
blossom
milky chance
sign of the times harry styles
birds
imagine dragons
stay alive
josĂŠ gonzĂĄlez
angela
the lumineers
Mrs. Bixby Charlie Bosco
Spellcheck Bread Lee
Art
Amanda Hua My art is not what you expect, it’s not creative it’s not uniform it’s not normal it’s not pretty, because my head is a canvas that has no regular pattern, I can’t paint with the visual spectrum, I can only construct the imaginary, glimpses of what you see in your dreams and that state where you’re half alive. Do you think you could dream a better color than my words? Cymbals hold no meaning, the crashes of some item don’t tell a story like the others do. It retains no value to place your faith in something that is so fleeting, gold and white in the sudden silence. Rocket to the sky in a sound barrier, the colors are too pretty for you to waste your time hearing anything dull, and you can’t even see the whole of it.
Left
Alec O’Brien
Untitled Gay 1
Nasja Wickerhauser
Pink Imagination
She looks so lovely When she wears her pink lipstick; Compliments her well I’m holding their hand Admiring our relation... ‌ Or I think I am.
Haikus by Sonia Muzemil
Roast Eddie Ho
Home Dallas
We cross legs and hands, Tangling our limbs like tree branches, We’re too old to care, But not too old To forget stolen kisses In the middle of a moonlit dance. When we were younger and fuller I’d watch you waltz across a dance floor Whiskey (on the rocks) in hand While you told me memories like they were fairytales, Some dream of a life we’d been An arms length away from reaching. You say you love me At least once Every single day. Your hair is gray and dry But my fingers have a home against each strand, You tell me I’m an idiot, Because hair isn’t a home. I kiss you full lipped anyway, Tell you it doesn’t matter, Cross my legs and move my hand to your thigh. (Based on Marie Hull’s 1938 oil painting “Sharecroppers.” Property of the Mississippi Museum of Art)
Spring Kath
Maidan c. 2013 Andriana Levytsky
This piece is about the Ukrainian Revolution and the protests that took place in Maidan Nezalezhnosti in Kiev from November 21, 2013 – February 23, 2014. The QR codes can be scanned.
Pride 2018 Poster Will Jamison
Jay in Light
Nasja Wickerhauser
Ghosts as Bedfellows Zhu Lee
Each time I rise from a mattress, ghosts swarm to fill in amongst the crevices my body’s left in the sheets. It doesn’t matter where the mattress is; the ghosts always find their way to the warmth my skin leaves on any surface it has pressed against bare. Like loyal pets. Or, maybe, like spirits bound to a physical object, if you believe in that sort of thing. I have always been aware of their presences— unlike the typical conception of ghosts, they have always been visible to me. They’re not all the same, however. Like us, they each have different names. Validation was the first ghost that visited me, and the ghost that most often found me once I first started lying in beds that weren’t mine. Sometimes I will recall her last visit and a long period will lapse before she returns to my sheets, usually when I’ve sought a distraction from the fear of abandonment blurring the edges of my vision. Companionship is the ghost that most frequently rushes to my side recently, ever since I moved back to my hometown post-graduation. He lies between me and my partner of the night, stretching out until all I can see is him. Ironically, he is always fonder of the partner than of me, constantly glued to their side. Sometimes, even,
Up
Alec O’Brien
his presence flickers in and out of existence until I am not entirely sure he’s still there even if I can feel another body resting against mine. Some ghosts vie for my attention more adamantly than others. Betrayal, for instance, likes to declare his presence every time he barges over to my bedside. He tows his sister, Imposter, beside him. Hands intertwined, the siblings spectate the strew of limbs, their lips pursed and eyebrows raised. They make commentary to one another in dulled murmurs that my ears still catch: “Another white man,” Betrayal tuts. “They wear queerness like an accessory,” Imposter chides in echo, refusing to look at me as though a mere glimpse my way would taint her too. “Queer in appearance but not in practice.” I want to tell them that there is no such thing as apolitical desire—that my sexual history does not even begin to fully reflect my wants— but they care little for any refute that may slip past my lips, writing it off as an excuse. Unlike Validation and Companionship, Betrayal and Imposter don’t leave my sheets before I return to them. The lingering body heat on fabric is not enough: they wish to curl around me and seep deep into my skin; reside in the marrow of my bones until I am so cold, they are assured that there is no way for me to forget
Morgan Lucy Chen
them soon. They are unwanted guests, but I suppose that I can empathize with the desire to be remembered. My favorite ghost is Pleasure. Her hue is often dimmer than the others; when the ghosts are all scrambling to feast on my spirit, she is most likely to be the one left out. Sometimes I can barely sense her presence at all. When she does let herself fully be known, however, she is the most radiant ghost I know; I cannot take my eyes from her. She has not visited in a very long time, though. I miss when she’d command all of my attention. The one thing all of my ghosts have in common is that they are greedy. They will gorge themselves until they are sated, bellies full of my experiences and leaving me hollow instead. Sometimes I wish they would leave something behind for me, but they all truly believe that their visits are enough. It would be easy to write them off with logic: Ghosts aren’t real. Except refusing to admit their existence—refusing to admit how they have impacted every sexual experience I’ve had—helps nothing. They will revolt in response: wail louder and for longer. They have the ability not only to color my present but to shift events of the past in how I reflect upon them. I don’t know how to feed only some of them. I have tried starving them all at once, many times, but that just leaves me as the empty one with a gnawing stomach instead. So I let them gorge themselves. After all, I have always tried hard to keep the things that choose to stay with me full.
Kei 1
Nasja Wickerhauser
Story Time Mia Hamernik
History is the lie That is coaxed beneath our tongues That tastes like strawberries La Fruta del Diablo An object that stems from the exploitation of La Gente Descendants of a conquered empire and slaves of their ancestral home.
Doryphoros Bread Lee
i’m sorry Anonymous
i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. sometimes when i’m nervous, i panic and then scramble for words to say. i mean, yes. yes i like you yes i would like to hold your hand but i didn’t want to scare you (please don’t leave). i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. sometimes when i panic, i shut down and then clam up and stop talking (why couldn’t i keep my mouth shut) but thank you for being my shoulder to lean on. i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. sometimes when i shut down, i get defensive and then flee instead of argue (i cannot tell you just yet you gave me life i don’t want you to hate me i love you please) i hope you’re not mad at me (at least not yet). i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. sometimes when i get defensive, i want to cry it wasn’t your fault (it is) (please don’t leave me please don’t make me go) i want to be mad but i cannot you don’t even know half of it.
i’m sorry, i didn’t mean to offend you. sometimes when i want to cry, i actually break down (i’m shaking can someone please help) i’m sorry i’m not the person you thought i was i’m sorry i’m not the person you want me to be i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m sorry but i’m so tired of apologies just, please just let me live just let me want just let me love just let me just let me be.
Sunflower Bread Lee
Catholic Guilt Dee Cea
In the name of the Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Daughter of God, You don your plaid, pleated skirt Slide the socks up to your knees Cross embroidered over your heart And you hope to die because This is a promise you cannot keep. You learn we are all children of God, You Daughter of God. God is love. Love is marriage. Marriage is man and woman. Except no, not that kind of man, Not that kind of woman. You must understand, Daughter of God. Marriage is a penis and vagina. And so you think perhaps you are meant to die like Virgin Mary. You splice your name with Perpetua: The saint who died hand in hand with her LovGirFriend. You do not have the vocabulary. You do not know why you already feel like a martyr. You do not raise your hand in class. Why are you silent, oh Daughter of God? Because when archangel lucifer raised a hand He was cast out. When Joseph wore a coat made of color He was struck down. When they come to you with interrogations You deny yourself three times. But unlike Peter the third time is not the last.
Iris Beauregard
Anonymous
Submerge Eddie Ho
Oh Daughter of God why do you burn? Why do your feet feel hot on this hallowed ground? This house which should be your birthright? You gaze up at the stained glass Blinding your eyes with endless bands of color, But they say this rainbow is not for you. They say you’re wearing it wrong. They say you stole it. They say: I’m fine with homosexuals butI don’t hate homosexuals butHomosexuality is a sin butOh Daughter of God why are you burning? -but they shouldn’t show it -but they shouldn’t get married -but God still loves you The kinder ones say no, homosexuality is not a sin. So long as their hearts don’t beat. So long as they keep their idle hands stitched together in prayer. So long as they hide it under a bushel don’t Let it shine, Let it shine, Let it shine You wonder: when did His love become conditional? When did your existence become qualified? Why do they pick apart the holy host and only eat the parts they like? Your mother taught you to never settle for conditional love – To never settle for only a fragment of yourself. But she is also the one who taught you: El Padre, el Hijo, el Espiritu Santo. And while you will always be her child, You are not a Daughter of God. You are a descendant of Judith. Gathered with your fellow Apostles around the lunch table Rewriting your New Testament And amongst them you find her.
Grace is the theological virtue of God’s favor. But what is God’s favor to you when you have hers instead: She who would pluck the nails from your hands She who would speak to you in tongues She who would set your bush aflame. You gift her a rib, Yet you still fear taking her hand. Because His Eyes are always watching Lest this Eden become Gethsemane, Her kiss heralding doom on your cheek. If it is only in hell you can love her Then you consign yourselves to hell. Run free from the garden In which you stole Not an apple. A peach. Each half you split and fed to one another Juices sticky on skin sweet as sin Keeping the pit to plant a garden of your own Where the animals name themselves Where there is no flaming sword Where seraphim proclaim “do not be afraid” and this time mean it Where you weave crowns of roses Cutting off every thorn. Amen.
Windows
Charlie Bosco