Judy's Punch 2019: (RE)VISION by Judy's Punch

JUDYâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S PUNCH 2019

(RE)VISION

CONTENTS A C K N O W L E D G E M E N T

We acknowledge that Judy’s Punch 2019 was created on land that always has and always will belong to the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nations. We acknowledge that this land was stolen and that sovereignty over it was never ceded, and that no acknowledgement is enough to right this wrong. We pay respect to Wurundjeri elders past, present, and future, and extend this respect to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people; people who have been sharing stories for thousands and thousands of years.

07 Fern Wings Sarah Peters 08 Haircut Sarah Peters 09 AstroThot Chelsea Rozario 10 Letters Joanne Zou 12 Gardening for the millennial Jocelyn Deane 13 Judy’s Survival Guide to Movies You’ll Procrastinate With Commentary Subeditors 17 Venus in Chains Esmé James 20 Witch Hunting Weather Edie McAsey 24 Ghost Youth ace 25 Remembering Sixteen ace 26 Genesis Tyler Hannah McRae 27 other faces Lucette Emily 28 Mahogany Clock Sarah Peters 29 Pearl Esmé James 30 Tomorrow’s Dark Olivia Hartwig

We thank readers for taking time to open our magazine and listen to what we have to say, and urge you to actively seek out the stories of, and listen to, the people whose land you are living on as well.

50 Bangkok to Brisbane Tilly Gwinner 52 An Ode to My (Nonexistent) Gym Membership Adelle Greenbury 56 Persephone Maddy Ruskin 57 Some Wild Feeling Vanessa Lee 58 Uhn-der-stan-ding Tyler Hannah McRae 60 don’t drown without me Olivia Hartwig 61 Gendered Hues Jamisyn Gleeson 62 Daddy Issues A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni 64 Brown Renaissance Bonnie Jean 66 Note To The Normal Girl Rosie Ward 68 The Hands of Fate Jessica Seychell 69 Pasty™ by Intolerant Cosmetics! Chelsea Rozario 70 Eyes Achool Kooc 72 Blindfolds Jamisyn Gleeson 73 home is a person now Lucette Emily

32 The Colour of Femininity Natalie Williams Jamisyn Gleeson 35 She’s Pretty, But 36 It’s time to (RE)vise your music taste Nicole Nguyen and Lani Li Sarah Peters 39 Maybe Later Sneha Challa 40 True Love Chelsea Rozario 42 Devotion(s) Jamisyn Gleeson 43 Belly

44 47 48

Straightening Out Rough Edges Shrinking Myself Fear of flying is

Lindsay Wong Yar Majak Jocelyn Deane

E D I T O R I A L Our theme for this year’s Judy’s Punch is (RE)VISION, a play on the words ‘revision’ and ‘vision’. Given everything that’s taken place politically over the last few years, we felt it was important to decide on a theme that gave women and non-binary folk the scope to talk about the world they inhabit, and their changing place within it. The ‘Re’ component of this theme is all about looking back- with the gift of hindsight, what things would we change? What things do we notice about the way women and non-binary individuals have historically been treated, that just isn’t okay now? We wanted to provide our contributors with a way to express their own stories, issues and memories; a space to reflect, and correct in retrospect. Which leads us to the ‘Vision’ part: it’s all about the future, it’s the world as we want it to be. It’s about thinking what society would look like if history’s mistakes could be revised, what it would be like to live within a society freed of the injustices that impede women and non-binary individuals today. And of course, it’s about looking at everything through an intersectional lens: the diverse range of work spread across this magazine reflects the various, highly nuanced forms of inequality and oppression that exist within our world. But we didn’t want this magazine to be a complete downer- we wanted to end it on a note of hope, for people to have the opportunity to draw out a new, improved version of the future for themselves. Judy’s Punch is an opportunity to share the creativity, ideas, and experiences of women and non-binary people to women and non-binary people in our community. And that’s exactly what you will find in these pages. The pieces filling these pages comes in shapes and forms, bringing together the various facets and multi-dimensional identities that we possess. You can find everything from a snarky take on the cosmetics industry, the evolution of witch hunting, a revised, feminist version of Greek myths, to a brown renaissance in photography. The Judy’s Punch team has been an integral part of the creation of this magazine. Working hard behind-the-scenes, this beautiful magazine would not have manifested into what it is now without the contributions from our passionate and talented sub-editors, graphics team and social media manager. We are so proud and excited to present you with this year’s Judy’s Punch. Hope you love it as much as we do. See ya next time, Judith (Beth, Simran, and Juhria) 4

M E S S A G E FROM THE WOMEN’S OFFICERS Facilitating the creation of the 2019 edition of Judy’s Punch was all that we were able to do this year. Neither of us knew what direction to take Judy’s Punch in - it’s not like we’ve ever made a magazine before. We then we met our editorial team, and knew immediately that this year’s edition of Judy’s Punch would be special and unique. We are incredibly proud of Simran, Juhria, and Beth. They have done a beautiful job at taking ownership of this year’s edition, and crafted a piece that will surely be remembered forever. With grace and determination, they’ve brought together the words and graphics of so many different students at the university, and we could not have asked for a better team. This year we have been the UMSU Women’s Officers, and we’ve been so grateful for our time here. We’ve learned so much over the course of this year, and always looking for ways to reflect on our time. The theme of the magazine (RE)VISION could not have been better suited to this year as it embodies how the Women’s department has worked this year. This has been a year of change, reflection, growth, and acceptance, and this year’s edition of Judy’s Punch encapsulates all of that. (RE)VISION recalls the past, creates hope for the future, and incites action for the present. The UMSU Women’s Department is unashamedly activist, progressive, and feminist. We will learn from our past and fight for our futures. With love, Aria & Hannah 2019 Women’s Officers

Judy’s Punch is a student magazine of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU), produced by the Women’s Department. Judy’s Punch is published by the General Secretary of UMSU, Reece Moir. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of UMSU, the printers or the editors. Judy’s Punch is printed by Printgraphics, care of Sue Marshall. All writing and artwork remain the property of the creators.

THE TEAM Srishti Chatterjee

Kavya Malhotra

Ruby Adams

Hiii! I am Srishti, from Kolkata, India. I can always be found eating fish and rice and writing op-eds/poetry. Very often, I rise from within my black shawl and talk about history’s ignorance of women of colour, while sipping chai. I like sad songs and winter!

My name is Kavya and I’m from Adelaide. I’m currently studying art history and psychology and absolutely loving it. I love writing and painting.

Ruby studies ecology and sometimes wishes she wasn’t a human. She spends many weekends walking and climbing far from the city, but still dreams of being a hermit in the forest as a full-time career. She loves to nurture a seedling until it’s a beautiful flower, but finds she’s much better at doing this with words than with real plants.

Kiara Allis

A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni

Nour Altoukhi

Hey! I’m a massive fan of and enthusiastic subbie for both non-fiction and creative works. My favourite part about Judy’s Punch is the opportunity to work with people that share in my experiences - most notably, I enjoy working with queer and/or POC writers, building on a mutual appreciation for our backgrounds. Also, I do a lil poetry on the side.

Hey I’m Kiara! I’m a first year design student planning to major in graphic design. I love painting and listening to music (Mura Masa is a constant mood). I usually create artwork for upcoming musicians (shameless plug: @kiaragrafiks on instagram) so creating graphics for a magazine was a different experience for me, but I had lots of fun!

Hello, I’m A’bidah. I’m an island-city gal who spends too much time at the beach and on the internet. When I’m not writing about the latest goss in my love life, I’m weeks deep into astro memes. If you think you can vibe with a Pisces sun, Cancer Moon and Gemini rising - feel free to chat with me on Instagram ;) @absyegg

Nour is a third year media/politics student. Her hobby is attempting to channel the wit of Amy Sherman-Palladino into her screenplays whilst relaying more of the WoC experience. Her goal is to help bridge this gap both through her writings as well as her future career in law. She is also a big fan of (sustainable) fashion, and the color pink.

Nishtha Banavalikar

Vicki Huang

Hello! I am a first year Commerce Student™ (oh the horror) studying econs & finance. I was born in India but have moved around from New Zealand to Hong Kong and Singapore. I am well and truly acquainted with the diaspora & this has spurred my love for writing and sharing cultural experiences ( :

Hello. My name is Vicki and I am a first-year graphic design/mechanical systems student at unimelb. I paint, drink tea and don’t understand why toasties are called jaffles here. I usually have my bio space blank so I don’t know what else to write here.

Olivia Hurley I’m a first year Arts student at Unimelb, studying politics and philosophy in the hopes of working out what to do with my life. I’m very into reading, vegan pizza, tattoos, almond iced lattes, op-shopping, attending cool gigs … oh, and editing words to make them sound nice. I credit all of my successes to my cat Felix.

Amber Meyer

Lindsay Wong

Xuetong Guan

Hailing from New York, Tokyo and Singapore (it’s complicated), I’m (@flimsyylindsayy on IG) a history and Asian studies double major who has a passion for writing and a keen interest in journalism. I’m passionate about representation of women, non-binary, and POC. Also, I’m a foodie (#alwayshungry) and bubble tea connoisseur.

First year design student, freelance artist and art teacher. Likes to draw occasionally. Ingredients: 10% existential crisis, 30% boba, 60% awful memes. Contains traces of social awkwardness and terrible puns. Manufactured by: @shuutokeki on Instagram

An Pham

Sarah Peters

Hi, I’m a first year law student with a Bachelor’s degree in Science (that was Patricia) and a giant adoration for women and literature. I write occasionally about people, theories and social constructs like an alien studying humans. I also believe potatoes are the supreme carb and drinking milk straight is delicious.

Sarah Peters is studying Creative Writing, Publishing and Editing. She is obsessed with student magazines and is excited to take on the media office in 2020. When she’s not organising her entire room by colour or writing poems, she’s thinking about bees. You can find her on Instagram taking photos of her books and poems @reading.rah. Send her bee facts and memes.

Shabnam Verma

Tiia Kelly Tiia is a second-year arts student majoring in Creative Writing and Screen and Cultural Studies. Her primary passion is curating highly specific mood playlists, with highlights like ‘Songs that sound gloomy but are too upbeat to cry to’, and ‘Music to watch cows to’.

Shabnam Verma is a Marketing major who watches TV all day for “research”. She dreams big and will achieve ‘em all just after she cracks out of awkward social interactions. Despite all she is too much fun to be around. Wohoo!!

Fern Wings Author: Sarah Peters

Graphic Design: Simran Kaur

Feel these ferns feather down your arms you walk through the fog; lost in pine, “What’s mine? What’s mine? What’s mine?” Doc Martens laced all the way up so sweat droplets don’t make homes in your socks and you can stand and fight floods. Forming in moss grooves when you trip over tree roots pressing your palms into the dirt, uncovering green glass bottles holding dream maps. You’ve been guided into fairy rings; your godmother is not here. Sweep the fronds back into wings fearless flight for yourself. It’s damp and falling leaves won’t make flying easier they’ll clear the path, see what’s yours, This.

Content Warning: Allusions to Sexual Abuse

Haircut

AstroThot

Author: Chelsea Rozario | Graphic Design: Xuetong Guan

Author: Sarah Peters | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur Long Hair big dreams breathe with each strand touch your lungs and scream childhood innocence, don’t let anyone tug it down, patient playful set yourself free

Pixie Cut he’s gone but there are still princesses copy their cuts down to your ears hear the words he stopped as you grow back into yourself someone tried to save rapunzel; rapunzel saved herself your heart’s a magic lantern

No Fringe bullying blinds you into banishment your forehead is as big as hope losing it; childish, innocent stick out and find yourself naked enough to touch in years to come now he can fill every crevice reach your ears and whisper stories how bad you are, wear it like a headband strapped across your skull

Curls you can be something magical melted into ringlets not everything needs straightening out use this for all your profile pictures no grandma hair, something fun he would’ve found himself trapped you keep freeing yourself Short Hair begin to feel real again something that matches your matilda height with all the fun for bed hair and braids

Fringe Return find one way to hide from him disguise yourself, dye her ginger so something glows Bob Cut there’s been so much darkness in your life embrace the stereotypes of the bob something reminds you touch your chin softly like a caress from someone who cares innocence a night out neck on show, hold your head high childlike, your best friend took the first steps a space for dreaming, a space finally named and owned you follow them and their hair finally free somehow brave then and there finally you.

I’m a space witch. Ziggy Stardust on acid sorta witchy, blue m&m otherworldliness.

(As if there isn’t a salt lamp in the corner of my living room or rose quartz under my pillow.)

My eyes glaze over when I stare at the moon, tuning out the surface world, chakras aligned, third eye opened.

Outer-space makes me feel h e a v y. The moon rules my 8th house Bet you don’t know what that means. Nocturnal like Jupiter’s moons, like all moons. The throat singing bit in Houndstooth by Dope Lemon plays on a loop.

Feathered fringe, with a penchant for reading tarot. My friends freak; oracle card induced panic, the Fool screaming “Get over yourselves!” Birth chart analyses nobody asked for. I roll my eyes at Gemini placements. The Sagittarius in me is showing.

I’ve been feeling strange lately.

I’m a space bitch. A cosmically woke Regina George, shitting on rituals my

Maybe Mercury is in retrograde, or perhaps, it is the codeine in my cereal.

c o o l Mum swears by.

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L E T T E R S

Scan me for a Spotify Playlist that accompanies this piece

Author: Joanne Zou Graphic Design: Vicki Huang

a foreword: Growing up is a process. I think a lot about Lorde’s Pure Heroine, an album which has always epitomised the adolescent experience. From her declaration of loneliness, ‘I’ve never felt more alone / it feels so scary getting old’ to the tender confession, ‘I’d like it if you stayed’ to how we try to overcome it all, ‘dancing in a world alone’ But this isn’t really about that album. This is about nostalgia, and finding myself, and who I was, and who I want to be. Thank you for reading. i. laughing ‘til our ribs get tough, but that will never be enough

ii. we might be hollow but we’re brave

you’re at the dusk of teenagehood, thirteen and giddy with newness, tumbling into the world. there’s girls in your grade, girls in movies, and sometimes they cross your mind. some giddy infatuation, sparkling like the sea under the sun. and it feels too normal to question while you’re still finding your footing but someone should tell you that it’ll be okay.

i’ve never known how to treat nostalgia i wallow in the past and it’s treacherous easier from the outside, looking back at a distance; gazing from sea to shore

and then it’s the mid-summer and the days are long, the nights warm and glowing, you’re fifteen and invincible. brave and scared, alone and drunk on friendship, swimming in emotion. and you realise you’re allowed to want girls, properly, and it makes so much sense that you don’t know whether to fly or hide so you try both, young and flourishing and falling.

but now i turn towards the future and hope blossoms, a flower yearning for new spring sunlight, for that glowing warmth

and then all of a sudden it’s like daybreak again and you’re seventeen and on the brink of glory, though possibilities are still a maze. you think maybe you’re a lesbian, and testing the word cuts through uncharted territory where you think you could build a home, eventually. you find that growing up is lonely and that loneliness is cavernous when the exit is a thing of disguise.

the idea of a future with a woman rises and dawn is rosy-fingered again that is: i think i know what i want and to desire is a revolution

Gardening for the millennial Author: Jocelyn Deane | Graphic Design: Shabnam Ver-

Judy’s Survival Guide to Movies You’ll Procrastinate With Graphic Design: Xuetong Guan

Our gardens remain average, good loam for temperate or tropical heat without rain. All earth demands is good, hot watering cans, like the old countries, communal vegetable patches, fire pits, hollows and fertiliser conceived of place-names, 2-hour car journeys away. The chook remains quiet, neck frozen in stocks, seeds expanding inside them. The ground is hot where our horns gape above the soil epidermis, tiny Cayenne peppers the soil excretes, placenta-sweet, undernourished. Our torsos translucent pink, our feet non-cloven arrows, our finger nails soft as pea-skins quivering a feather-mattress, breathing in a speech, a language kings kept newly-born in closets to regurgitate, to chirrup of good/evil, of rib cage. Maybe- grown older- tails dug through left jean legs, horns filed down to bone- you could pretend it’s a failure of roots- we may revise said language in detail.

Forget required readings and assignments, take a break and procrastinate with us. We at Judy’s know how tiring the semester can get and we got your back. Let us save you some time from scrolling through Netflix or whatever streaming site you’re illegally on to search for the next movie.We’ve collated a list of good trashy movies you should watch in replacement of the bad trashy ones. Proudly brought to you by our very own Commentary Subeditors, take your pick.

You can thank us later! Trash: Superbad This movie is great. It’s pure dumb fun through the eyes of two horny high school boys awaiting graduation. Although it was hilarious, the women in the movie were used more like sleeping masks to get in bed with. Some personality was sprinkled here and there but I just wished it had more.

Smash: Booksmart Listen, I don’t want to say this is a strict alternative to Superbad because it still is great. I will say it did amazing things for the representation of women that I barely ever see in cinema. From weird panda-related masturbation tips to funny unintentional drug trips, it really smashed the barrier of conventional “taboos” that seem to be more attached to women. I’m so sick of safe recreational druguse and pure sexual pleasure being used as a way to showcase women falling off the wagon in movies as the world’s smallest violin plays. So this movie was a fresh for me. I just wish it was as nasty as Superbad and less white.

Trash: Friends with Benefits

Trash: The DUFF (TW: Body Image)

After an evening spent on the couch watching cringe romance films, Jamie (Mila Kunis) and Dylan (Justin Timberlake) get on the topic of sex and relationships in Friends with Benefits. They quickly come to the conclusion that sex shouldn’t come with so many strings attached and agree to enjoy the intimacy without the attachment. While critics have commented on the electric chemistry between Kunis and Timberlake, I disagree. They are ultimately bland in their roles and the formulaic storyline falls prey to a myriad of romantic clichés.

The DUFF may seem like an obvious no-no, and yet its creation of the awful new term earned the movie a reiteration on this list. Introducing an acronym for Designated Ugly Fat Friend, The DUFF advertised itself as a twist on the usual Ugly Duckling trope -- the one where a hot guy gives the lead a makeover, like in My Fair Lady or She’s All That. However, I feel like the end message of self-acceptance fell flat. Mae Whitman, the actress that plays Bianca the DUFF, is about 5 ft 2 and 50 kgs!

This means that she’s probably smaller than most of the viewers watching, setting a very damaging standard for body sizes. This is wild. Then, we see Bianca, who loves zombie movies and excels in her science classes, filter out the unique parts of her personality for a guy. She gets the guy in the end, but still, this movie felt more like a feel-good juggling act than an informed critique of negative body stereotypes.

Smash: Bridesmaids Ever feel like your friends are moving in all sorts of exciting directions but you’re just stagnant? Meet Annie, a single woman with a failed business to her name and sharing an apartment with a rather unfortunate set of roommates. Annie’s only source of happiness is her best friend Lillian, but when Lillian gets engaged, it is a bittersweet moment. What ensures is the perfect comedy with plenty of laugh-out-loud moments. Bridesmaids features a stellar cast including Kristen Wiig, Rose Byrne, Maya Rudolph and Chris O’Dowd, and is equal parts sweet and tender and downright hilarious.

Trash: After As a tween whose life revolved around One Direction, I spent my free time reading Anna Todd’s Harry Styles fanfiction After on Wattpad. Of course, I set low expectations for the movie since it is adapted from a Wattpad fanfiction. I thought that After would at least try to have a strong female lead. However, Tessa was a gullible character who fell head over heels in love with the campus bad boy who wore leather jackets and had a “cool” accent really quickly. Not only did she purposely defy her mother and high school boyfriend who only wanted the best for her, Tessa did not display any character development throughout the movie. It was disappointing, to say the least.

Smash: きょうのキラ君 (“Today’s Kira-kun”) This movie follows the same trope as After, which is the quiet and lonely girl coupled with the bad boy/troublemaker. But the execution of the relationship and characterisation of the couple is done so much better. Ninon is a shy girl who doesn’t have many friends, and Kira takes an interest in her. However, their blossoming relationship makes both of them better people. Ninon opens up more and goes out of her comfort zone, which she then realises is what she needed to be a happier person. This is the kind of progressive relationship that people want to see in romantic movies and it’s a much better idea to promote this idea instead of things like cheating or defying parents. I applaud the character development in きょうのキラ君. 14

Smash: Mean Girls Look, I am biased, I know -- I love Mean Girls. So I feel compelled to use this movie as the foundation of my comparisons for The DUFF. Yes, both movies have cliques and highly dramatized high school experiences. Yes, both movies see the main character undergo a makeover. Yet, Mean Girls has endured as a cult favourite. Home-schooled Cady makes for a relatable protagonist and the way her physical attractiveness poses as a threat to the Plastics is believable. Moreover, what makes Cady’s character arch so much satisfying than that of Bianca’s, is the way details support each step of her development.

Trash: Swiped When I saw Swiped pop up on Netflix, I thought it would be another cute To All the Boys I’ve Loved Beforeesque easy-viewing drama. However, when I started watching it I quickly became concerned that I was stuck in some kind of time-warp. Why would Netflix make a movie so reliant on misogyny and gender-norms in 2019? Seriously, an app designed so that guys don’t have to deal with girls having the audacity to be so needy as to want to converse with them after a hook-up? For the sake of transparency, I’ll admit that I couldn’t get through the entire thing, but I don’t think even the most poignant ending in the world could redeem that plot.

Content Warning: Sex, BDSM

Smash: Bumblebee (2018) Bumblebee gets a cookie for having a well-written, decentlyportrayed girl take an action film’s centre stage in an era where it’s so rare (though I really can’t wait for the time when this won’t be a cookie, but an expectation or a given.) The film is a refreshing, lighthearted hybrid of action and teen flick featuring an average, angsty girl against an ‘80s backdrop with a grand total of 0 sexualised shots of her body. The movie takes a breather away from chaotic fight scenes and gives time to fleshing out the vulnerabilities of the protagonist and her bond with the eponymous robo-car - making it much more heartfelt than the flimsy tropes typically relied on. Also: aforementioned robo-car is beyond adorable.

Venus in Chains:

The Enslaved Dominatrix of the Nineteenth Century Author: Esmé James | Graphic Design: Vicki Huang

Trash: 99% of action movies In quality and quantity, the representation of leading ladies in Hollywood action movies are pitifully lacklustre. Generally if they’re not a bland supporting love interest, they’re a token female to diversify the cast (looking at you, The Avengers and Inception) or family member to add to the main man’s background. On occasion, Hollywood will spit out a conventionally attractive and white sexy icon of *~*girl power*~* who can do epic violent shenanigans (and at least one half-naked scene) whilst looking stupidly flawless. Not to mention, Hollywood perpetually has trouble wrapping its head around the concept that ‘strong female character’ does not equate to ‘woman who exhibits masculine traits and interests’, which unfortunately is embodied in the movie we’re recommending - nonetheless, there’s still so much good about it.

Smash: The To Do List Here’s another movie about boys and girls and hookups, but this time Aubrey Plaza’s stereotype-thwarting protagonist Brandy makes it an exploration of sexuality that we won’t have to worry about catching internalised misogyny from. The best thing about this movie for me is its blunt, sassy, and refreshingly candid humour. Brandy is relatable, she epitomises female autonomy and growth, and she does it all whilst wearing super cute grandma-chic outfits which I would love to borrow. Set in the 90s, The To Do List predates the iPhone, but its attitude towards dating and female sexual experimentation could teach the writers of Swiped a thing or two. This movie embraces awkwardness and the transient, yet self-anointed, identities of young women navigating the sticky realm of love and sex - go watch it.

The long boots, the latex cat suit, the leather whip; she’s a familiar figure to us all. For many, the dominatrix is a celebrated figure of female empowerment — confident in her sexuality, asserting her dominance with no hesitation over The Man™. She is fearless, powerful. With the flick of her fingers, grown men start cowering, desperately kissing the dirt off her pristine stiletto shoes. On the surface, she looks like the hero feminism both deserves and needs. Yet, the dominatrix has experienced a rather problematic history, one that has far too rarely been called out and challenged. These issues are particularly apparent in Leopold von Sacher-Masoch’s infamous and widely read work, Venus in Furs. In a time when such sadomasochistic literature is experiencing a resurgence of popularity, it has to be asked — are we really listening to what Venus has to say?

during the nineteenth century. From SacherMasoch to Radcliffe, Wilde to Huysmans, the figure of the sexually dominant woman was prominent in many literary works across Europe. The dominatrix was lauded by men and women alike, providing both an outlet for taboo erotic desires and an alternative to conventional literary depictions of women as passive and subservient. The presentation of a powerful woman dominating a feminised man seemed to be a subversive attempt to challenge patriarchal gender roles, demonstrating the artifice and mutability of these ‘natural’ roles. The woman was celebrated for her ability to usurp power from the man, and likewise, the man idolised for giving himself over to the extremes of passion and sentimentality. By all appearances, the dissemination of the dominatrix fantasy was a progressive effort to interrogate gender conventionalities, exposing its performative nature.

The dominatrix has been around since time immemorial. Inanna, the ancient Mesopotamian goddess, forced men and Gods into her submission through her powerful sexuality, and Aristotle is said to have been seduced and humiliatingly ridden by the king’s mistress, Phyllis. However, the popularity of depictions of this character spiked 18

However, recent feminist critique has endeavoured to expose the misogynistic values implicit in many of these ‘progressive’ literary depictions. Venus, they say, is not the one who is truly holding the whip. In fact, nineteenth century fascination with the dominatrix could be seen 17

as a giant step back for the depiction of women within art. The female heroine was a prominent feature of eighteenth century literature, and — no matter how problematic these texts may now be — an effort was at least being made to grant and explore the complexities of the female psyche. Within Sacher-Masoch’s text, by contrast, Venus is nothing more than an object for the male gaze. She is created — and equally, destroyed — by the fantasy of the male observer. Venus in Furs details this progression through the relationship of Severin and Wanda. Completely infatuated with Wanda, Severin begs her to fulfil his super-sensual fantasy and become his Venus in Furs. Yet, beneath the guise of the ‘powerful woman,’ Venus is denied all depth, personality, and autonomy. She is mere art, made to be enjoyed and discarded. And the celebration of such a depiction as ‘feminist’ is perhaps even more worrying than explicit misogyny alone.

The masochistic fantasy has three clear stages: the indoctrination, the suspense, the fulfilment. In the first, the masochist explains his desire to the unsuspecting woman, laying down the role that she will play within this fantasy. In the case of Venus in Furs, it is very simple — Severin desires to be beaten, whipped, and finally, kicked aside by a cruel and indifferent woman. The performative nature of the fantasy is textually apparent. Wanda talks of how she will try to “act” the part of Venus and “embody his ideal.” It is in this stage that the woman must submit herself to the “submissive” man. By embodying his ideal, she forfeits all aspect of her sexual autonomy, acting solely for the fulfilment of his desire. Once this submission has been made, the fantasy moves on to the following stage. Suspense is undoubtedly the heart of the masochistic fantasy. It is the frozen moment before the whip strikes and the man enjoys the height of his sexual pleasure. It is here that he may enjoy the fantasy of the fearsome woman, sans the fear. She is still under his control. The moment of anticipation is dressed up, adorned with all kinds of bells and whistles. The submissive man revels in his observation of Venus trying on her furs, choosing her whip, raising her arm in preparation for the brutal blow. As Gilles Deleuze has noted about Sacher-Masoch’s text, all movement is suspended within these moments: “The woman torturer freezes into postures that identify her with a statue, a painting or a photograph.” It is in the process of becoming the object of the man’s desire that the woman ironically fulfils her purpose. During this time, she is his object of sublimity. As he waits and anticipates the fulfilment of his dream, his mind is transported, his sense overwhelmed — he can experience the sublime. It is the very moment when the woman successfully comes to “embody his ideal” that she loses her enchantment. Within Venus, this moment is very clear. Severin is successfully beaten, whipped, and kicked aside — and for that, he condemns not only Wanda, but all women for their cruelty and vulgarity. As a form of conclusion, Severin plainly articulates the 18

moral of the masochistic fantasy:

redeem the self-sacrificing male.” She becomes the object through which the man can achieve a state of transcendence, becoming the sublime object of desire, but never the subject.

“That woman, as nature has created her and as man is at present educating her, is his enemy. She can only be his place or his despot, but never his companion… we have only the choice of being hammer or anvil… whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.”

Tales of the dominating woman, therefore, have nothing to do with the sexual autonomy of woman — by contrast, these tales depend upon the complete eradication of it. It is male desire disguised as female autonomy; Venus may be cracking the whip but it is Severin pulling her strings.

The woman becomes the means through which the man can cure himself of his super-sensuality, reforming his masculinity to conform to modern conventionalities. The fantasy ends with man’s rehabilitation into the modern world, liberated from any romantic sentimentality. The best the woman can hope for, by contrast, is complete eradication from the tale — and at worst, death. Rita Felski has stated that the popularisation of the man’s desire to be dominated by woman was born from the changing demands of masculinity at the birth of modernity. She states that:

These tales of sexuality and submission should, however, continue to occupy an important place on our shelves. Despite being underscored by misogyny, they have made great contributions to our sexual knowledge, helping to normalise experimentation and alternative practices. What we need to reassess is the way we read these texts. The revised moral of dominatrix tales needs to be about the importance of communication and mutual benefit in sexual practices. They should outline the dangers of reducing others to signifying functions through the pursuit of our desires, and suggest that far greater enjoyment can be found through the fulfilled desires of both parties. And, most importantly, that this fulfilment is gained through a practice that is safe, sane, and consensual. In doing so, we lay the foundation for a discourse which can respectfully speak of Wanda’s pleasure in tandem with Severin’s — recognising the powerful woman as more than just a conduit for male fantasy.

“The desire to be dominated by a strong and powerful woman is associated with the thrill of perversity, the defiant exploration of unnatural and artificial pleasures.” The figure of the feminine man offered hope for a radical alternative to the modern narrative of man’s industrialisation and domination of the natural world — an account which encouraged a view of masculinity that was alienated, hardened, and mechanic. The dominatrix fulfilled a masochistic fantasy of domination by the natural forces modern man was meant to fight against. She allowed men to take pleasure in the inevitable pain of their downfall.

“She only attains the power to dominate by forfeiting her sense of self over to the man”

The woman’s role in all of this, however, was far from liberating. She might escape the confines of her conventional womanly sphere, and she might dominate and assert her will over the male submissive, but she could only do so as far as the man’s fantasy would allow. Ultimately, she is a mere actor in the performance of the man’s erotic desires. She only attains the power to dominate by forfeiting her sense of self over to the man. As Suzanne Stewart has written: “The woman in the masochistic fantasy is committed to some form of death in order to 19

Content Warning: Violence, Death

Witch Hunting Weather Author: Edie McAsey | Graphic Design: Xuetong Guan see a minimum of 3.0 degrees warming by 2100. By this point cities like Osaka, Miami and Shanghai will have begun to sink.

1562. A small German town named Wiesenteig. 63 women burned alive as witches within a year. The reason? Misogynistic blame for a bitterly cold winter during the unusual historical era that later became known as the ‘Little Ice Age’.

People began looking for someone to blame, and pretty soon women were being burned alive. You might be wondering, just how cold was this Little Ice Age anyway? A graph published by the U.S National Academy of Sciences in 2008 compares Northern Hemisphere temperatures for every year from 1000 to 2006 to the 1961-1990 mean level. The figures show that during the very coldest drops of the Little Ice Age, the temperature fell to just over 0.6 degrees below mean levels. When you take a look at the recent figures, your palms might start to sweat. From 1999 to 2006, temperatures rose rapidly to 0.6 degrees above this same mean. This shows that we have already seen an increase in temperature equivalent to the harshest shocks of the ‘Little Ice Age’, and things are only just beginning to heat up.

The term Little Ice Age first appeared in scientific literature in the late 1930s, and came to refer to a period of cooling that occurred from about 1300 to 1850. Abnormally cold weather was reported all over the globe. European societies were thrown into chaos; confronted by wild storms and late snows causing crop failure, disease epidemics and, disturbingly, massive spikes in witch-hunting. According to historian Wolfang Behringer, the peak witch-hunting seasons that occurred during the Early Modern Era almost always coincided with the most extreme temperature shocks of the Little Ice Age. Prior to severe cold spells in the 1500s, mass witch trials were rare, and the association between witches and weather-making had not yet been made. But as societies struggled to come to terms with the ‘unnatural’ weather events, panic and anxiety spread throughout local communities.

Today, based on emission reduction targets set by 186 parties to the Paris Climate Agreement, designed to reflect their “highest possible ambition”, Climate Action Tracker predicts we will

in a sparse wooden church in the Plymouth Colony in the 1600s warning parishioners of the hellfire that will rain upon them if they fail to give up their witches,” he writes.

So why aren’t we all panicking? If 0.6 degrees of cooling was enough to send societies into a tailspin, to tie women to the stake and set them on fire, how do most of us still seem so cool headed? I suppose one answer stems from the fact that most Western societies are no longer agrarian; we’ve built concrete jungles to insulate us from Mother Nature’s fluctuations, leaving us out of touch with her needs and the severity of the crisis. Another could be that these issues seem far too terrifying to actually address, and we’ve been lulled into a kind of paralysis by the distractions that our entertainment driven societies provide. Increasingly though, young people are defying this trend, and speaking up to demand climate action to protect their futures. The most prominent of these activists being sixteen-year-old Greta Thunberg, a young woman who is begging us to start acting as if our house is on fire, because it is.

Both men explicitly use the language of witchhunting to mount their attack on Greta. By attempting to portray her as a witch hunter, O’Neill seeks to position himself on the ‘right’ side of history. But in reality, a few hundred years ago, he would have been much more likely to accuse her of being a witch. So how do we prevent the sexist tendencies of historical crises, like the misogyny that blamed winter on the ‘witches’, from repeating themselves in the face of the climate catastrophe? Luckily, there are more women in power now than there were in 1562, but when they speak up for change, even those with relative privilege like Greta Thunberg and Jacinda Ardern, Alan Jones has shown he will encourage men to literally shove socks down their throats. Is it even possible to travel down a different path? To answer this question, we need to recognise that although the Little Ice Age acts as precedent for the ways in which women bear the blame for social and environmental emergencies, a lot has happened since 1562, and some women fare much better than others under our current system.

Whilst Greta has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for her climate activism and has already received the Prix Liberté, as a young girl speaking her mind on the global stage she has, predictably, also come up against the cruellest of critics. Not days after announcing that she would sail from Europe to The Americas on a zero emissions yacht to attend United Nations climate summits, Greta became the victim of a personal attack from none other than Andrew Bolt. Writing for the Herald Sun, Bolt called her “deeply disturbed” and the “priestess of the cult,” demonising her partially on account of her experience of Asperger syndrome and childhood anxiety disorders. Brendan O’Neill, editor of controversial British magazine Spiked, is similarly vicious.

The Industrial Revolution may have kick-started the climate catastrophe, but both are inextricably linked to colonialism. Today, as much as ever, Indigenous peoples are on the frontlines of the battle against ecological collapse, fighting to protect their sovereign lands from mining companies and their sacred sites from highway expansion projects.

“There is something chilling and positively premodern about Ms Thunberg. One can imagine her 20

Other people of colour are also disproportionately affected by this crisis, with Western industrialised states contributing the most to climate change and suffering the least. Even within these countries, environmental racism is rife; a 2014 study published by The New York Times showed that in the U.S, if you’re a Black or Latina woman, you’re around 75% and 60% more likely to live in an area with the greatest risk of chemical hazard from a toxic waste facility or polluting factory than the national average. If the ‘Little Ice Age’ is anything to go by, all women are at risk of becoming scapegoats as the climate crisis worsens, but some will suffer more than others, and it is essential that our proposed solution acknowledge this.

History shows us that as women and non-binary folk, these times of environmental upheaval could be dangerous in more ways than one. We’ve been traditionally excluded from decision-making, and when things fall apart we’ve always been the first to burn. But we also have the most to gain. It’s true that the climate catastrophe is overwhelming, and I’m as terrified as anyone, but if we do this right, we have a unique opportunity to fight as one for a fairer world. We witches have always been full of magic, and we need to believe we can use it for good, before it’s too late.

Climate action should be about justice, and dismantling the systems that oppress women and non-binary folk globally. It’s clear that we have to start now, not just by reducing emissions, but by taking our place at the forefront of the movement. We’ve fought hard for our rights, lacking though they still are. Some of us have fought harder than others, and we can channel these experiences into shaping the urgent response that this crisis demands. Rev. Dr. Nancy Wilson writes of the parallels between the queer community’s struggle with HIV/AIDS and our current battle for climate justice: “First, officials will ignore the problem; next, they will blame you for the problem; and then, they will block solutions if there is money to be made”. But we have challenged this narrative before and we can do it again. No one is more equipped to fight for justice than those in the intersections of oppression, so if we are to have any chance of succeeding in manifesting climate justice we must elevate the voices of the Indigenous women, women of colour and queer women who are already leading the charge.

References: U.S. National Academy of Sciences: https://www.pnas.org/content/105/36/13252.full New York Times – Facts &amp; Figures: Environmental Racism: https://takingnote.blogs.nytimes.com/2014/05/02/facts-figures-environmentalracism/?mtrref=www.google.com.au&amp;gwh=9F44E3926CBDCA52DD3932B3AA18AE37 &amp;gwt=pay&amp;assetType=REGIWALL Huffington Post – A Queer Climate Change?: https://www.google.com.au/amp/s/m.huffpost.com/us/entry/5884964/amp

Artwork by Ashleigh Mill22

Remembering Sixteen Author: ace | Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

Ghost Youths

if you only take one thing from those wallflower years, forget the hurt, forget the pain, and just know: we do not suffer without reason, one day there will be so much love in your life that you could drown in it

Author: ace | Graphic Design: Kiara Alto be alive is to hurt, and to heal, and to be aware of what we are leaving behind the girl who once wanted, so badly, to break out of the daze of childhood, now wants nothing more than to crawl back in we are the children who have been lost to time, a generation of forgetting, of growing up too fast in a world too unforgiving the shadows of our pasts will hug our ankles forever

Genesis Author: Tyler Hannah McRae Graphic Design: Xuetong Guan

In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.

Though they never touched the Tree of Life they often looked and wondered. The other trees bore fruit only from their sweat and toil, but the Tree of Life was never bare of fruit, full and perfect.

And the earth flowed with waters dark and deep, they drifted and danced over the surface of the earth, and there was nothing but darkness.

The words of God rang in their ears, and for generations they only looked. But the fields were getting harder, and God was silent to their calls. The creatures of the land and sky and sea could hardly be subdued, though they tried they failed to attain their dominion.With their children they decided: if God would not listen, if the fields would not yield, then the

God said, “Let there be light”, And there was light. The seas glittered with a harsh gleam under the new sun. And God said, “Let the water divide,” and land was created, populated with grass, tough and green, and trees, tall as the sky, and fruit, bright and firm. The seas he filled with creatures, and the air, and the land, crawling and running and breathing.

Tree must be plundered. Together they bit the forbidden flesh, and their eyes were opened, as if encrusted salt flakes fell from their pupils and they could finally see.The colours of Eden were changed: the garden glowed and shimmered in the shining sun.

And God said, “Let man be made, and let him have dominion over the grass, the trees, the fruit, and the creatures”. He called the man Adam, and to him God gave every bird and fish and beast, every tree and flower, and every fruit to watch over, and He called the place Eden.

Seeing such beauty their quest for dominion was abolished, no longer would they toil to plunder and desecrate.Adam and Eve stood side by side, not as master and companion, but as peers.

And God saw that the man was alone, and He made the man a companion, sighed into her lungs the Breath of Life and called her Eve. God said unto them, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and subdue the earth”, and he forbade them from eating from the Tree of Life.

other faces Author: Lucette Emily | Graphics: Xuetong Guan

an orbit in rapid reverse it takes time to unlearn and unlearn and unlearn such a bitter way of speaking to make room for letting go into a new rhythm in a dirty, dusty petri dish I don’t deny the solitude but your scowling eyes and distance have created monsters in me I must confess I’m bitter that you never handed me the keys your eyes are like a shadow of a stranger I passed once on Lovelace Street but not a single part of me finds comfort at the outline of your past this cosmos does not wait for approval handed unapologetically from the clutches of those who can’t handle evolution

The grasses and trees embraced their children with generosity, and Adam and Eve tended the garden with love. God’s silence was replaced by the friendly melodies of life.

Adam and Eve had many children, and over the years the garden of Eden became full with life.

and neither should you

And Adam and Eve and their children were free.

Mahogany Clock Author: Sarah Peters | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur Stuck inside the mahogany clock picking splinters from your tongue tick tock. You’re not getting any younger picking almonds and walnuts from hours and minutes, hoping it’ll lessen the weight of arrows anti-clockwise. Stuck inside the mahogany clock run your fingers across the gold lining tick tock. Chips and scratches on the tick tock clock add to antiquity stand tall and hold timeless, polish the brass and, breath on your chest.

Pearl Author: Esmé James | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur I kissed a scale made of glass and it left the taste  of mermaids on my lips I licked it up  let sand replace blood and became  the mythical creature men have always wanted me to be

All that makes her beautiful smell the tree that stood before You’re reinventing time yourself. Safe inside the mahogany clock tick tock.

Tomorrow’s Dark Author: Olivia Hartwig | Graphic design: Kiara Allis

There’s a shadow to my right. It isn’t particularly unique or interesting; it’s just a shadow from the tree that stands in front of the bench. Yet my muscles tense and a tremor erupt in my hands. I tear my eyes away, staring at the path in front of me, but it’s still in the corner of my eye. It stretches lethargically like a cat, slinking into my vision. I walk faster, trying to ignore it, but I can f eel it hovering. I inhale deeply and clench my jaw.

surfaces in the real world, flooding my sight with burning brilliance. The pathway, the golden grass stalks, even silver-grey tree trunks are tinged with a gilded amber glow. Orange lasts an age, seeping into every corner of the sky. Reaching into our world and clinging onto impressionable objects. I wait, increasingly conscious of the ever-growing darkness as it crawls closer. Shivers dart across the surface of my skin as the temperature drops. In the distance, time fumbles the exchange of the hour; every bell interweaving with the rising melody.

I shouldn’t be afraid, I chant to myself. I shouldn’t be afraid, not yet. I tilt my gaze to the sky as I exhale. It’s mostly lemon yellow. It’s a pretty colour, really. And the other half of the sky is a lovely blue.

Twilight blushes pink, and suddenly I realise the figure has moved from its lounging place on my right. I spin around, and still can’t see it anywhere. My heart beats a bruising rhythm and my eyes flicker frantically, fingers scrunching the edges of my tattered sleeves. The edges of the shadow have faded with the dying sun, and now I don’t know what is shadow and what is not.

The shadow creeps towards me again. The sun seems to swell larger. There’s a bit of orange now- a smear of marmalade on the crust of the horizon. Something moves to my right, and I glance across quickly.

I tell myself I shouldn’t be afraid, but the sky is pink, strawberry pink, and the ground is grey...the colour of a shadow. All around, the sky tints crimson and dusts itself with fuzzy clouds, and the orange disc turns to red and the glare fades a little and I look away, just for a moment, to watch a bird, a kite, a dog... I’m not entirely sure.

Bad choice. My eyes latch onto the dark mass, and for the first time I see something different about it. T he edges of the shadow are blurred. The back of my neck tingles, sending shivers through my arms.

I turn my attention back to the sky and somehow the sun is gone. How did I miss that moment? Time was suspended, it was hanging on with every chime I heard. So why is the sun not there? How could it leave me? I try to speak but my voice left with the sun; I can’t make a sound, nor move my limbs Why had I thought that I could do this? I try inhaling. Exhaling. Inhaling. Exhaling. Inhale. Exhale.

It’s okay, I think. I inhale. I exhale. I shouldn’t be afraid; the sky is still honey-gold. My mind seems content with this reassurance, and I pull away. I can even lift a hand and run it through my hair. The horizon is smoky, hazy, and stretches for miles across the sky. Colours leap between

Inhale – Ex. In – Ex – In. In. In. In. In –

Should I make my wish on it? Another shiver slides through my arms, and I quickly make up my mind; I don’t want to be afraid anymore.

Shadows don’t exist anymore, and my eyes seek the light. Day is reversed. Circles of light pool around lamp posts, or near windows. Its spills from far off places and I drink it in greedily, hungry for each scrap. The sky is raw, bleeding across the horizon to mark the place where the sun died. I check the shadow, almost hoping for its return... at least then I would know where it is.

In. In. Exhale. In. In. In. Exhale. I see another star – it’s brighter. I wonder why I didn’t see this one first. And I think, maybe, there’s a touch of aqua green between the blue and cream, about to erupt in a wider band across the sky. A single lamppost splutters to life next to my bench- a simple reprieve that pushes away the darkness a little bit more. It might not be the sun, but it’s close enough. A few more stars are visible, joining their sisters in the growing dark as silver pins of light. There’s enough to see a constellation: Orion’s belt, with Betelgeuse, and Rigel and Bellatrix and Saiph.

It’s not there. I barely notice when lavender arrives, or when lavender turns pastel-peach and rose. My eyes flit between sources of light, finding the brightest spots in places too far away. Blue takes over the world behind me, but it’s just one constant, unchanging ink that spreads across the sky, barely interrupted by the halo of white light growing beyond the trees. The city? Home? The stirring in my belly somehow helps me lift my head. If I could just... but no. Once again, it’s too far away, and I let the cold fingers of the shadow drag across my shoulders. My head rolls to one side as the icy tendrils trail up my neck, resting on my jaw, and I try not to cringe at the shadow’s touch. The border between light and dark is faint and indistinct, and I force my eyes tighter as the shadow’s embrace grows stronger.

In. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

In, in, in, in in. Exhallleee. In, in, in. Exhale.

My fingers are still cold, but I no longer feel the touch of shadows. I notice the circle of light from the lamp, with softer edges than any daytime shadow. The green has faded. Night lets the curtain fall on day, leaving the sky bruised- more black than blue. The silhouettes of trees, once dark and forceful against the paler sky, now blend into obscurity. I can see more stars now, ones I can’t name. They keep me calm while I wonder if the peace I feel now will stay with me as I walk home through the semi-lit streets. I always hope, but it rarely does.

I try to make a wish; I need to find a star. Tentatively, I open one eye. A blanket of purple has been draped across the sky, and the peach has started to pull away. Don’t go, I want to say. Please don’t go.

We tend to forget about shadows until they swallow our world, but I don’t hate the dark. I’ve simply learnt to crave the elusive light, and there are far too many hours between dusk and dawn to wait out the sun.

There’s a glittering fixture on the purple canvas; it flickers, and I wonder if it’s really a star at all.

Content Warning: Violence, Death, Nudity, Gore

WHAT COLOUR IS FEMININITY: if we could overthrow pink to be THE “feminine” colour, what colour should replace it? Should there even be a replacement?

The Colour of Femininity Author: Natalie Williams | Graphic Design: Shabnam Verma

We are the past, present and future We are queer, non-binary, and black We are everything you think holds us back We continue to grow when you shrink We cannot be confined to pink

We cannot be confined to pink We line our lips with silver and gold, Wine soaked and trauma ridden, We shout the words you deem too bold We will not stop bursting with colour until you listen We are overflowing and on the brink We cannot be confined to pink

We are the cosmos The Big Bang waiting to happen Within us exists all that has ever been And all yet to come

We are red Blood trickling from hearts and thighs We allow the painful stains to seep into our skin We are rage, anger, passion and life Beating from within

We are the stars in the galaxy We are the planets, their moons and suns You cannot contain the colour of our hue And We will not be undone By the likes of you

We are the shouting and the silent, the quiet and the violent The peace-shakers and change-makers We are more than your colour spectrum We are the rising when you sink We cannot be confined to pink

We are the chains of femininity, together we unlink We are all forces to be reckoned with

We march on the rainbow and send hail from the skies We are the clear days and the thunder of the storm We have earthquakes and tsunamis in our eyes And lightning stretch marks grow the day we are born

We cannot be confined to “pink.”

Artwork by Zefiryn Chan

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Text from the artwork: Limb lengthening surger for long, slender legs $85k. Thigh gap- legs no wider than an iphone. Full hips. Narrow waist (no wider than an A4 page). Gastric bypass for a flat stomach. Liposuction? $23k. Implants for symmetrical, pert breasts of desired size $10k. Long, bony, elegant fingers. Clean Shaven. Smooth, unblemished skin $1k. Whitening $21. Collarbones that can balance coins. V-shaped face. Rhinoplasty $7k. Double eyelid surgery $3k. (Photoshop for anything a knife can’t fix). Shiny, silky hair $1k. Makeup (Must look natural)

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She’s pretty but you’d prefer a stoic statue, a beauty drained of life. She’s pretty but automatons aren’t supposed to clutch opinions to their chests. She’s pretty but you can see lines where thought has worked its way across her skin. She’s pretty but “she has a mouth” seeking to project her flattened voice.

She’s Pretty, But Author: Jamisyn Gleeson Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

Photography by Bonnie Jarrett 34

Content Warning: Explicit language in playlist

It’s time to (RE)vise your music taste Written by Nicole Nguyen and Lani Li | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur

Hey gals and non-binary pals,

Our personal favourites - the “must-listen-to’s”:

We have collated a Spotify playlist with some jamming and heart-wrenching songs for you all, as part of the theme of (RE)VISION.

Nicole’s faves: Armor - Sara Bareilles Close your Eyes - Kim Petras Nobody - Mitski Take A Byte - Janelle Monáe I Am Not a Robot - MARINA Good As Hell - Lizzo

For us, (RE)VISION means reflecting on past adversities that we have faced as a community, but also celebrating our perseverance and resilience through it all. We often find ourselves thinking about these issues through the music we listen to, which is how this playlist was birthed.

Lani’s faves: Brand New City - Mitski Prom Queen - Beach Bunny Crazy, Classic, Life - Janelle Monae Juice - Lizzo Lonesome Love - Mitski Los Ageless - St Vincent

However, our experiences aren’t something that can be easily monopolised to a single overarching “women’s struggle” - we are all unique individuals that have come from different walks of life, with various stories to tell. This is something we believe is important to acknowledge - that the struggles and challenges faced by our community are complex, ever-evolving and highly intertwined with people from diverse backgrounds.

A sneak peek of some artists featured on the playlist, and why we love them…

This playlist features songs from a range of our favourite artists who convey many different messages through their lyrics. Some of these are focused on a personal level, whereas others tell stories about the wider community.

MITSKI Mitski doesn’t want your pity, she just wants one good movie kiss. She writes about her experiences and personal feelings. These are topics that Mitski doesn’t consider inherently political, but instead they are notions MADE political just because they reflect her own honest existence as a woman of colour. Through her music, she thoroughly explores where she fits into the world. She takes control of her identity - steering away from stereotypes and ideals that she’s boxed into, like those that tell her she’s supposed to be meek and submissive, or to fit the image of a sad, quiet girl™. Her newest album, Be the Cowboy tells you that, when in doubt, do what a cowboy would do. Take in that confidence and that empowered sense of independence, but also revel in the loneliness that comes with it and define your own path. Mitski’s well aware of the domineering white male presence in indie-rock music, and she is here to challenge that (with her own cowboy hat). KIM PETRAS Kim Petras is a bop-producing powerhouse. She has released great hits like I Don’t Want It At All and Icy. Not only does she pump out EXTREMELY catchy melodies, but she’s also one of the youngest people to undergo gender reassignment surgery. Kim Petras is an integral part of the community of women as she is paving the way for more trans-women inclusivity in the music industry. Although Petras is invested in transgender rights, she wants being trans to be a part of her identity and not the entirety of it. I personally fell in love with Kim Petras not due to the fact that she’s transgender, but because her music is absolutely poppin’- and I hope you do too. Close my Eyes is definitely an absolute favourite of mine. It incorporates spooky Halloween elements with a sexy, alluring vibe and I’m LIVING for it (I too, would also like to seductively eat people’s hearts in the night). It was only afterwards that I learnt about her trans-identity and squealed in excitement. Being able to genuinely support a talented woman, who is also trans, is just the icing on the cake.

LIZZO “I just took a DNA test, turns out I’m 100% that bitch.” Lizzo loves herself, and thinks you should too. Her songs spread self-love and body positivity - but they’re also just absolute BOPS. She’s a brilliant and unwavering presence. By listening to her songs, there is no way you won’t feel Good As Hell. Anyone who’s ever felt uncomfortable in their own skin, and had to grow up without seeing people their size portrayed positively - these songs are for you.

Scan me to find the playlist! 36

Content Warning: Domestic Abuse and Violence

TOVE LO I grew up in a Southeast-Asian, Christian household that thrives off the judgement of women’s life choices. However, men did whatever they wanted with no eruption of gossip leaking onto the dining tables. Men in my family could have affairs and it would be normalised, justified to be just the way men were. Us women were supposed to adjust to their assholery with no complaint. But when we mashed together the topics: women and sexual activities, you had tea spilling left, right and center. This environment fed my shame and made me too terrified to confide in girls about sexual topics- even though it’s 100% normal to become sexually curious during puberty. When I discovered Tove Lo’s Lady Wood album in the midst of this toxicity, it felt so liberating. To hear another woman talk so openly about her sexual experiences with men and women sparked bursts of relief in me. I WASN’T some sort of sinner after all! Additionally, her songs inspire all sorts of wondrous dance moves, so just give them a listen and get drenched into the mood they give off. THAO & THE GET DOWN STAY DOWN The lead singer of this alternative folk-rock band, Thao Nguyen, uses music as a form of activism. She sees it as a way to raise awareness and discussion to issues. Nguyen often works with nonprofits and advocacy groups, such as the California Coalition for Women Prisoners. She was inspired to write We are Common (for Valerie Bolden) after talking to incarcerated female prisoners, many of whom were serving long prison sentences. Another track, Meticulous Bird is written as an ode to abuse survivors. The tracks feature surprisingly bold, intoxicating beats interspersed with Nguyen’s raspy voice. IMBI THE GIRL imbi the girl is a non-binary artist. But based off their stage name, it’s not unlikely that you might’ve made some assumptions about them beforehand. Ironically, the project of imbi the girl came to exist just before they realised they were non-binary. Their stage name is intentionally a political move, challenging others to rethink what it really means to ‘be a girl’. To them, being a girl isn’t necessarily correlated with being female, but instead someone who has defied the odds “regardless of how naive, precious or weak people perceive them to be”. imbi the girl’s music revolves around identity and self love, and within it, an unapologetic navigation of gender.

Maybe Later Author: Olivia Hartwig | Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

Maybe later When the green dissolves to grey And the iron fists of war have pulled away Maybe later When this is not so hard And He has had his way Maybe later When all of this is done And so is he And you have had your say

It’s later now and he can’t believe you’re still up this late Go to bed Maybe later Go to sleep Maybe later Maybe not at all Thanks To the iron fists of war and the blues and greens that turn to grey I still have a fuck of a lot to say So sit down. Listen up I’ll sleep when it’s over When all of this is done When I am done And so are we

And so has He Maybe later You’re different now, You know the world You know the way He is And maybe you weren’t fair to him Maybe you cared less about your skin And more for your heart But it’s different now You’re sure it is You’ve changed a lot - you’re stronger So maybe later You’ll sit down and talk You and him Mostly him About what you could’ve done Or should’ve But mostly what you didn’t

Nicole and Lani are struggling biomedicine students who are very, very busy (you’ll see if you take a peek at their digital calendars). They definitely do not have the time to dabble in Extremely Elaborate Spotify Playlist Making.

True Love

Author: Sneha Challa | Graphic Design: Vicki Huang

LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE

Love. What the fuck is that? I see it everywhere But also nowhere at all? Is it even real? Who do I love ? How do I love? I romanticize the mundane moments like movie scenes, Waiting for that Prince Charming to find me and sweep me off my feet, Us galloping off into the distance. Bullshit. Who the fuck is my Prince Charming even supposed to be?? The “one”? What if “the one” isn’t real? I do wonder where we’d all be If we stopped chasing the validation of a man. A man telling us we’re “pretty enough” for him. “good enough” for him. Bullshit. Me? Having to be good enough for him? When did I become so insecure.

LOV

Do I even want him? Or do I really just want to be loved That yearning to be felt, and held and touched.

Why is it that we do not romanticise these intimacies In the same way we do a Prince Charming? This is the true love that I see. The people who understand me before I can barely comprehend myself. The ones who show me how it is to feel, and be held. To be loved unapologetically. Something which we all deserve.

VE LO

But what if I already am loved. How have I become so disillusioned to my reality In that I do not see The waking souls in front of me Who do not demand me To be “good enough” for them But who demand to be good enough for me.

LOVE

Devotion(s) Author: Jamysin Gleeson Graphic Design: Kiara Allis Say we’re sat cross legged, however many of us, arms twinned watching Lizzie McGuire re-runs, where she has her first kiss, and her heart broken when Ronnie says later - we all repeat we need to talk, in different voices. You are impersonating Ronnie deliciously: the small fry of recurring pubescence, the seriousness ejected into velar consonants, the thawing pause before “Lizzie...” which lasts as long as he desires. Lizzie and he interact only that one episode; he likes a girl at a distant New York school, and says he doesn’t know if now is the time for he and Lizzie to stay exclusively boyfriend and girlfriend. Ronnie is a paper-route in the mid 2000’s like Clark Kent not making sense to work at a print newspaper in 2019. We are trading our tertiary characteristics like playing D&D; we grip one another and compliment Hillary Duff on her diamond smile and endless patience with ciscum and lie one on top of the other like newly-born kittens developing eyes, very still.

Belly

Author: Jamisyn Gleeson Graphic Design: Kiara Allis sore belly beer belly can’t show any skin scarred belly stretched belly tuck it all in. fat belly flat belly hide away your skin old belly young belly suck it all in.

Straightening Out Rough Edges Author: Lindsay Wong | Graphic Design: Vicki Huang For Lindsay Wong, life with scoliosis has been no smooth curve.

2009-2011: It’s a quiet night in Tokyo. I’m talking to my mom, when all of a sudden, she tells me to hunch over. She looks concerned as her eyes widen. She’s noticed that my right shoulder is raised slightly higher than my left. Almost immediately after she’s had a look, she decides to take me to a children’s doctor. After several x-rays and medical check-ups, the doctor gives me my diagnosis: Scoliosis: a hereditary condition causing a curvature in the spine Everyone has a slightly curved spine so we can move, but people with scoliosis have bigger curves than others. This can severely affect other organs later on in life, potentially causing breathing and posture problems. This didn’t strike me as too serious an issue at the time, though, given scoliosis was considered mild back then. I could still continue with my daily life – I kept going

to school, went on frequent trips to Disneysea and Disneyland, and swam on a weekly basis. Things were still normal. The next year, I saw a spine specialist in Singapore to get a second opinion on my condition. I didn’t know it then, but this would be the first of many visits to come. My condition had gotten worse; the curve of my spine had grown by 10˚, and everyone was alarmed. Immediately, I was made to wear a back brace for 22 hours every single day – even when I was sleeping. The back brace was essentially two large pieces of hard plastic that wrapped around my torso and were attached by Velcro at the back – the top piece wrapping around my chest, the bottom wrapping around my stomach. According to the doctor, only a contraption like this could stop the ever-growing curve of my spine. For the next year and a half, this back brace imprisoned me. I 44

wore high-collared shirts to hide the brace that covered my entire torso. I always had to wear a thin singlet under the brace, too, which became unbearable during the hot and humid summers. While my friends began experimenting with fashion, I had to wear baggy shirts. I was always self-conscious about what I was wearing; I always felt uncomfortable, out of place. Worst of all, the brace physically held me back – physical activity was out of the question. Whatever I was doing, if I had my back brace on, I was always uncomfortable. But the truth was, this was my reality, and there wasn’t anything I could do to change it. I pretty much hated my body at this point because I was constantly in discomfort. During this time, I was lucky to have One Direction as a momentary distraction, and strangely enough, P.E. – my once most-hated class at school – became my favourite subject. While everyone was changing before P.E., I would run to the nurse’s office to take off my brace. I came to love P.E, simply because it was the only time I was finally free. 2012: During the next school holiday, I went back to see the doctor in Singapore. The curvature of my spine was now 40˚. Once the curve is between 40˚ and 60˚, the best treatment is surgery. The earlier surgery is done, the greater the chance of success. Yet, the concept of an invasive operation terrified me to the bone.

scoliosis surgery – one which August 13th, 2012: the day had never been performed of the surgery. before. I would essentially be the guinea pig for this risky I remember the day like it was procedure, and the thought made yesterday. When I was waiting me sick to my stomach. What if the to go into the operating surgery failed? What would I do theater, I remember crying a then? These doubts troubled me so lot while the nurses tried to much that I started having mental comfort me. I honestly thought breakdowns and panic attacks. that I was facing death that My mom sat with me through all day. I just kept praying that of this, crying along with me. I everything would go well. kept thinking “Why me?”, “Why And it did. In fact, it went do I have to suffer?”, “Will I die?”. better than expected. Two Clearly, I was having a hard time rods, multiple screws, and processing the risks of this surgery, a dead person’s bone so my mom took me to see a spine fused over mine was what specialist at another hospital. it took to straighten my spine and correct my The second doctor had years of scoliosis. Immediately, I experience of performing the normal grew three centimeters, corrective surgery on people just and during my hospital like me. There were much fewer risks stay, I was never alone. involved, so I decided to do the I constantly had visitors surgery. By this point, my mental and even though I was health was sturdier since I’d come to recuperating, I had an terms with the fact that I needed to amazing time bonding undergo an operation. I didn’t see with my cousins and my it at the time, but later, my parents extended family. A huge would tell me that I was brave for weight had been taken off handling it the way I did. my shoulders. The hardest part was over – I was free from However, as I was preparing for scoliosis. the surgery, I kept having doubts. I’d heard so many horror stories 2013: about anesthesia, about death. Every surgery has risks, but spine Six months after my surgery surgeries are even more serious and wearing a slightly more since the spine is connected to comfortable back-brace, I our nervous system and affects felt liberated. I still had a few our mobility. Family members restrictions, such as not being reassured me that I would be able to ride roller coasters, or fine, but I later learnt that at the play contact sports or carry time, my parents didn’t tell me heavy things, but other than that, about how serious my surgery I could finally enjoy life to the actually was. They knew I fullest. The feeling of not having was scared. They didn’t want to wear a brace felt euphoric. to worry me any more than I I also had something new already was. to show off – my new 40cm scar.

The first doctor presented me with the option of a completely new

The doctor had sewn up my back using dissolvable staples, and people were fascinated. At school, my friends always kept asking to see it. I felt proud to have gone through something so traumatic and survived. People started calling me a ‘survivor’. The name fitting- I genuinely felt like one. For years, my mom had always pestered me to cover up my scar – she thought it was embarrassing for other people to see the surgical consequences of my condition. But I refused to. My scar is symbolic of the pain and hardship I endured as an adolescent – I can’t pretend it simply didn’t happen. It’s a symbol of my own strength and bravery, and because of this, I bare it proudly. This experience has empowered me in so many different ways. Even though I still harbour some of the selfconsciousness I experienced during my adolescence, it is outweighed by my gratitude for surviving. I also built up my tolerance for pain, and now whenever I do anything risky, my parents always remind me that after having gone through spine surgery, everything else is easy by comparison. I have no regrets about choosing to have surgery. Even though I couldn’t control being diagnosed with scoliosis, I was able to control the way I dealt with it, both physically and mentally, and I’m grateful for being able to do so. Above all, while my scar represents that my journey with scoliosis is over, it’s also a constant reminder that this experience made me the very person I am today.

Shrinking Myself Author: Yar Majak | Graphic design: Xuetong Guan

I have spent so long shrinking myself, trying to make myself fit into a world that perceives my existence as a threat. Being a dark skinned fat Black woman, the world has indoctrinated into my psyche the idea that my mere presence in the world is already overwhelming. Intimidating. Scary. Too much. But recently a friend said to me, as I apologised for being overly enthusiastic about something… ‘You don’t need to apologise, take up space’. It’s come at a time when I am also trying to recover my voice and work through internalised misogynoir. To that end, I want to proclaim to the world. I am here. I am a woman. I am Black. You will see me and you will listen to me.

Artwork by Kiara Allis

Fear of flying is Author: Jocelyn Deane | Graphic Design: Vicki Huang

haped â&#x20AC;&#x201C; not unlike other highly circumscribed phobias - as if it was flying itself: The colour - blinding as heaven unfurling - underneath singing like bodies in transit is fingernail thick Plexiglass windows, heavier-than-air wings, revealing at altitude.

Artwork by Ruby Li

Bangkok to Brisbane:

An Original and Groundbreaking Poem About Cows and Horses Author: Tilly Gwinner | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur I write two love poems on the long flight from Suvarnabhumi. Bangkok: At first, Bangkok was lawless. Prices aren’t final, even in department stores My blonde hair frizzes and my cover-up drips The police won’t come if I call. I’ve been riding motorbikes everywhere The traffic rushing around us like a midday miracle. We took a bus that curled us back to the city The symmetry, patterns, they crept up. Brisbane: One of the best parts of being human is the potential for reinvention. I came to Samford Valley to see a horse. Max and I stood on the hill, Awestruck, a white stallion We waited 5 minutes It was a statue. It’s humid here. I stop wearing lipstick, I Stop writing poetry. Humans are built for nature, so Look at me All I have is this fragile body, My thirst, my little rotten elbows with Nerve damage. (Most of all, I’m scared of vulnerability Of how it feels when the world Drops, Just for a minute)

Photography by Kel, Concept by Aria Sun50

Content Warning: Sexual Harassment, Body Image, Fat-Shaming

An Ode to My (Nonexistent) Gym Membership Author: Adelle Greenbury | Graphic Design: Shabnam Verma The thick band of my tights comes up all the way to my waist, hugging me, containing me. The giving fabric skims over the curves and contours of my legs, stretching over the expanse of my thighs. They’re close-fitting, holding in not just my dimpled flesh but also the emotions that quiver and jump and threaten to spill over. Straps bite into my shoulders and the softness under my arms. Even the acts of putting these things on, of pushing my legs through tunnels of nylon, layering a tank over my sports bra to conceal the paleness of my middle, fill me with fear. Blood rushes to my head as I lean down to slip my socked feet into my running shoes and my stomach clenches in on itself.

or shake. I can hold my flesh close and tight and conceal. At the gym, none of that is fully possible. I can’t decide who’s in there with me, who sees me. The clothes I wear to fit in are also revealing. I can’t stop my body from quaking when I run or my thighs from sighing where they kiss. I can’t control any of that, and that terrifies me. I am not alone in my fear. According to a survey by Fitrated, 65% of women in the U.S avoid going to the gym out of fear of being judged. 55% of these women are afraid of being judged for not looking fit enough, 49% are self-conscious about their clothing choices, and 25% are anxious about being stereotyped. That’s a large percentage, but can you really blame us?

I don’t want to do this. Ever since I’ve been aware of the way people see me, I’ve been self-conscious of my body. And ever since I realised the ways my body was wrong, I’ve been afraid of the gym.

The gym culture today is, frankly, terrifying. I know exactly what the ideal gym girl body looks like; slim yet muscular, a large, rounded ass that tapers into a tiny waist all held up by toned legs and a thigh gap. A smooth, flat stomach below perky yet generous breasts, and all of this tightly encased in flattering sportswear. Picture any of the women on the Gymshark Instagram page, women like Nikki Blackketter or Whitney Simmons; picture Jen Selter’s girl squad; the top posts under the #fitspo hashtag. Gorgeous, definitely, and an amazing feat for the women who worked hard to get there or a blessing to the women who just so happened to be born with it. Nevertheless, this body remains decidedly different from mine.

I am not afraid of exercise, necessarily. I love swimming and running in the rain, I can hold my own in a game of tennis, and I cherish the feeling of my muscles stretching, extending, straining in the milky morning light. I’m not afraid of my body. I’m afraid of my body through the eyes of others. I’m afraid of being overly-sexualised; of not being sexualised enough; of people thinking my body is disgusting; of people thinking I don’t know what I’m doing; of people thinking anything at all, really, without my consent.

So can you blame me, then, for comparing myself to this perpetuated ideal? And for thinking that everyone else must be, too?

I’m aware that people think things without my consent all the time. I’m not an idiot. But in everyday spaces, I have more control. I can control who I surround myself with, or how my body moves, or what I’m wearing. I can make sure I don’t jiggle

When I tell people about my fear, their responses are usually the same: a sort of baffled, amused

look as they scrunch their brows and shake their heads. But why would you be afraid? They typically ask, a semblance of condescension creeping into their tone. Everyone else is too busy focusing on themselves. This is said with an almost affronted air, a who-do-you-think-you-are air, a no-bodycares-about-you air. And although I honestly do wish this were true, it’s simply not the case.

at the gym, resulted in a massive – yet unsurprising – 71%. Many of these women changed their habits in order to avoid this harassment; they wore baggier clothing, or listened to music, or stopped going to that gym entirely. But, of the women that experienced more serious physical groping or harassment, nearly 40% did nothing at all. There’s something about the gym, I think, that creates a false sense of intimacy. It’s something about sweating together, moving together, working, though separately, towards the same end-goal, that blurs the boundaries typically found between strangers. Particularly for men. Perhaps it has something to do with testosterone, or power in numbers, or some sort of tangible reminder of physical dominance, but the gym always made me aware – more aware than usual – of a power imbalance. And as we all know, assault is about power. This environment, I think, encourages the growth of a masculine culture that allows these types of interactions to occur over and over (and over) again.

I’m scrolling down my Instagram feed and pause at a photo of an old classmate at the gym. He’s standing in the foreground facing away from the camera, his own phone held up as he snaps a photo of a girl squatting to lift some weights across the room. She doesn’t see him. The caption glares up at me from beneath the photo, some half-hearted excuse, then -fuck it she has a nice

I couldn’t resist

and I grit my teeth. I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror from an angle I’m not used to and look into my own eyes, caught unaware. I can’t help but stare at this new person, this newly-revealed body that had been hidden inside my own. Surely that isn’t me; surely that isn’t the way people see me. Surely that doesn’t bulge like that, surely it doesn’t dimple, surely it doesn’t fold, surely- and I look away.

In a survey of over 1000 gym-goers, 19% of women reported having been sexually harassed while at the gym, and that’s a modest estimate considering the study defined harassment as involving physical touch, leaving out inappropriate looks or verbal harassment. Another study, which simply asked whether women had ever been made to feel uncomfortable due to an interaction 53

Whereas bodies that are considered desirable to men often face sexual harassment, comparatively undesirable bodies don’t have it any better. You don’t need intensive research to be aware of gymshaming, where people mock other individuals at the gym, typically those who appear physically unfit. These are sometimes paired with sneak photos or text descriptions, or just done verbally. Either way, gym-shaming is meant to embarrass, shame, and harass people who may not fit into conventional ideas of fitness or beauty. You’ve seen the posts, I’m sure: a figure, on the treadmill perhaps, running through thick syrup-air, cheeks blossoming red, gasps like thunderclaps. It’s not funny on paper; there’s no joke here. The punchline is the body. It’s cruel, but body-shaming like this is unfortunately still a part of many of our realities.

What this says to me is that although we are, slowly, moving towards a world where size inclusivity is welcomed, even if not expected, there are still many people who do not think that way. People who have strong opinions about the way other bodies look, and potentially, the way mine looks. Because of this, and because of the masculine culture that lives within it, and because of unrealistic body ideals, the gym still feels like a threatening amalgamation of all these fears of mine. Like a place where my body is put on display for opinions of all shades to flood in. Like an invitation for comments and criticism. Like a place where my body is no longer all my own. And what little self-confidence I’ve pieced together isn’t strong enough to handle that tough of a battering. I’ve begun the slow journey of learning to love myself. The first time my boyfriend told me I was beautiful, I laughed. The second time, I cried. I’m still trying to twist in the mirror and find beauty in all my reflections. To trace a finger over a curve and think gorgeous, soft, loved, enough instead of the thorny words that have been embedded into me my whole life. To appreciate my silhouette as its own landscape. And until I can do that I’ll continue to run in the rain and learn the way my body moves – alone. Without unwanted opinions and, for now at least, without the gym.

The first time I wore shorts, after the development of self-awareness that is, I was 17 years old. For years I had worn only jeans and long trousers no matter the heat, the thick fabric stifling against my legs in the tropical humidity. I have a fat friend that wore shorts, it was so embarrassing, a girl I was friends with said to me as we walked to our fifthgrade class. Oh, that’s gross, I’d never do that, I responded, trying so hard, above all else, to be liked. I remember standing in front of my full-length mirror seven years later, wearing those denim shorts that fell conservatively to mid-thigh, and thinking yeah, okay. I remember wearing them out and feeling the breeze against my legs and thinking maybe this is the start of something. Just a few months ago, Nike released photos of one of its new plus-sized mannequins for its sportswear, which resulted in an extremely controversial debate on the visibility of fat bodies. While many people applauded Nike’s progressive move towards inclusivity, the voices that seemed louder to me were those that called the mannequin disgusting or obese, those that claimed a woman of that size should not be represented. One journalist for the Telegraph described the mannequin as “heaving with fat”, that she couldn’t possibly run at that size anyway.

Sources: Workout Worries: A look at what causes gym aversion and anxiety https://www.fitrated.com/resources/workoutworries/ Sexual Harassment at the Gym https://www.exercisebike.net/sexual-harassment-gym/ Uncomfortable at the Gym: Exploring women’s experiences while working out https://www.fitrated.com/resources/uncomfortable-at-the-gym/

Artwork by Rebecca André

Some Wild Feeling persephone Author: Maddy Ruskin Graphic Design: Simran Kaur

fruit tumbles to the ground plump seeds ooze out blood red against the ashes and dust vitality a shuddering howl of pain one that makes the flowers wither one that makes rivers dry up one that pierces mortal hearts my hands sticky with the forbidden fruit naïve little persephone maiden of shrinking violets and dandelions oh mother, what have i done stain of red against my lips i am marked for death caged by a pomegranate his eternal prisoner chained to ghosts and thrones i am life immortal i am youth lost queen of the underworld hear me when i say i have never been his victim only a victim of the primal hunger the desire that burns deep

Author: Vanessa Lee | Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

we stood there at the canyon’s edge

mother, mother,

flesh wound in the sky,

dear mother, we love you so.

hands clasped together

we know the festering rage

mother’s rusting summer bracelets,

beneath your skinned palms.

crossing fragile veins

let it be ravenous, like the wintertime.

dangling from frail wrists

hunger sharp like wolf’s teeth.

ghosts of a child with her awkward limbs,

so we swallow the misery, turned to the horizon

listening to whispers from mother;

with dreams howling like thunder.

there is no other way to be.

taste the salt of our tears

quiet, beautiful, young girls,

hear the clang of our iron bones;

always smiling in the summer haze.

blood insistent, pushing forward,

we did not weep then.

dancing, singing, shedding expectations.

days of wild blackness, spent tearing blank parchments,

we kiss life with our eyes open,

heeding to the chaos in our bones.

skin fresh anew

he never placed the crown on my head i took it for myself i am blinding ambition and furious want blazing crimson need

oh, to become weightless

gently blooming buds of youth.

oh mother, be wary i am the rose who blooms in hellfire and darkness careful not to prick your finger on my thorns

to reach for the warmth of the sun.

to unstitch the skin our cried unfurl like wings taking flight, wind roaring in our ears; reborn with thunderous, hopeful hearts

we know the festering rage

we run wild with delight.

beneath your skinned palms.

Content Warning: Depression, Transphobia, Suicide, Self-harm

Uhn-der-stan-ding Author: Tyler Hannah McRae | Graphic Design: Shabnam Verma At fifteen I wrote a letter to my best friend telling her about how much I hated myself. I thought if I could make her, make someone, understand, then it would all be okay. I would stop daydreaming about serrated knives and trams skidding to a stop too late along rain-drenched tracks. Having recited this thousand-word long memorial to my own self-hatred over the phone, sitting in her attempt to process my emotions, the thick quiet of shocked and muffled sobs, I realised: it didn’t work. I had melted the ice of unspoken grief and cursed us both to drown in it. At sixteen, I offered to kiss a close friend who I’d been crushing on for several long months. Wound up in the confusion of discovery, the potential for possibilities, haunted by the spectre of the unwanted, the deviant, the moment took on a burden she could have never predicted. She said no. I didn’t speak to her for three days for fear of bursting into hysterics, for fear that she’d speak the words I couldn’t bear to say, humiliated, consumed by another mistake. I had made tangible my worst insecurities and entangled her inside of them. At the end of those three days, we both decided to pretend nothing ever happened.

Seventeen. I went on camp. Sitting down to dinner that first night, assigned to a table without any friends, one girl asked an innocuous question about my name change. In the interrogation that followed I was swamped by an avalanche of oblivious maltreatment. “Will you still have kids?” They asked. “Are you going on hormones? Why not?” My heart strained to hear them speculate, their questions articulated with a fascinated clinical gaze borne of ignorance still ache as if they’d asked them with malice. I didn’t make it to final prayer that night, hiding out in the dorm of a friend who didn’t ask questions, and never presumed to know the answers.

more for her sake or mine, ticking boxes for easy presentation.

They couldn’t possibly understand. And neither can I.

Nineteen. I get top surgery. A few weeks into recovery, there’s a night where I can’t sleep. It’s raining a muggy February rain, the fan whirring softly as I lie beneath it, choking on my own excitement. The numbness in my chest has replaced a numbness in my head, a void carefully constructed around my physicality in an attempt to give my own self the cold shoulder. Looking at my reflection, it’s remarkable to me that anyone could disagree with an image so perfect, so satiating to a hunger so old, so true to a body felt so strongly.

Understanding is an impossible target; it moves as quickly as time can progress. But the endeavouring is what makes us human, isn’t it: wanting to be seen, acknowledged and made tangible? It’s a hand reaching out in the dark.

Eighteen. I had my first gender clinic appointment. The doctor was friendly, she had short hair and a rainbow lanyard that made me feel safe. Her questions were general, at first, but over the hours I would see her, stretched over months, the story of my childhood, my parents, my alienation, my depression, my religion, my body, my diagnoses, started to feel less and less like mine to hold. With her clipboard as her weapon she had taken it from me, noted the key points and presented it to a panel, for their perusal. I started to wonder if it was

The world couldn’t possibly understand the life my body brings me, the utter joy and contentment I wallow in.

Maybe if I keep looking out of open windows, someday you’ll be looking back, speaking those ancient and golden words: I understand.

Maybe if you keep your arms outstretched, like Eve robbing the tree of knowledge of its fruit, someday our hands will meet, and the darkness will lift, and I’ll stop living in the silences between words and become the phrases I long to speak.

My classmates couldn’t possibly understand the harm of the ignorant gaze, how sharp curious eyes can be. My gender clinician couldn’t possibly understand how my excitement turned to humiliation, how her diagnosis turned to salt on my tongue, bitter and uneasy.

Gendered Hues don’t drown without me. Author: Olivia Hartwig | Graphic Design: Shabnam Verma

all my problems are crashing down at once like a huge enormous wave of guilt, regret and hopelessness and a little bit of rage but I just want an answer to understand her to know him and to stop with the complications. fuck the complications.

Help. here I am. Help. I’m struggling to deal with the things that I feel and it would be nice, if it all went away. but it won’t, always. so I’m waiting now just waiting for the wave to finally hit trying to hold holding my breath and keeping my head down until it’s over it’s all over and the tide recedes once more because maybe if I can keep my head above water for a little bit longer just a little bit longer enough to be able to keep swimming just keep swimming… then maybe one day

but love them, always. maybe I shouldn’t feel this way but I still think love is meant to be when it’s hard to see love is not a ripple, but a flood you don’t get to see where it comes from, why it’s there, and who it’s going to affect until love’s there, at your doorstep and you either dive in or do your best to swim and sometimes call for help… and maybe we should call for help, more often than we do.

I’ll be able to stand.

Author: Jamisyn Gleeson | Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

PINK is the colour of the horizon when I walk home down narrow streets. It turns clouds into fairy floss, skyscrapers into gold. It is the colour of my highlighter when I run a line across an improper sentence, the shade of scars and hurt play and dirt, of eyes made raw from crying.

It is sticky like bubble-gum and wraps itself around me in a tight little bow because I was born with a PINK crease between my legs.

BLUE is the hue of late-morning skies, glassy oceans and fish scales. It shapes the ring of muscle in thunderstorm eyes, the soft cotton of polo shirts that need washing. It is the colour of the balloons that float inside the hospital, where we wait for my baby brother to be born BLUE is the colour of his face as he suffocates inside their demanding plastic. These are the colours that have been taken from the world and glued to unknowing and unwilling bodies.

Content Warning: Homophobia

Daddy Issues Written by A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur My dad plays a huge role in my life.

partners who’d fly across oceans to be with me, partners who’d buy me pretty rings and houses in exotic locations. Yet, none of them seem to be enough for me.

In a sense where my entire existence is surrounded around trying to please him, trying to seek his approval.

Truth be told, these partners could climb the highest mountains at 4 in the morning and scream their love for me at the top of their lungs and it still wouldn’t be enough for me.

I’m the eldest of three. I’m also the only girl. Family members would tease me and call me a daddy’s girl – but it’s a term I’d wear proudly. I didn’t see my dad much as a kid. He was always working. The only times I used to see him was when he carried my tiny half-asleep body from the living room back to my room and when he gave me forehead kisses, again on my half-asleep body, before he left for work. The first thing I’d ask when I awoke from sleep is “where’s Abah?”. Admittedly, it’s something I still do now.

Oftentimes I would reflect and wonder if the reason why I leave these relationships all too quickly, despite my partners being both loving and hardworking, was because I had a fear of being tied down at an age too young, at a time too early. And sometimes, at my lowest point, I’d blame myself; my inability to be happy in a longterm relationship was because I had “too high of a standard” and was “unappreciative” of the love, care and attention I received.

Dad still works a lot. And I guess that’s okay, because I like hearing stories about his work – new business ventures, issues with clients, office gossip and the like. Sometimes Dad would reminisce about his younger, much tougher days. How he’d wake up in the wee hours of the morning, cradle baby me in his arms, take an hour and a half bus ride to his mum’s place, tuck me in to sleep and then take the train to work. It’s one of the million stories that Dad tells me that I love. Only because it’s a memory of us that I know my dad keeps close to his heart. His lips will curl into a certain smile whenever he tells this story. And whilst I don’t remember the crowded and bumpy bus rides, this story brings out some of Dad’s best traits – that at the core of this currently rugged 54-year-old body was a loving and hardworking soul.

But if I dig deep enough, I could pinpoint another reason as to why I don’t stay in these relationships – I don’t want or crave for their love or attention. I want and crave the love and attention from Dad. The love and attention that I lacked and yearned for were just repackaged in a body of another 20-something year old man, all of them with similar Middle-Eastern features and a beard. And like Dad, they come and go – leaving me wanting more, looking for more. I adore Dad but the relationship I’ve had with him hasn’t been the most smooth-sailing. Apart from him being physically present and then absent, his presence often consisted of reminders that I’m quite possibly not even good enough for him either.

These traits just so happen to be the traits I look for in every romantic partner that comes by. I’ve had partners who are aspiring pilots, self-made entrepreneurs and CEOs. I’ve had partners who’d drop everything just to take care of my little flu,

On good days, I’d be lucky to receive a “pretty girl” or “Sayang Abah”. On other days, I’m too opinionated where it’s not ladylike or I’m made to

feel unintelligent because apparently University isn’t hard and I should be getting A’s as easy as I get my B’s. While it’s never nice to hear such things, it’s worse when I don’t even hear anything – silent treatments or brief grunts for a small mistake and my entire existence being ignored for stepping slightly out of line. Talking about what’s wrong doesn’t seem to cross his mind, making it harder for me to share anything with him due to the lack of communication in our relationship. It wasn’t till recently when I bravely (or debatably pathetically) cried to him that my biggest fear in life was that he won’t ever and can’t ever love me.

and productive space for us. Sometimes, these meetings led to dinners with each other’s families and crashing for the night, because it was a safer option than taking an Uber at two in the morning. They were my best friend and now my business partner; it was only natural that our relationship got stronger and closer. Just like my fluid attraction and sexuality, I couldn’t control how Dad chose to think of my partner and I’s working relationship. When confronted about my “lesbian-like behaviour”, I neither confirmed nor denied it. He didn’t take it too well, as expected. But what I didn’t expect was to be left on read, to have my Facetime call answered just so he could leave his phone to the corner of the room and to be exiled from my family. I lost a cousin who I took as a sister growing up due to the intense discussion surrounding my sexuality. It was easier for her to cut me off than to deal with the drama . It was incredibly upsetting but having been raised in a religious and conservative family, I don’t blame her for it.

“That’s the stupidest thing you have ever said,” he said. He then put on his green socks, slipped into his Dr Martens 1461s, grabbed his phone from the coffee table, went out the front door and made his way to work. I remained there for another hour or so – sitting on the living room sofa (still crying), questioning if his response was either sweet or condescending.

It’s been two months since the debacle, and I still haven’t heard from Dad.

Two weeks after that exchange, suspicions regarding my queerness arose. I’ve always been interested in identity politics - particularly around the topics of gender and sexuality. That said, I am no stranger to the LGBTQIA+ rights movement. This often rubs my conservative Muslim family the wrong way.

My mental health is currently holding by a thread and when I attempt to seek solace in my mother, I either get left on read too or am met with replies that link me to a YouTube video on how homosexuality is a sin and that the family are praying that I would be “medicated” and “fixed” from this “LGBT illness”.

When I returned to Singapore for Winter break this year, I organised a fundraiser in celebration of pride month for a non-profit LGBTQIA+ organisation with a person close to my heart. Three months of planning was put into the creation of the event - late night FaceTime meetings given the time and geographical difference between my partner and I, multiple Google drive folders and a lot of back and forth liasing with the Queer artists and location sponsor involved. My first two weeks of Winter break was spent seeing my partner frequently leading up to our fundraiser. Heck, the night I landed in Singapore was spent designing and posting marketing collaterals.

I eventually sent Dad a message saying that I’m open to talk about what he’s unhappy about and sent him reminders that I love him every now and then – a sheer attempt to hear him say the same thing back. But I always end up being left on read.

My partner and I often held meetings at each other’s places because it was the most convenient 62

* Abah = dad * Sayang Abah = dad’s love, my love.

R e Brown a i s s a n c e Photography by Bonnie Jarrett

Content Warning: Mentions of Body Dysmorphia

Note To The Normal Girl Author: Rosie Ward | Graphic Design: Kiara Allis

My body does not look like yours.

We need to acknowledge the multiplicity of our bodies. We need to acknowledge the people who feel like they do not belong because you have not let them in.

My body does not work like yours. My body is not slim. My body is not white. My body is not tall. My body does not bend and leap and jump and dance like yours. My skin isn’t clear, my stomach is not flat, my hair is not smooth or neat. I do not have the muscles you do. I do not have the bones you do, I do not have the organs, I do not have the insides or the out.

I cannot use your ten tips for a flatter stomach because I do not have the muscles. I cannot use your five-minute easy makeup routine because I do not have the complexion. I cannot buy your lingerie set for a new sexy look because my body does not fit. I cannot embrace your ‘any-body’ bikini body because mine is covered in surgery scars. To live, to breathe, to exist we must use our bodies and yet you keep telling me mine is not right. And I will not revise my existence to accommodate you. I will not revise my existence to fit in.

My body is not painless, it is not simple. There is a lot of effort in my day. I have to work to move, to breathe, to live. These things are not easy for me like I am told they are for you.

Society, I beg you, revise your concept of normality, for mine and so many sakes.

My body is not wrong or broken, My body is normal, and it is your concept of normal that is wrong.

I was told I was lucky to be alive. So why question it? I was told I was lucky to breathe. So why complain? How could I spend my days in rage, hours in therapy and years trying to adjust? How could I be angry at a miracle?

Your concept of normality is broken. To live, to breathe, to exist in this society is to be compared and compare yourself to normality. But is normality not just an average calculated from the vast pool of the human race? Is uniqueness not the baseline?

But it turns out I was never angry at my body, I was angry at you. Because I was never told it would be so difficult existing with this body in this world. Because I was never told that despite accepting myself, you would never accept me.

Diversity is not a goal we should be working towards; it is our reality.

I had to find that out myself.

You tell me as a woman that I should be beautiful, but your concept of beauty is unattainable for me. You tell me as a woman that I should be a mother, but my body will not allow me to fulfil that task. You tell me to be chaste, be sexy, be independent, be subservient, be loud, be quiet, stand out, fit in. I repeat. It is not me who is broken, society, it is you.

There are countless other facts they found about this woman. They collated them altogether and then they went looking for her. Went looking for the average Australian. The problem was, she didn’t exist. This typical average Australian, the combination of everything we poured into census – she didn’t exist, she was only a construct.

I used to chant like a mantra, that my body was the only body I ever had and therefore I didn’t know any different. That I didn’t know what life could be like. But it wasn’t true. I am not immune to your standards. I am not immune to magazines, televisions, friends and family. I cannot close my eyes and ignore the fact that I have never seen a representation of myself in the world. I have never been led to believe that I don’t have to explain my body and justify my differences. And that is not on me. That is on you.

If the average Australian didn’t exist, what makes you think the average women does? One standard is not enough in this world. One average Australian does not and cannot show our immensity of experience. These standards – beauty standards, body standards, gender standards – they aren’t even real. We’ve known that for years. They are fabricated out of lies. The average femaleidentifying body has a more complex existence than any standards would have us believe.

Why is it so hard for you to show difference? Why is it so hard to show and teach that we all exist in multitudes? I wish to burn these standards, not for myself but for the next child born into a body they don’t understand and are made to feel “other”.

Then why is our concept of normality so ingrained? Why, when we think of body or beauty standards, when you think of the average Australian, do we all share the same image in our heads? And why do we all feel we should aspire to that when for some of us, it just isn’t possible.

I do not wish to shame those of you who have it easy. Those who have never questioned the body they came in. Those who are privileged in this story and therefore do not see the problems. But please acknowledge that you are lucky. And by being lucky, you can ignore the damage that the standardisation of womanhood has on the rest of us. And to move forward I need you to open your eyes.

I will never look like that girl and I don’t want to. My body, with its missing bits and bobs, its differences, its variations, is normal. I am normal and I won’t let you make me feel that I’m not. The human body is a not standard, it is limitless.

In 2016 through the collection of census data, they found the average Australian. She is a 38-yearold female born in Australia with English ancestry. She is married; she lives with her husband and two children. She has a house with three bedrooms and two cars. She speaks English at home, and she has a mortgage.

My body does not look like yours because it doesn’t have to. My body does not look like yours because bodies are made to be different. My body does not look like yours because you don’t exist.

Content Warnings: Animal Cruelty, Satire, Sweatshop Labour, Mentions of Racism

The Hands of Fate. Written: Jessica Seychell | Graphic Design: Simran Kaur

Maybe she’s born with it, maybe it’s institutionalised racism: Here’s a link to check out the film!

This film was birthed during a time of immense anger for me. I needed a way to channel my frustrations as the current global political climate seemed to be failing me and other minorities every, single day. I remember feeling helpless and frustrated as rights were being stripped away from minorities in such a casual manner. The policy changes were so impersonal, yet it felt like every day a new headline was a personal attack against me and other women.

‘together’

It frustrated me that the general outcry I had seen had no effect on the change in laws. The government seemed to be ignoring its cities and disregarding its own nations, instead choosing to serve its own agenda. This left me feeling helpless. I felt our fates as women were not in our hands. Our bodily autonomy was being stripped away without our consent- so quickly it felt like a nightmare. I felt horrified as I questioned, ‘If I, or other women couldn’t have a say over our bodies, then what was to come next?’ So, I started to channel my feelings of helplessness and fear into film. As an amateur tarot reader and professional admirer, I was immediately inspired when I saw that this year’s theme was ‘Re-vision’. Feeling like my fate as a female was already written out for me by someone else, I wanted to visually represent that onscreen. I decided to use my tarot deck as a point of reflection on the state of global gender inequity, as it’s personally what I use as a tool of reflection. Through this film, I wanted to share my love for tarot cards and readings in a way that visually reflects the confusion and anger I felt inside. Using some of the feminine major arcanas, I accessed how symbols such as ‘the high priestess, strength, the empress’ etc were actually present in women’s lives. I wanted to point out the hypocrisy in the deck as the cards that help guide our fate no longer seemed applicable under the current global political climate. The biggest inspiration for the film was the card, ‘The Empress’. Seeing the current policy changes in Alabama regarding women’s rights, I was inspired by ‘The Empress’ as a symbol of fruitfulness and fertility. However, I wanted to highlight how currently in some areas of the world women aren’t given bodily autonomy because they aren’t given the choice to decide what happens to their body. Surely enough, over time I was able to construct this narrative surrounding the idea of fate, posing the questions of ‘Who really controls our fate?’, and ‘How are we as individuals going to challenge this drastic political change?’. Like the optimist I am, I chose to conclude this film on a positive note. As I was writing the script I was drawn to the idea of ending the film on a close-up where the main character stares down the camera and mutters the word ‘together’. Whilst I found the ending aesthetically pleasing, I also found the last sequence uplifting as it really represents the idea of sisterhood and overcoming adversity as a collective. I hope that through watching this film, all women can look to their fellow sisters, listen to their stories and struggles, and work together to challenge oppressive forces around them. 68

Pasty™ by Intolerant Cosmetics! Author: Chelsea Rozario | Graphic Design: Shabnam Verma Do you identify as a woman of colour? - and by colour, we mean one of three slightly different shades of beige. And are you tired of not being able to find the right foundation for your skin*? Well, keep looking!

10 times larger and crease-in any wrinkle you may have. But at the end of the day, we prioritise diversity, that’s why we paid your favourite white, cis, gay, women of colour hating influencers (infamous for lowkey racist tweets and a vitamin scandcal 200,000 dollars) to advertise our product on their Instagram stories, so now you’ll have to have it. James Charles and Jeffree Star are quaking!

Introducing Pasty™ by Intolerant Cosmetics! Pasty™ is our brand new inclusive, groundbreaking line of foundation that celebrates the lack of diversity the beauty industry has to offer! Our line caters specifically to the niche of socioeconomically privileged white consumers. This range of threeshades-fit-all** foundation will make anyone outside of society’s Eurocentric beauty ideals feel even more excluded and marginalized than they already are! If your complexion is the same shade of manic-pixie-egg-white-frittata, beloved by white male authors worldwide then boy, do we have the foundation for you!

The ingredients we use are ethically sourced. We made sure every brown child forced to mine mica for the sake of their survival earned only a little below minimum wage. And with our worker protection programme, we made sure they had fun doing it too! Working in caves that could collapse at any given moment sounds like an absolute hoot. We are dedicated to our ethical production process which is why we test all unsafe chemicals on small, furry volunteers as all quality-driven companies do. Did we mention our foundations are vegan and gluten free? We’d give our consumers nothing less! We even stuck a cruelty free sign on the bottle just to prove how far up our asses we really are how committed to the community we are.

Essentially, our aim as a tax-evading communitydriven cosmetics conglomerate is to capitalize on the rapidly increasing demand for inclusivity in the beauty industry by marketing ourselves to, and for everyone! Our board of middle aged white men have been working hard to revolutionise the industry with our streamlined, pasty™ rich shades – whilst also staying true to our roots of rigid traditional, hetero/cis-normative binaries. Our foundations make us who we are, and we want to impose share them with you! We cater to the average consumer– the ones who look just like us.

Consisting of Beige No.5, French Vanilla Almond Milk and Lightly Toasted Bread? ™, our shade range is simply unbeatable. From redheads to blondes, or Voldemort to mayonnaise, we have the shades for all**!

Formulated in only the most advanced, South Asian prisons facilities - (where labour costs next to nothing because we can afford to pay way above minimum wage but choose to outsource labour to where we don’t legally have to because who cares about people if they aren’t from the west™️ ?), our washed-out, cakey and moisture leachingconcoction will leave your pores looking

Catch us sponsoring the next #Coachella where blatant cultural appropriation is more important than literally anything else! *if you’re in our portion of the population. **that is, all the customers we care about.

Eyes Author: Achol Kooc | Graphic Design: Vicki Huang (RE)

Vision

How I feel in today’s society as a person of colour. I feel like an alien and that every eye is secretly, or in this case not-so-secretly, watching and judging me. Although I’ve had direct experiences of racism, this poem reflects more on the indirect, subtle form that occurs more often.

What I hope to see more of in the future. Less racism and discrimination and more acceptance and celebration of People of Colour and minorities.

Staring. Glancing, analysing, judging. Eyes, On me. Have I got something on my face? Maybe the bright purple lipstick I decided to wear today was too distracting? Too bright? Too colourful? Too different. Eyes, Many, multiple. On the train, on the bus, out in the open, In public while I hopelessly try to blend in, While minding my own damn business. But the amount of Melanin on my skin won’t allow me. Narrowed. Fearful. Threatened. Disgusted. Blatantly violating me. Eyes, Trying to figure me out. What is that? Why is that? Eyes, On me.

Gazing. Peering, studying, accepting. Eyes, On me. Bright purple lipstick, big hooped earrings, long braids running down my back And my signature Oscar Wylie glasses on. I feel amazing. Too Distracting? Maybe Too Bright? Sort of. Too Colourful? Possibly. Too different? Absolutely. Eyes, Many, multiple, On the train, on the bus, out in the open, In public while I challenge normality and stand out, allowing the sun to shine on this Melanin. Eyes, Broadened. Amazed. Admired. Inspired. Welcoming me. Eyes, Interested. Seeking answers. Who is that? Where is she from? How is she ever so beautiful? Eyes, On me.

home is a person now Author: Lucette Emily | Graphic Design: Xuetong Guan and Simran Kaur home is a person now the words escape my lips as I press against your torso, wind slicing at our ankles sometime around midnight. A deserted train platform stretches past us, into the darkness.

Blindfolds Author: Jamisyn Gleeson Graphic Design: Kiara Allis i. if you blindfold your daughter’s eyes she will only see what you describe, will only believe what you relay.

home is a person now I realise quietly, playing connect-the-dots with your freckles and colouring inside the lines around your smiling eyes. home is a person now and we’ve been redecorating since moving day, our forever home morphing between shades of off-white and kitchen extensions. I’ve been planning an extra room for all this baggage. home is a person now a floor and four walls, the place I come back to again and again and again.

ii. she will see a world cloaked in shadows drained of neon, pastels, grey. iii. she will stumble into streets, unaware of the freedoms you hide away.

CONTRIBUTORS Adelle Greenbury

Achol Kooc

Natalie Williams

Chelsea Rozario

Hi! I’m Adelle, a bisexual biracial ball of highly charged emotional energy who loves oversharing, plants, reading, and sunshine. When I’m not having a breakdown or writing about them I’m probably hiding from my problems by watching Terrace House under the covers or playing Mario Kart. Follow me on insta @adellegreenbury for more of this high brow Content.

Hi! My name’s Achol Kooc. I’m currently in my first year of my Bachelors of Youth Work degree. I was initially studying Bachelor of Education however I decided to change career paths as I feel Youth Work caters more to my passion which is inspiring young people and enabling them to make better life choices, reach goals and overall create a platform where their voices can be heard. I’m very passionate about making change within the Sudanese Australian community, especially after all the negative backlash that has emerged in the media in recent years surrounding African youth. I’d like to contribute in fostering a more welcoming, accepting society where all races, religions, genders and sexualities can live in harmony.

Natalie Williams is a Melbourne based Creative who wants to share important stories with the world. She is a fiction writer, a journalist, a video editor/filmmaker, an actress, a Digital Marketing Assistant and a passionate Hufflepuff. She is also a co-founder of KOS, a magazine for change that strives to share stories of people doing good in the world. She is looking forward to its release in early 2020.

Chelsea is the bird’s eye chilli you don’t expect to bite into– small but fiery. She is a self-proclaimed anarchist but is actually a bit of a doormat. A second year anthropology and creative writing major, she is perpetually pissed off at the patriarchy™. Her writing consists of (somewhat) put together rants about being a brown woman. Painfully Malaysian, she is also always on the hunt for good nasi lemak so please feed her.

A’bidah Zaid Shirbeeni

ace

Sarah Peters

Lucette Emily

A’bidah is a writer, creative and boba enthusiast who studies Media and Politics. That said, she’s constantly on some ~ cool ~ project, on Instagram way too much (@absyegg) enjoys playing the devil’s advocate and can’t not make a quick stop at Gong Cha.

Currently in her first year at the university, ace is attempting to study fun things, but in reality is just trying to avoid the fact that she has no idea what she’s going to do with her degree. When she’s not worrying about stuff like that, she’s either playing music, or drinking apple juice, or perhaps both at the same time.

Lucette is a 20 year old writer and poet living in Fitzroy, Melbourne. Writing about the evolving nature of intimacy and relationships, Lucette chronics her identity through the lenses of queerness, youth and femininity. Her favourite colour is pink and her pet peeves include mushrooms, the patriarchy and climate change deniers.

Edie McAsey

Esmé James

Tyler Hannah Mcrae

Joanne Zou

Edie is a third year politics and international studies student who loves climate justice, dogs, nutritional yeast and the Myer Briggs personality test. Her Taurus sun, Gemini moon and Aquarius rising traits have got her super excited to be a part of Judy’s Punch for the first time.

Esmé James is a Bachelor of Arts (Honours) graduate and avid kale eater. She has authored two novels, Honeyflower and Pansy (2014) and The Awakening (2017), as well as various poems, short-stories, and non-fiction articles in publications such as Archer, Farrago, and Lot’s Wife. Esmé’s unshakable fascination with nineteenth-century pornographic literature has lead her into graduate research. She also has an unhealthy fascination with Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Tyler is a nonbinary Arts student who loves writing in various genres, sleeping, and talking about gender studies. They are a devoted cat mother and a dedicated hot chocolate drinker.

hey i’m joanne and i think the waterloo scene from mamma mia 2 is perfect cinema. second year arts student majoring in classics and english. writes tentatively and occasionally, mostly just here to listen to pop music, eat fruit, drink bubble tea, support women, take photos of the sky, and have a good time. @zou.jo on instagram :-)

Nicole Nguyen and Lani Li

Sneha Challa

Jocelyn Deane

Jessica Seychell

Sneha is a first year arts student currently intending on studying sociology and criminology (maybe gender ¿?). She currently has no idea what she’s doing with her life so everything is just a bit of a wing to see where it goes and what she likes. When she’s not doing random shit at uni she’s probably taking a nap or just really lying down because being an adult is exhausting and very confusing.

Jocelyn Deane (they/them) is a chaotic neutral bard and was born in the UK, in 1993, moving to Australia in 2001. They study creative writing and linguistics with an interest in constructed languages, and worked as the disability OB for UMSU. They perform as a anarcho-punk, flagrantly queer Emily Dickinson in an ongoing D&D campaign.

I’m Jessica, I’m a 19 year old arts student who loves tarot cards - hence why I dedicated a film to them. I love everything about films and cinema, I will beat anyone in a ‘who loves Wes Anderson the most challenge’ and I am a proud mother of three beautiful puppies named Terrance, Antonio and Edmund.

Lindsay Wong

Vaneese Yoke Ching Lee

Rosie Ward

Tilly Gwinner

Hailing from New York, Tokyo and Singapore (it’s complicated), I’m (@flimsyylindsayy) a history and Asian studies double major who has a passion for words and keen interest in journalism. You’ll see me in the ‘subeditors’ section as well! I spend way too much money on concert tickets, K-pop merch and bubble tea, and can never seem to choose a bias in her favourite K-pop groups #disloyal

Sometimes thinking, sometimes writing poetry. Just another tea-obsessed girl who loves the sound of rain fall and thunderstorms while curled up in bed. Writing for Judy’s Punch gave me the chance to tie together my scattered thoughts and feelings on my experiences as a woman and the women who came before me.

Rosie is a full-time Master of Social Policy student, and part-time Merlot enthusiast. On a Friday night, she can be found eating popcorn while lecturing her housemates on trickle-down economics and intersectional feminism. Her loves include second-hand bookstores, true crime podcasts and anyone with a British accent. One day she wishes to change the world through progressive policy, that or keep a house plant alive.

Tilly Gwinner is a journalist, artist and writer currently studying Creative Writing at the University of Melbourne.

Maddy Ruskin

Olivia Hartwig

Jamisyn Gleeson

Yar Majak

Maddy works at SBS as a Scripted Coordinator. She is an avid reader who loves writing, drinking endless cups of tea and befriending naughty dogs. She is passionate about creating space for and enhancing the voices of women, the LGBTQI+ community and other underrepresented groups in television. Follow her down the rabbit hole at @maddyruskin

Currently in my third year of a Bachelor of Arts and majoring in psychology and linguistics, I am fascinated with how people connect and communicate with each other, and often focus on the emotional aspects of our human experience in my writing. Catch me on a good day and you’ll find me studying on campus with a coffee in hand (on a bad day, I’ll probably have two).

I’m one of the few creative writing students who you’ll see drinking coffee instead of tea. I’ll be forever struggling my way through Ulysses, and am obsessed with gothic literature. If anyone is interested in seeing the newest film adaptation of a Stephen King novel, hit me up.

I am a third year Bachelor of Science student majoring in Psychology. I am very passionate about POC representation in the media and hope to be more involved with the department next year. Tossing around the idea of starting a radio show next year so keep your eye out for that, if I can stop binge watching shows long enough to write up a concept : )