Kitsch Magazine: Spring 2021 by Kitsch Magazine

LETTER FROM THE EDITORS

Dear Reader, What do you think of when you think of a carnival? We think of county fairs in summer, melted ice cream, creepy clowns and abandoned amusement parks. We think of transience and running away to join the circus. We think of occasion, of fireworks displays and first kisses and squished grass after Slope Day. Like your reflection in a hall of mirrors, the carnival morphs from each new angle, the line between terror and enchantment blurred by tricks of light. In “Rhetorical Analysis of ‘Circus,’” Grace Lee gives a close-reading of Britney Spears’ “Circus,” exploring the relationship between performer and audience within the lyrics, and celebrating the song’s enduring provocation and power. In “The Spectacle of Subjugation: A Brief Overview of the Dark Histories Behind Circuses in the United States,” Stephanie Tom digs beneath the surface of our cultural fascination with the carnival to uncover its history of exoticism, imperialism and dehumanization, calling into question the way the bright and nostalgic overlay of these spectacles conceals the violence in so many iterations of the circus and carnival. In “December: Coney Island,” Vee Cipperman captures the eeriness of visiting an amusement park in winter and the warmth generated by moments of quiet familiarity with the people we love, moments struck through with the feeling that they are already memories, that the pictures we capture are already old photographs. We hope this issue will melt like cotton candy in your mouth, evoking the wonder and magic of summer days spent outside with friends, of concerts and movie theaters and county fairs and all the moments of togetherness with strangers we’ve been missing, but are starting to imagine again. Love, Emma and Emma

kitsch vol

19 no 2 || spring 2021

editors-in-chief

copy editor art editor assistant art editor web editor social media editor design editor

writers

cover art back cover art advisor

Megan Rochlin Belle McDonald Zahavah Rojer Emma Condie Tilda Wilson Nadya Mikhaylovskaya Bex Pendrak Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe Carrie Kim Emma Bernstein Emma Goldenthal Grace Lee Havi Rojer Stephanie Tom Jamie Anderluh Jean Cambareri Kathleen Anderson Laura Schroeder Leigh Miller Emma Eisler Mariana Meriles Megan Rochlin Quinn Theobald Sarah Bastos Sofia Paredes Sophie Torres Vee Cipperman Emma Condie Leo Levy Belle McDonald Michael Koch

Emma Eisler & Emma Bernstein

zooming out editor assistant zooming out editor zooming in editor watch and listen editor bite size editor assistant bite size editor artists

funded by

Vee Cipperman Faima Quadir Nalu Concepcion Jean Cambareri Stephanie Tom Zoë Robbins Rutkovsky Emma Condie Leo Levy Emma Bernstein Emma Eisler Belle McDonald Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe Chloe Wayne Leigh Miller Havi Rojer Jamie Anderluh Megan Rochlin Vee Cipperman

Bartels Family Funding Organization

IN THIS ISSUE... December: Coney Island A Bruno By Any Other Name Reflections Look What We Have Here The Spectacle of Subjugation: A Brief Overview of the Dark Histories Behind Circuses in the United States These are the carnivals of my pandemic year-plus What Carnival Snack Are You Clown Jesus A Ride Through the Ages Menlo Park on New Year’s Day Rhetorical Analysis of “Circus” Funhouse Mirrors: Body Dysmorphia/Body Dysphoria Zoltar Predictions for a Post-Pandemic Campus Post-Ghost Elegy for Spring Succulents A Short History of Bacchanalia & Dionysia Euthanasia Rollercoaster Soft Pretzel Recipe for a Carnival in Your Apartment It’s All Fun and Games Remember When We Danced Buttons For Eyes: A (Psycho)Analysis of How Coraline Haunted a Generation Smushed Detritus Portrait of Perpetuated Adolescence The Perfect First Date Notes on Growing Up With Taylor small town gothic The Circle Game An Eye Out for Ladybugs Your Body is a Funhouse Oceanside Freak Show The Act One Promised Happy Day Love Letter to the Strawberry Queen What We Lost When We Lost Carnival

8 12 13 24 25 28 32 33 34 37 38 40 44 46 47 48 49 52 53 54 58 59 60 61 66 67 68 71 72 73 75 76 77 78

On the Plaza: What Makes You Nostalgic? Disney world

Rain

The song Banana Pancakes Crocs

Apple juice

Snickerdoodle cookies

The Untold Stories of the ER during the two years of my childhood we had cable

Silly bandz

Being barefoot on a deck

Hearing music that was important to me during a particular period of my life

Cheese sticks Motel swimming pools

Plaid clothing/school uniforms

The song Ribs by Lorde

Persian-style hallway rugs

T h e s m e l l o f S u n I nT M h a i r l i g h t e n e r

Disney Channel’s Lemonade Mouth

Windows and light

Hey There Delilah by The Plain White T’s Oh No! by Marina and the Diamonds (back before she rebranded to Marina) Rainbow scratch paper pads The song “These are the Days” by 10,000 Maniacs The sound of an ice cream truck song repeating over and over

Mcnuggets

The album “No!” by They Might Be Giants The smell of pine trees “I’m Renee Montaigne” 6

Coco puffs

Hot weather

by Belle McDonald 7

December: Coney Island article and images by Vee Cipperman

The six of us bundle up and out to Coney Island— which isn’t an island, as much as a salted strip of land that cuts a rind around New York. The Q train rumbles from underground tunnels to late-December sunlight. We blink; an hour has passed; the East Side has given way to lower roofs and trestle tracks. The train shakes back and forth. The sky shines like the inside of an egg, blank and new. We step onto a platform of green tiles, and we grin sleepily at each other. I There is food. Two of us draw the rest toward a Georgian café, a postage stamp, all lacy designs and

bottle-green windows and tables that creak from the legs. The waitress makes small talk with one of us. Another maps our future route through Brighton Beach. We share all our food. We stir khachapuri egg yolk into runny, molten cheese, and the mixture melts inside our mouths. Tarkhuna pops against our tongues, liquid hard-candy of tarragon, anise, and pear. We share three wine glasses of soda around the table. They glow three different, gemlike colors. Three of us sit with our backs pressed against the green windows. Green like the soda. Full-fogged between our breaths and all the late-December atmosphere beyond. We rub our hands over the warping, lurid surface like sea glass. We drink our sea-

glass soda from a sea-glass crystal cup. When the glasses run dry, we lick grease off our fingers to re-don our mittens. We step back out into December. II There is sun and then wind and then sand. We flow across the concrete like an egg yolk, bright and slow, and we smush our sneakers into the beach. Beneath the boardwalk, in December, no one walks around us. We press our palms into cold sand. One of us takes videos of all our stupid tricks. The long gray strand flinches hard against the sea. It huddles up against the boardwalk. The sea smells fiercer in winter, and two of us remark on that. Another three draw patterns in the sand. We think about people and summer. Above and behind us, frozen roller-coasters loom. The wind rustles silver tiles on the aquarium roof. The painted walls along the boardwalk glow with a dozenodd colors, and those draw us in from the sands. We take pictures together. One of us is always taking

pictures. One day, a few of us say, we’ll make a scrapbook. We’ll bind all this together and remember how exactly the sea smelled today. III There are people on the jetty bridge. We catch them in our pictures, like ants in honey, while we try to snap shots of the blistering sunset. It glows like a highlighter mark between canyons of cold-weather clouds. It doesn’t belong in this monochrome reality, but it hangs above the fisherfolk nevertheless. The jetty feels a mile long, and we walk to the end for the best sunset pictures. Men in rubber boots draw trout from the restless surf. We watch them wriggle and wrinkle our noses. One of us lies on a modern art sculpture, and the others follow quickly. We’ve walked around all day. Our feet are tired. The picture-taking one of us takes pictures. The rest of us gossip, recalling that wonderful lunch. The stony-gray ocean holds no trace of green, but it will soon enough. Soon it will be summer, and life will 9

return to Coney Island. Soon it will be summer, and we will be gone. Some of us close our eyes and wince against the wind. The sun sets. The world gets bluer. Four of us are hungry, and two of us want to catch the Q train, so we trundle back up past the sands and the skeletal coasters. We pass padlocked backdoors with mermaids and clowns painted over the sides.

IV Our breaths wreathe the blue night. We pass into empty streets, stopping at a candy shop. The lighted window attracts us like flies, and we stand there salivating with no intention of entrance. Florid candy apples stand straight in their foam stands. Pastel marshmallow twists hang over the boxes of licorice and taffy. We’ve never seen something like this in real life. This shop belongs to full fairgrounds, to long-awaited carnivals, to summers–not like the summer to come, but like all summers past. Fantasy summers. The kind that only lives inside our winteraddled, new adult-ish heads. Two of us drag the rest to the hot-dog place, 10

famous and yellow and brash. We order at the counter. People mill about and eat like any other fast-food joint. We’re still hungry after our hot dogs; a pair of children scream. We’re silently glad that we chose not to enter the glowing, fantastical candy shop. The Q train whisks us over the trestle tracks, back underground, back to East Harlem and home for these fast-waning months. Christmas is coming. The carnival is over.

We grab bubble tea just to stay out a little before going back to our building. V I’m thinking not of summer relics: candy apples, neon sunsets, surf. I’m thinking of—still feeling—when you clutched my mittened hands within your own. When our breath traced lacy frostings in the sky. When we laid, all six, on the boards beneath unyielding stony skies, and we took blurry pictures that I treasure more than fairgrounds and boardwalks all lit up and living. December has come to subdue Coney Island. I’m thinking of you, now the carnival is over.w 11

A Bruno By Any Other Name by Grace Lee

Peter Hernandez was born on Oct. 8, 1985 in Honolulu, Hawaii. Part of a musical family, Hernandez started performing with his parents and relatives when he was as young as three years old. At 17, Hernandez went to Los Angeles to make it as a singer, where he continues to work today. But this isn’t a story about Peter Hernandez, it’s a story about Bruno Mars. To be fair, they’re one and the same, with Bruno Mars being the stage name that Hernandez adapted after that fateful move to Los Angeles. The same is true for a million other celebrities. There are the obvious stage names, like Lady Gaga and Snoop Dogg, but there are plenty of subtle ones, ones you might not even know about. Case in point: Bruno Mars.

separate the public and the private. We’ve always been obsessed with the rich and famous, but the rise of social media means that everything can be used for clicks and views and likes. Friendships, children, families, grief, joy— it’s all up for grabs in the world of YouTube and Instagram. Even beyond traditional celebrities, regular people, whether college students or doctors, regularly post content about their jobs, what they eat, or how they dress. All of this is both incredibly invasive and incredibly addictive. Celebrities and influencers have effectively commodified their private lives, and on-camera acts no longer require extraordinary talent. Instead, you can make money off videos of your child talking for the first time or a crazy trip you took with your best

“Friendships, children, families, grief, joy— it’s all up for grabs in the world of YouTube and Instagram.” Which, for me, raises the question— what does Bruno’s girlfriend call him? Peter or Bruno? Shockingly, Google doesn’t quite know the inner workings of the relationship between Bruno Mars and his girlfriend (though I have no doubt that they could get the information if they really tried), but I still can’t get it out of my head. Is it weird to call him Peter, a name that he hasn’t used professionally in decades? Or is it even weirder to call him Bruno, a name that represents his persona as a celebrity and performer but not necessarily who he is as a person? I’m sure that Bruno and his girlfriend have figured out a pretty good solution over the last eight years of their relationship, but stage names and public personas tell us a lot about celebrities and the culture we’ve built around them. Originally, these stage names helped separate an individual from their act, whether singing, acting, or dancing. On stage, you could be Human Cannonball; offstage you were just Rosa Richter. But things have changed over the last century. It has become nearly impossible to 12

friend. And while things like authenticity and realness often get emphasized in this content, the truth is that we all act differently in front of cameras or on stage. So how do you separate these on-screen portrayals from off-screen reality? How can you begin to disentangle what is real and what you manufactured—consciously or subconsciously—for the camera? Or is it easy, just two different masks that can be swapped on demand? Now I’m not famous so I don’t really know the answers to these questions. But as someone who consumes this content and who cares too much about celebrity drama (as evidenced by my extensive research into Olivia Rodrigo and Joshua Bassett), it’s something that I want to keep in mind. At the root of it all, I don’t know any of these people. I don’t know Bruno Mars, and I sure as hell don’t know Peter Hernandez. For so many celebrities, their persona is a product that they want us to buy, and I couldn’t tell you how that persona is different from who they really are. I wonder if they can.w

Look What We Have Here by Carrie Kim art by Emma Eisler

This is an ages-old tale about a Fairy and a Woodcutter The chances are that you have heard it many, many times already You must know how the story goes, a kind woodcutter saving a talking deer And becoming privy to a never-told secret about beautiful women who take a dip come nightfall He finds her broken and becomes her salvation, offering her a home, a palace of duty She bears him a child, or maybe there were two, but the story goes that she’s a slick-mouthed liar A thief, a user, leaving him with all her kids A cunning manipulator, an ungrateful wife, running away with her glistening silk dress Or maybe it wasn’t a dress, it was her whole skin too She carefully peeled it, folded it and kissed it under a rock Her name is Fairy or Selkie, a monster, a girl child She roams the high mountains, between pages of your children’s book But what you never knew was that she never needed a palace of wood She could already take flight and the whole ocean was hers, too No fall, no drowning, no servitude under violent eyes She doesn’t read love to be abduction and wonders why all these storytellers do So the next time you pull out this card, don’t believe the woodcutter, dear reader For they know nothing about being free, only about wooden homes and bodies in constant reach Drown, die, with your children or without your children But never believe the woodcutter, the woodcutter always liesw

The Spectacle of Subjugation: A Brief Overview of the Dark Histories Behind Circuses in the United States by Stephanie Tom

When I say the word ‘circus’ or ‘carnival,’ I expect that most people have similar impressions that come to mind. We think of elephants and clowns, of deathdefying acts by acrobats in glittering leotards. We imagine the smell of cotton candy and peanuts, popcorn machines buttering the air. We imagine wonders, perhaps even childhood nostalgia, for the whimsical fun and surrealism that happens within red and white striped canvas tents. If you went to certain public schools, you may recall the brief years in which we had “circus arts” as a phys ed unit, and the simultaneous excitement yet scrutiny of being forced to learn how to juggle, balance plates on sticks, and do a cartwheel, whether or not you had the physical capability or talent to do so. For those without specific memories, we may think of Spears’ 2008 hit “Circus” or the film The Greatest Showman (2017), which gave us Hugh Jackman, Zac Efron, and Zendaya singing a host of lovely musical numbers. No matter how you spin it, the circus aesthetic that we’ve had ingrained in our minds has been upheld and popularized by cultural media as well. The entire concept has been boiled down to flashy aesthetics, props, and nothing more. However, what you may not know is that the origins of the circus in the United States have a much darker past—behind all of the glitz and the glam lie a history of Western pseudoscientists and European explorers fetishizing the exotic by dehumanizing people of color. The Earliest European Circuses The modern circus as we know it was a brainchild of English Cavalry sergeant major Philip Astley in the 1770s. A veteran of the Seven Years War (1756-1763) and an avid horseman, Astley combined elements of acrobatics, riding, and clowning together at his riding school in London to establish the first one-ring

circus in 1768. Rope dancers and jugglers took turns performing tricks alongside the most prominent acts by the horseback riders, all within a singular outdoor ring that the audience would crowd around. Technically, none of the individual elements of the circus were anything particularly new. Acrobatic routines can be traced back to early African civilizations in Kenya that were known for their siricasi performances, which combined folkloric dance styles with acrobatics. The ancient Chinese juggled, which became such a well-established art form that it also made its way to the battlefield as early as 600 BC. Even in Europe, the Romans conceptualized the circus close to a millenium before, coining the term “bread and circuses” and popularizing the idea of wild animals doing tricks, which modern circuses were thought to have taken inspiration from. But Astley’s one-ring circus was the first of its kind to localize all of these elements within one stage and present them together in Europe. Soon after its popularity increased, the circus would soon fly across the Atlantic to the United States as well. The Circus Goes American The circus was first brought to America by John Bill Rocketts, who was trained by one of Astley’s students at the riding school. Rocketts brought the first open-air wooden ring circus to Philadelphia in April 1793, featuring a clown, an acrobat, a rope-walker, and himself as a starring trick rider. It was a neverbefore-seen combination of athletic feats and verbal jousting—individual performers had toured North America for decades but this was the first time that a coordinated performance in a ring was encircled by an audience, which cemented the modern circus setup we recognize today. At first, circuses had to build their own rings 25

whenever they visited a city, which was expensive and very risk-prone for fire hazards, given that they were all built out of wood. This construction also forced circuses to stay in one location for weeks at a time to recuperate finances. It wasn’t until after the Second Great Awakening (1790-1840) in America that the mobile circus that we recognize was established. After public amusements were banned from cities, Joshua Purdy Brown revolutionized the circus once again by adopting the “pavilion circus,” held in an enclosed canvas tent outside of city limits in order to skirt the authorities. The Transcontinental Railroad (finished in 1869) also revolutionized the way that circuses moved and traveled, making it easier for them to travel to a greater number of cities in less time, and for shorter periods as well since it became much easier to construct and break down circus camps. P.T. Barnum (the titular protagonist of The Greatest

performativity of the self. It has always been a capsule of juxtaposition, distinguishing and defining the difference between high and low culture, as well as the intersection of race and gender and the worst ways that society viewed the two separately or in conjunction with one another. Barnum’s introduction of “freak shows” was—put bluntly—made for white audience members to gawk at people of color in an act of festishization. Afong Moy, known in history as the first Chinese woman to immigrate to the United States, is recognized as one of the most prominent examples of this objectification. Moy was brought to the United States by two white merchants who took advantage of her perceived beauty and ‘exoticism’ that was linked to the “Orient” in order to market her alongside Chinese goods that were being sold for the first time in the country. The merchants played on her ‘exoticism’ and played on

“...what you may not know is that the origins of the circus in the United States have a much darker past—behind all of the glitz and the glam lie a history of Western pseudoscientists and European explorers fetishizing the exotic by dehumanizing people of color. Showman, in case you’re not familiar with the name) entered the circus scene in 1871 with his 100-wagon “Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Circus.” Barnum wanted to set apart his circus in many respects from the European model—one of them, which ended up being the most popular feature of his circus, being the introduction of the “freak show,” which “hired people who were born with unique features.” However, the question of how these people were recruited to be “freaks” for “sideshow” events reveals a darker perspective of how American and European imperialism was just beginning to reach new heights with the growth and aid of grotesque pseudoscience. Freak Shows and Human Zoos – the Fetishization and Spectacle of Being “Exotic” In general, the circus has always been a cultural window through which we could examine questions of imperialism, exoticism, urbanity, body, and the 26

her image—her Chinese clothing, accessories, and particularly her small, bound feet—as a spectacle of the ‘exotic Orient.’ They paraded her around for years before abandoning her in poverty, during which time P.T. Barnum found her and became her manager, forcing her into his circus where she drew crowds of 20,000 onlookers in 6 days and became one of his most popular ‘acts.’ All the while, Afong Moy had entered the public eye in the early to mid-1800s during a period of great upheaval in American culture and economics. With shifting tensions in the country, she went from being viewed as a foreign beauty of wonder to a backward and alien ‘oriental.’ When Moy had just arrived in the country, China was still seen as a spectacle of wonder, admired for their otherness. But with the opening of several new trade ports to China as well as the influx of Chinese immigrants to America, that perception shifted, and American views on China became much more negative and derogatory, with public sentiment being that the Chinese were

‘backward,’ ‘undemocratic,’ and ‘cruel’—perceptions that have pervaded in American propaganda to this day, as evidenced in terms of rhetoric and news on China alongside the COVID-19 pandemic. Human traffickers often deceived people from Africa, Asia, as well as the Americas in order to trick them into coming back to the United States, where they were showcased around the country as “specimens’’ in circus “freak shows.” The Ringling Brothers as well as the Barnum and Bailey Circus both had acts featuring “Giraffe-Necked Women,” better known as the Kayan, a Burmese ethinic minority that practiced neck-lengthening. Like many others that were from colonized countries and forcefully brought to the States, many of these women died young, often due to diseases they were not immune to, and their remains were then studied by prominent scientific people and institutions to promote eugenics research. Another infamous case of human trafficking in the name of curating a “freak show” act was the story of George and Willie Muse, Black albino brothers who were kidnapped from the Jim Crow South in the early 1900s and forced to become displays in Barnum & Bailey’s “freak show.” Kidnapped by bounty hunters from the Virginia field that their family sharecropped when they were six and nine years old, it took 13 years for their mother to find them again. When Harriett Muse found her sons, she was devastated to see the tragic dehumanization that had happened to them— the brothers were costumed in ridiculous outfits, were illiterate as they had been forbidden to learn to read and write, and were told by their captors that their mother had died. The circus had torn an entire family apart and had treated the Muse brothers essentially as animals, as if they were not human, all to parade them around for money as ‘proof’ that Black people were ‘subhuman’ and not worthy of being treated humanely. Too often were Black people kidnapped and forced into circuses as part of their freak shows, but the most insidious expansion of that was the concept of the ‘human zoo.’ In the early 20th century, human traffickers found lucrative business in kidnapping indigenous people from around the world for display and showcase at events around the United States. At the 1904 World Fair in St. Louis, Missouri for example, approximately 3,000 “savages” from Africa, Asia, and the Americas were held captive in model reproductions of their native villages and displayed before a crowd of over 20 million spectators. Their traditional lives and cultures were sensationalized through stereotypes and marketed as “savage” and

“primitive” as shows to uphold the idea of white racial superiority, with no consideration whatsoever for the humanity of these people who were seen as ‘subhuman’ simply because they weren’t white. The American Act – Where Do We Go From Here? The circus as it was revolutionized by P.T. Barnum, truly, was as American as it could be, from the racism and white supremacy that fueled its most popular attractions as well as the common origins of many ringmasters. Railroad circus showmen “embraced popular Horatio Alger ‘rags-to-riches’ mythologies of American upward mobility,” propped up as the perfect examples of American exceptionalism and what it means to ‘pull yourself up by your bootstraps’ through grit, hard-work, and self-sufficiency. James A. Bailey (who eventually merged his circus with P.T. Barnum) was orphaned and ran away to a circus at 13 to escape his abusive older sister. Meanwhile, the five Ringling brothers (whose railroad circus skyrocketed to the world’s largest railroad circus in 1907) were born poor to an itinerant harness maker and spent their childhood in threadbare poverty ‘eking out a living’ throughout the Upper Midwest.” These self-made American entrepreneurs built America’s most popular family amusement through sheer determination and the exploitation of others in order to escape their own tragic origins. Barnum and Bailey’s big top grew to three rings, two stages, an outer hippodrome track for chariot races, and an audience of 10,000. New technologies such as electricity, safety bicycles, automobiles, film were included and incorporated as well, and they reenacted current events as part of their programs, such as the building of the Panama Canal. In 2017, Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey closed their curtains, citing a prolonged slump in ticket sales and persisting battles with animal rights organisations. As such, current circuses that are still touring tend to be smaller, if heard of at all, with the most prominent one being Cirque du Soleil. Born in Quebec, Canada in 1984, Cirque du Soleil’s concept delineates from prior circuses that involved freak shows, exotic animals, and shocking life or death spectacles. Rather, they turned the circus into a sort of dance performance instead. Their performances highlight the acrobatics and dazzling capabilities of the human form via colorful light displays and effects and costuming. Strikingly unlike their fellow North American predecessors, Cirque du Soleil spotlights the beauties of human artistic and physical abilities rather than pointing out the spectacle of their oddities. 27

These are the carnivals of my pandemic year-plus by Jamie Anderluh

These are the carnivals of my pandemic year-plus. They were not busy. They were usually not planned. They did not seek attention. But they were beautiful. Because in a year-plus of things falling apart they will always be the bright spots. These are the carnivals of my pandemic year-plus. My blossom walks during my first COVID spring. At home. I smelled more blossoming trees than ever before, and I am still proud of it. My sourdough starter named Cleopatra, who perished in a tragic oven accident but still lives on in my heart. All of the times I danced in my childhood bedroom or

with my dogs in the living room. The time I happened to be staring out the window right as my next door neighbor was doing lunges all the way down the street. My newfound hobby of cocktail-making. The time I made my first old-fashioned and accidentally got drunk at a socially-distant happy hour including my parents and that very same next door neighbor and his parents. Telling my parents about the things I was still learning at Zoom University. “It’s all about the soil, Dad! Everything is all about the soil!” Planting seeds with my mom in the garden. Packing up the car to drive across the country to work on a farm, and debating whether or not to bring a third jar of peanut butter. The time I drove away, and my parents were standing in the driveway, and we all cried. Because, unexpectedly, it had been such a gift to spend those months together. The

time

drove

through Utah, and I stuck my arm out the sunroof, and I was totally alone, and I sang. When I got to Montana, and it smelled like lilacs everywhere, and I was terrified. When I first met one of my boss’ daughters, and she handed me wildflowers and said, “This is a hug.” My second week of work, when it never stopped raining, and we pruned tomatoes in the hoophouse for hours and sang along to “L-OV-E” by Nat King Cole. The first time we made up a haiku while weeding. All of the times we danced. The time we were cleaning garlic for so long my thumbs went numb, only to pause for a spontaneous duet of “Islands In the Stream.” How I fell in love with my coworker. When my friend Melina visited, and we sat in the meadow and saw a rainbow. Our synchronized swimming routine. Her dad’s special trail mix. Hiking the Highline with her whole family. All of the phone calls. How most of my friends went back to school. How I felt so far from them and so close to them at the same time. The love there. The days we ate cheese boards at our picnic table. Our only table. Our tiny kitchen. The mini fridge we shared between the three of us. The shower in our kitchen. The dirt,

everywhere. The day we decided to name our composting toilet Old Faithful. The first day the peaches were ripe, and how we cheered. The day we found bear scat in the lettuce.

“The time I drove away, and my parents were standing in the driveway, and we all cried. Because, unexpectedly, it had been such a gift to spend those months together”

The day we found bear scat next to my camper named Sheila. The morning I saw a bear with my coworker whom I was in love with. Because we had snuck away to go backpacking. Because the night before she had said that we might see one. Because that morning we heard rustling, and I said, “Good morning bear!” But I didn’t think it would actually be a bear. And we unzipped the tent and looked out. And we stared at the bear, and the bear stared at us. And this went on for 29

a while. And then the bear continued on her journey. That same backpacking trip, when we skinny dipped in Wildcat Lake and it was the deepest, coldest glacial blue. The time they did the Holidays for my birthday. And I came back from town, and the whole farm was lit up, and they had turned one of the trees into a Christmas tree, and Christmas carols were playing, and I wasn’t allowed to do dishes, and they made Thanksgiving for dinner, and we all exchanged gifts. The time my boss swam in her underwear in the canal and I swam in my dress. The time we moved the chickens at nightfall, passing them assembly-line style, with headlamps and everything. The time we sat in the cow pasture with fancy chocolate and a thermos of tea and looked at the stars and listened to “The Wolves” by Mandolin Orange. The time my other coworker and I silently watched the entire moonrise. The last days. Our barn party. Harvesting thousands of potatoes. Listening to the Pirates of the Caribbean score while washing potatoes, for dramatic effect and also to increase our speed.

“The day we jumped into Cayuga Lake when it was 30 degrees outside. And we felt free, and freezingly present. Together, after everything. It was our carnival.”

Feeling proud. Having contributed to something. The day I left. How it snowed 13 inches. How I had to dig my car out of the snow. How I had help, from the people who had been my family for the last six months. How hard it was to leave. How much I still miss it. Going to my sister’s tiny wedding. Officiating it because it was so tiny. Coming home. Winter coming this time, instead of spring. The time my coworker, now girlfriend, visited on her way to Vermont and met my parents. How we watched Chopped on Tuesdays, and it was so fun. The Holiday High Tea we decided to throw ourselves. How it was me and my parents again. How we still got along. How we planned theme nights for just the three of us. How we made our own beer flights. How my mom made scones. Dancing in my childhood room again. Coming back to Ithaca after 11 months away. Moving into a home filled with Moosewood cookbooks and two fridges. Devoting a long walk to each reunion. Feeling at home again. Living with six strong women. How we had a potato potluck for the seven of us. The day we jumped into Cayuga Lake when it was 30 degrees outside. And we felt free, and freezingly present. Together, after everything. It was our carnival.w

Clown Jesus

by Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe 33

A Ride Through the Ages by Kathleen Anderson art by Belle McDonald

Six There is magic in the air. Everywhere I look there are new people, colors, and adventures calling to me. I turn around and glance up at the towering sign bearing the word “Carnival” in purple paint, the bold spiraling script igniting the spark of excitement within me, sending electricity down through my fingertips. Suddenly, I catch a flash of familiarity in a streak of bright blue from the corner of my eye. I whip my head around and am greeted by a grinning girl whose 34

splattered freckles shift with her smile, the teal ribbons tied to her pigtails unraveling on both sides. Without saying a word, she grabs my hand and pulls me firmly in one direction. The blue ribbons swishing behind her, moving with the wind, remind me of the banners strung overhead in a zig-zag, flapping in the same pattern. The distorted mirrors echo the toothless grins we give each other as we hurtle past the entrance to the House of Mirrors. We don’t stop running until we reach the line. She frantically reaches into the pockets of her overalls to

“From here, I don’t quite feel like I’m at the top of the world, but it’s close enough for me. I can hear the buzz of the Carnival below, catching bits and pieces of the events beneath my feet.”

pull out two magenta tickets, even though we are nowhere near the front. She holds them out in the palm of her hand, and I take one. It’s wrinkled and worn, ripped at the edges where she has disconnected it from her own, but I still clutch it carefully in my hand like it is treasure. I still can’t seem to calm my nerves. I look down at my velcroed shoes as they rock back and forth, back and forth. I note the layer of dust that now covers the once shiny black surface. We exchange whispers to pass the time, filling the air around us with giggles. I retie her ribbons, coiling the thick blue strands around my fingers and looping them like rabbit ears before pulling. The front of the line greets us with a whole stampede of horses, all different colors, shapes, and sizes. Some are spotted, some striped, others winged. They bounce up and down, and I stare as they dance around majestically in circles. I try to keep my eye trained on one, but I can’t. They move too fast. Finally, their pace slows. The riders dismount, the man unhinges the white gate, and I race to the horse I have my eye on, a pretty white one with a mane of gold. I mount my steed. Straightening my back and gripping the saddle, I prepare for the ride. As my horse slowly gains speed, I imagine its head tilting back, gold mane swaying in the wind as it looses a neigh. I close my eyes, letting my laughter echo into the night. Sixteen The outside walls of the House of Mirrors distort my face as I stare at my reflection, but I can still see enough to make sure I’ve coated every inch of my lips with the spongy tip of my gloss before I carefully screw it back into the bottle. I round the corner once more, almost crashing head first into a boy with black, shaggy hair that almost entirely shades his dark eyes. He gives me a bashful smile, and before I can register what has happened, he vanishes. I flick my eyes back in front of me, where another, much more familiar boy, waves me over to his place in line. We’re up next. It seems like as soon as I step into place beside him, the velvet rope unclasps, and our feet are clambering up the metal stairs of the ride. The

ferris wheel cab swings ever so slightly as he holds my hand, helping me up into the seat. As the ferris wheel slowly creeps up into the sky, his arm slides around my shoulders, and he finally pulls me into an embrace as we reach the top. I look into his bright blue eyes and smile, hoping he notices the shimmer of my lips. From here, I don’t quite feel like I’m at the top of the world, but it’s close enough for me. I can hear the buzz of the Carnival below, catching bits and pieces of the events beneath my feet. Crackling music blasts from the speakers sitting next to the ring toss station; an excited shriek echoes from a little girl being hoisted onto her father’s shoulders; two boys cry out in frustration as they miss their chance to win a prize at the basketball booth. The sky above is clear, the purple and pinks from the beginnings of a summer sunset making for a pleasant picture. The view below is more muffled. Smoke from various booths drifts up into the sky, mixing with the particles of dirt trampling feet kick into the air. I don’t find it a dirty sight. Instead, I think the slightly blurred view adds to the mysteriousness of the night. He tugs at a strand of my hair playfully and turns my head gently into his smirking lips. His tongue is tinted pink from the cotton candy we ate earlier and tastes just as sweet. I shut my eyes as the kiss deepens, but can still vaguely make out flashes of blue, red, and orange from the surrounding rides as the ferris wheel spins on slowly into the night. Thirty Six As I look up to the top of the ferris wheel, my cheeks still heat with the faded memory of stolen kisses from long, long ago. So much is the same. The fluorescent lights still pull my eyes in every direction. I spot the familiar bright pink of tickets everywhere. One sticks out between a boy’s bundled fist; a spiraling string of them peek out of someone’s unzipped backpack. Another lays 35

discarded in the dirt, its intense color muddled by the dust covering it. But so much is different. This time, I don’t rush around in a haze, trying to outrace the sun to ride every ride and play every game before it is time to go. This time, it’s me handing out the kisses. I dole them out in flurries as I take turns picking up a giggling girl and a snickering boy. When I hold them, they both squeeze me tight with fingers still sticky from candy apples. This time, I look to my side and find brown eyes staring back at me from behind a curtain of black hair. They sparkle, the outside corners wrinkling as a smile spreads across his face. I look back and forth between him and the girl in my arms, who peers up at me with identical dark eyes. Suddenly, I find myself smiling too. We weave our way in and out of the crowded chaos, bound together by our intertwined fingers: an unbreakable rope of four. We snake around vendors selling everything from stuffed animals to stuffed pies. The children beg to stop at every turn of their heads, but I point to the fluffy unicorn so big my girl can barely wrap her free arm around it and to the leftover crumbs still crusted around my boy’s mouth to indicate they’ve had their fair share of treats for the day. Finding an empty bench, we squish hip to hip in order to all fit, settling in just in time to see the fireworks burst open above our heads. I look down at the children’s wide expressions with the same wonder they peer up into the sky with, watching as the fluorescent orange and pinks explode into the emerging night.

game to game is over, I still enjoy seeing others do so. I watch as families make their way through the crowd in tiny herds, children’s heads bobbing up and down around their parent’s hips. A mob of teenage girls stand thinking no one notices them stealing glances at the group of boys taking turns swinging the hammer as hard as they can at the high striker station. The boys clap each other on the back with every slam, ding, and flare from the machine, an action mirrored by the girls’ not so silent giggles. I’m in the middle of watching the events around me unfold when a little girl skips up to me, tapping me so gently on the shoulder I almost don’t notice it. I smile as I shift my focus to her, noticing the bright blue ribbon that keeps the braid falling down her back in place. She wiggles her feet back and forth, keeping her eyes focused on the patterns they trace in the dirt as she politely asks if I have any tickets to spare. It’s for an important cause, she reassures me, although she doesn’t elaborate beyond that. I nod my head as I reach for the tiny purse perched beside me on the bench, and her lips spread into a bashful smile. As I stretch the mouth of my purse wide I catch a flash of blue, drawing my attention to the faded photo tucked into my wallet. I tug on it a bit, wriggling it from its place just enough to see the whole picture. It captures a girl with dark eyes, face squished against her mother’s chest, as the middleaged woman tries to re-adjust the ribbon in the girl’s hair. A boy stands impatiently with his arms crossed in the background. Smiling, I reach my hand past my wallet and pull out my last three tickets. I hand them over to the girl, knowing that they will be sufficient enough to buy her a place at any ride or game offered here tonight. She blurts a “thank you” as she spins around, sprinting around the corner of the closest ride and out of my sight, the trail of dust she left behind the only indication she had been there only seconds ago. This time when the summer breeze comes to caress me, I embrace the momentary chill it sends down my spine. I tilt my head back and take a deep breath as I close my eyes, the laughter of children racing past me seeping into the summer night.w

“But so much is different. This time, I don’t rush around in a haze, trying to outrace the sun to ride every ride and play every game before it is time to go.” Seventy Six There is still magic in the air. I sit peacefully on one of the worn, wooden benches, mindful of the empty seats beside me. There is no one left to keep me warm when the summer breeze sweeps past me in a gust. Although my time of wandering around from 36

Menlo Park on New Year’s Day by Emma Eisler

What is another poem for nineteen? My body that hunkers down, remembers its old shape on my childhood bed Longings left waiting on my pillow What is another poem for New Year’s Day? Frost on the grass in the morning that burns away California so the Pacific breathes salt over my skin So I can tell you I am a mermaid and not feel like I am lying Say look, look, look at me, race into the undertow and foam Eat raspberries off each finger, drip juice onto the floor Paint my lips in popsicle syrup and imagine you kissing it away Walking through five o’clock gold, So the cul-de-sacs by my house are cul-de-sacs where I lay in the backseats of cars And the register in the bookstore remembers my fingers ringing up customers What can I tell you that isn’t repetition? A boy once wanted to visit me here, lie with me in my room, Press his shoes to the pavement of my town and run his fingers through my hair— Kelp soft in the bath as in the sea— His lucky penny, dandelion-wish girl

Stay away, I told him, what could possibly be here for you? Nineteen in my childhood room in my bed; does anyone ever feel ready for birthdays? I’m January’s baby, and it’s she who taught me how to love Raised me on the final sparks of fireworks floating down into the bay, Pacific, winter waves that call, come home, come home When will be the last night I fall asleep in this house? When will my posters come unglued? When will nineteen become twenty, and twenty thirty, And when will I grow old? My hair blowing east towards New York State, To grand libraries and buildings overgrown Another year older, so I’m supposed to know a little better how to give But my body is my bed, is my town, is the lump in my throat Not yours, never yours—look for me in places elsewherew 37

Rhetorical Analysis of “Circus” by Grace Lee art by Havi Rojer

I first heard Britney Spears’ 2008 hit “Circus” in Miss Beierle’s fifth-grade classroom. Apparently, it was the song that her younger sister had chosen to play while she walked across the stage at her graduation. Miss Beierle told us that in a sea of “Pomp and Circumstance,” her sister’s selection had stood out, a pop tune in a sea of violins and snare drums. At the time, it seemed like a strange choice. First off, if you haven’t heard this song, I highly recommend it. Look it up on YouTube and watch the music video for the full experience. It’s 2000s pop— 38

and nobody does 2000s pop better than Britney Spears. For this particular song, Spears is a ringleader in the center of the circus, powerful and bold. There’s so much to enjoy— a weirdly addictive groove, a dance break that features spliced voiceovers, Spears taming an elephant. Yet in spite of all these admirable qualities, I feel that the lyrical brilliance of the song deserves to be highlighted because, as we all know, mainstream pop music has a reputation for its depth and meaning. Using my knowledge from AP Literature (thanks Mrs. Morris!) and skills built over eighteen

years of academic bullshitting, I present to you a completely legitimate and very serious analysis of the lyrics to Britney Spears’ “Circus.” At its core, “Circus” is about asserting Spears’ place in the spotlight and her ability to mesmerize a crowd. There are “two types of people in the world: the ones that entertain, and the ones that observe.” Safe to say, Spears doesn’t fall into the second category, as asserted by her statement that she is a “put-on-ashow kinda girl.” This same sort of dichotomy returns in the second verse when Spears asserts that there are “two types of guys out there: ones that can hang with [her] and ones that are scared.” In both quotes, Spears speaks to her capability in front of an audience, a point that is emphasized by the parallelism of the lines. By establishing these categories, Spears also engages us to consider which group we fall into. She compels us to admire her and her performances or run the risk of being an outsider to her appeal. This effect is furthered by Spears’ explicit separation of her male audience as appreciative of her talent or “scared.” The choice of “scared” here highlights a toxic masculinity that presents fear or vulnerability as the worst possible outcome for a man. Although she has regularly been the victim of misogyny, Spears flips these constructs to her momentary benefit by effectively shaming men into enjoying her music. The morality of such a choice may be questioned, but the provocative word choice here highlights larger societal issues. The song’s topic and structure is an extended metaphor, one that establishes a circus and places Spears at the center. Why a circus? As explored in this issue of Kitsch, the carnival and the circus have a mythical hold on us, and by using this as the backdrop, Spears advances herself to an inaccessible place of legend. At the same time, the circus perfectly mirrors her profession as an artist, as referenced through the lines “I’m like a performer, the dance floor is my stage.” The usage of a simile in this line is especially thought-provoking when you consider that Spears actually is a performer in her regular life. She does not write “I’m a performer” but “I’m like a performer,” a loaded choice. Is this line simply her commitment to her character of a humble ringleader? Or is it actually commentary on her imposter syndrome, an indication that she still does not feel like a true performer in

spite of her accomplishments? Either way, it’s all very meta, an artful incorporation of Spears’ reality into her persona.

“At its core, “Circus” is about asserting Spears’ place in the spotlight and her ability to mesmerize a crowd. There are “two types of people in the world: the ones that entertain, and the ones that observe.” And while the spotlight clearly shines on Spears throughout the song, the usage of second person creates a group experience meant to draw in the audience. For instance, the final line of the song rings, “Everybody let go, we can make a dance floor just like a circus.” Spears is not alone, and the “we” acknowledges the fact that a performer is nothing without an audience. She asks listeners to let loose, relax, and create a space of freedom and adventure. At the same time, circus performers are often victims of society’s other-ing and criticism, and their acts often include animal cruelty and ignorance. Spears links “[letting] go” to making a circus, and her words serve as a warning that activism and protection of the most marginalized groups in society require constant work. In a mere three minutes and twelve seconds, Spears addresses several difficult topics, including masculinity and her self-confidence solely through her lyrics. Consider what layers and complexities we would find if we extended this sort of analysis to the song itself, or the music video choices or her performances. Spears is a master at her craft, and it shows. In the fifth grade, I couldn’t possibly have truly understood this song in all its glory, but now I think I might understand at least some of it. This has also given me insight into Ms. Beirele’s sister’s mindset; hopefully we’ll start seeing less “Pomp and Circumstance” and more “Circus.” It’s truly a song that does it all— meaningful lyrics in a perfect pop masterpiece.w

Funhouse Mirrors: Body Dysmorphia/Gender Dysphoria by Bex Pendrak and Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe

The mythos of the carnival continues to follow you throughout your entire life. As a child, you’re entranced by the bright lights and the fried food and the big prizes and the rides that you’re not quite tall enough for. It’s a place of innocence, of exploration, but more importantly, it’s a place of longing. You yearn for the stuffed animals you’ll never win, rides that you’re too short for, rides that your parents won’t let you go on yet because they’re “too scary.” You ride the teacups until your parents are sick. You run just far enough ahead of your family to get lost in the crowd. And then you get older. The carnival begins to change, to morph in front of your very eyes. Now it becomes an ever-present reminder that you don’t have a partner. All the middle school kids parade their relationships around, complete with gangly limbs and awkward shuffling and horrible fashion sense and way too much tongue kissing. Suddenly the purpose of the carnival isn’t to get horribly nauseous on rides and throw up in the corner—the couples surrounding you make you nauseous enough. Now the carnival is a giant spotlight on your lack of romantic appeal. This sours you on the carnival forever. You can’t think about the carnival without feeling on display, seen. Seen from all your awkward angles and in your worst light all of your failures laughed at by cackling clowns. And so you swear off the carnival. Even as the years pass and you no longer are an awkward middle schooler who has yet to hit puberty, you still can’t bring yourself to go there again. The carnival persists, mocking you. Laughing as your friends ask, confused, why you don’t want to go to the carnival this year. Or any year, for that matter. And so, you begin to wonder: why the hell am I so afraid of going to the fucking carnival? The carnival itself is very much centered around observation and perception. The bright lights at night serve as a beacon to all around—ENTERTAINMENT HERE! The Ferris wheel provides a place to observe without being seen, a panopticon of sorts. Funhouse mirrors and the mirror maze seek to distort your 40

“Suddenly the purpose of the carnival isn’t to get horribly nauseous on rides and throw up in the corner—the couples surrounding you make you nauseous enough. Now the carnival is a giant spotlight on your lack of romantic appeal.” perceived sense of reality for some sort of perverse enjoyment. The crowds themselves, packed so tightly that you can barely move, give you both a sense of anonymity and of heightened visibility. Everyone goes to the carnival and there’s a good chance you might see someone you know there—especially people you’ve been avoiding. While you never actually remember what any of the strangers you pass look like, you cannot shake the feeling that ten thousand eyes are watching your every move. Anything you do is not your action anymore; it’s become a public spectacle. This sense of observation that is woven into every facet of the carnival got me thinking. In a way, my experience of gender dysphoria and body dysmorphia throughout my life is the shittiest local carnival ever. It started when I was about ten and became acutely aware of how people assigned female at birth are supposed to interact with society, especially male society. I never really had any attraction to boys when I was younger, but I didn’t recognize it as such. I really only had crushes once my friends had crushes. I remember long lists of boys I “like-liked” that were really just lists of every boy I knew. Compulsory heterosexuality, anyone? Looking back on it, I probably had crushes on most of my friends and just wanted to have something to talk about with them. And predictably, because I wasn’t actually interested in the boys my age, I didn’t know how to act around them. You certainly can’t get someone to like you if you’re not actually putting effort into pursuing them. And that’s totally fine. But when you’re absolutely convinced that you have to like boys because You’re A Girl, you interpret that lack of interest as a failing on your part. In much the same way that you long for being older or taller to go on the scary carnival rides, I longed for puberty to hit so boys would notice me and find me attractive. I felt like I was on the sidelines being younger and less developed than my peers. I thought all my problems would be solved if I just had Big Boobs and was More Feminine. If I could somehow get one boy to notice me in That Way, my 41

life would be complete. I turned my struggles relating to boys in the way that I was supposed to into hating my body. I know, it fucking starts young. But since I thought that I must like boys, but boys don’t like me, it must be my body betraying me. I tried to fit myself into the mold of how I thought I should present, dressing more femme and trying to rush my body into Being a Big Girl. But I should have known—once you get on the Big Girl Rides, your relationship with your body doesn’t improve at all. High school was just one big mirror maze. You know, the ones with alternating clear and mirrored panes that disorient you so much and practically bring you to tears by the time you find your way to the exit. I was just starting to hit puberty (although “hit” is a very strong term for the leisurely time my hormones had working their way through my body), but I still hated my body. Dressing feminine always sort of felt like wearing a costume. Playing a little dress-up, if you will. I loved going shopping for new clothes,

is that as a “woman,” you’re expected to have body issues. You’re expected to think about thigh gaps, flat tummies, bra sizes, who had the best ass—it took me so long to realize that there was something other than just pubertal awkwardness in my botched cocktail of a body. (It also took me a long time to realize why I had such strong feelings about who had the best ass.) Honestly, the funniest part about high school is all the pictures I have in dresses. In every single one I look like I have a back issue: shoulders hunched forward, stance leaning forward in a way that’s definitely not casual. Looking back at it, I definitely did NOT want anyone to see that I had titties. Ironic, considering I spent most of middle school desperately wanting them only to get the littlest mommy milkers you’ve ever seen. Attending formal events always felt like a public spectacle. My mom would always want pictures of me with my friends. I didn’t know how to tell her that I felt like one of the oddities in Barnum and Bailey’s circus. Dresses put the spotlight on me,

“It wasn’t until so much later that I found I could care about myself without performing femininity, that I didn’t have to dress “like a woman” to love or be loved, that my body didn’t have to be the vessel for others’ expectations.” and was always so excited to get new clothing that played to my “feminine” side. However, I would get home, and it would just go straight to the back of my closet, forsaken for however long until I realized, “Shit, I haven’t been catering to the male gaze lately.” I was constantly getting trapped in a cycle between hating my body and hating the clothes I had to wear. Putting on anything formal felt like making awkward eye contact with the other people stumbling through the mirror maze. I didn’t want to be perceived, but somehow I couldn’t escape it. For real, whoever invented the concepts of skinny jeans and locker rooms has a duty to personally apologize to me. The amount of mornings I spent curled over on the bus, my head on my knees, overwhelmed with nausea about the idea of my classmates seeing the curves of my twig-like legs, the times spent changing as fast as I could with my eyes closed—there is no doubt in my mind that I am owed something for that excruciating experience. Part of it 42

but not in a main character way. It felt more like the way a stranger looks at you after they just caught you picking a massive wedgie. I couldn’t put a finger on it at the time; I just thought everyone else really, really hated being perceived as having any sort of feminine qualities. (Turns out that’s a sign of an impending gender crisis, but we won’t uncover that for another few years...) One of the most hellish recurring experiences of my high school career was the concert that happened once a semester. Having to choose not only a dress or skirt combo but also a DIFFERENT one every time turned me into a sweaty, bony pile of fear. The only good picture of me at a concert where I’m not hunching or hiding is the photo from senior year, where I convinced my mother to let me wear a classy pair of pants instead. When I was fourteen, I redid my bedroom. When I did so, I chose to get my folding closet doors fully mirrored. Four full length mirrors, running the length

of a whole wall. Still, to this day, I have no idea why I did that, because it made my room a hellhole. I woke up and had no choice but to sit up and look at myself. I’d choose whatever flimsy cloak of cloth I wanted to wear that day and do my very best to avoid looking at my own body. It was even worse when I had to go to a concert—or the carnival. I would spend hours trying on different dresses, different outfits, trying desperately to find something that didn’t make me want to claw my eyes out. I was stuck between a rock and a hard place: the expectation of womanhood, of femme presentation, and simultaneously the absolute lack of willingness to see my own body like that. It wasn’t until so much later that I found I could care about myself without performing femininity, that I didn’t have to dress “like a woman” to love or be loved, that my body didn’t have to be the vessel for others’ expectations. Coming out as queer and then nonbinary really helped me escape the mirror maze of femme presentation. Once I realized that I did not have to cater to the male gaze because I was not into men and not a woman, my relationship with my body improved. I still felt like I was staring into a funhouse mirror, but in a less “my body actually looks like this distorted version” manner and in a more “my body is an amazing gay disaster” way. That’s not to say that I had escaped the Body Dysmorphia Carnival, oh no. I had simply just stumbled into playing one of those rigged carnival games: the Perfectly Androgynous Ring Toss. You and I both know that every carnival game is rigged so that you lose money and feel inadequate about yourself and everything that you have done up until this moment. But you’re driven to try anyway—the ring toss looks so easy, and the garishly large prizes are so alluring in the sweaty June evening light. I try and you try, spending and tossing and failing, and the game attendant only chuckles and wishes us better luck next time. Like carnival games, I will never be able to achieve “perfect nonbinary expression.” What does it even mean to be perfectly androgynous? Being gender nonconforming means existing outside the binary, but why is the ideal then existing perfectly outside the binary? I find myself constantly policing my body and my clothing in order to try and look perfectly ambiguous. Neither masculine nor feminine. Somewhere in the dead center. But it’s a foolish task - there’s no winning that prize. And I know it’s not a game I should be playing. I know that I don’t owe anyone a perfectly androgynous appearance. And yet here I am, paying more money and tossing more rings trying to hit the one bottle in the center

that will make me a Perfectly Androgynous Person, and counting every missed ring as a personal failing. All the time, I see people on the internet enthusiastically reassuring me that “there’s no one way to be non-binary!” and that I don’t owe anyone androgyny. And that’s nice to hear, but it’s hard to reconcile those messages with the me I see in the mirror. When it’s just me and me, everything makes sense. I can, in the right moment, look into my bathroom mirror and feel nothing but happy. It’s the issue of being in front of everyone else that makes a difference. I often spend several minutes in the morning deciding whether or not I want to put on my binder—because I’ve reached the point where I’m happy with my body, regardless. I couldn’t give less of a shit what my flesh shell looks like. But the minute I step out of my bathroom and onto that Tilt-A-Whirl, my balance will be off, and I’ll see the little facets of my body the way others do—they’ll see my waist, the curves of my chest, the way I walk, and they will think they know exactly who and what I am. Every “ma’am” will roll off their tongue easily and worm its way into my ears, where it’ll bounce around for hours, days, weeks. My sweaty hand, tight in their grasp as they pull me from ride to ride, screaming “Isn’t this fun?” when all I can see is the distorted version of me in their eyes. Every ride becomes the Haunted Mansion, where nothing good can happen and you worry you’ll be stuck forever. So what the fuck is gender, huh? Maybe for some, it’s easy. A leisurely whirl on the teacups perhaps. For me, it’s been more like an old, rickety rollercoaster—a wooden monstrosity that definitely violates multiple safety codes. After spending years bumping around its track, eyes shut tight in fear, maybe I’ll finally be able to raise my hands at its peaks and lean into its heart-pounding, exhilarating rhythm.w

Zoltar Predictions for a Post-Pandemic Campus by Mariana Meriles art by44Emma Benstein and Emma Eisler

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Post-Ghost Elegy for Spring Succulents by Stephanie Tom art by Havi Rojer

It wasn’t until yesterday I realized that the two succulents I had potted earlier in the year had withered into husks a few weeks ago. They had lived and died within the span of a spring cut short, barely born. Like fever dreams and cherry blossoms. This is the third time it’s happened in my life – to plants, at least. Spring has always come back before, but I’m not so sure that you can hold it to feel like as much of an absolute anymore. Please excuse this paltry elegy for all of the sadness I can’t find the names for. I have spent far too many summer days walking through my existential crises in a Party City on a quiet afternoon. Too far from holidays and too far from every birthday once Cancer season ends. It’s been years since I’ve thrown a birthday party but I can’t ever forget the humming excitement they entailed. I walk through the aisles & am overwhelmed by the candles around me.

How does it feel to watch the years flash by? Names are barely memories when they’re scattered, confetti on plastic tablecloths. When I sweep a hand over them they flutter to the floor in clouds almost too thick to read. Candy floss & pink streamers reach for my senses, the tulle & frills mocking me. I brush a hand through them & hope they disappear. I want to lose myself in pastels & crepe paper – I want to be soluble, to be solvable. Is that too much to hope for on rainy days like this? On my actual birthday I eat cake in the dark and watch the clock flicker as the storm outside howls louder. If I listen close enough, I can almost hear a voice calling my name. I laugh – the clock glows green, the wind dies down. I have been hurt too many times to know what it would feel like to be okay nowadays, but I am big enough to admit two truths: succulents always bloom brighter when you saint them as fleeting colors, and there are certainly not as many things that can be taken as truthful absolutes anymore.w

A Short History of Bacchanalia & Dionysia art and article by Havi Rojer The word Bacchanalia conjures to mind drunken revelers singing and dancing in the night, often in little or no clothing. The origins of the word are the Greco-Roman Bacchanalia festivals, which celebrated Bacchus (Greek: Dionysus), the god of wine, drunkenness, revelry, and freedom. The first Bacchanalia festivals were modeled on the Grecian Dionysia, as well as the Dionysian Mysteries, a ritual to return individuals to a primordial spiritual state through alcohol and dancing. These Greek traditions arrived in Rome around 200 BC and were soon embraced by many Roman citizens. However, the Roman senate viewed these revelries as potential threats to the Empire and senatorial rule, particularly due to their individualistic and hedonistic associations, subsequently enacting legislation to curtail Bacchanalia festivals in the 2nd Century BC.

a child to hide him from the wrath of his father’s cuckolded wife. Therefore, Thespis’ new pet wasn’t particularly out of place. Traditional Greek tales recount that Athenians initially rejected the veneration of Dionysus. In vindication, the god brought a plague upon the Athenians’ male genitalia, which was likely as awful as it sounds. Once the Athenians accepted the Dionysusian cult, he cured them of this affliction, but in remembrance of this tale, many Greek revelers participated in the processions of Dionysia while holding up phallic symbols made of bronze or wood. Following these processions, the Greeks would hold choral competitions, often featuring highly competitive poets and musicians. Afterwards, they sacrificed bulls to mark the beginning of a grand feast. When the feast was over, a second procession often took place, this time involving far more drunkenness and revelry than before. This latter procession is likely what influences our modern-day usage of the word bacchanalia. However, it’s important to acknowledge that the festivals of Bacchanalia and Dionysia were far more than simply drinking and dancing. They were a place for everyday citizens to experience art, theatre, and culture, as well as an opportunity to connect with the intrinsic revelry and independence within each follower of Dionysus.w

“...the festivals of Bacchanalia and Dionysia were far more than simply drinking and dancing.” Both the short-lived Roman Bacchanalia, as well as the original Greek festivals, Dionysia, focused on celebration through dance, music, and obviously wine, as well as on the exhibition of new theatrical plays. Tragedies and comedies were performed for the enjoyment of audiences, and particular authors were chosen as winners of playwriting contests. In the 5th Century BC, in Greece, the playwright Thespis was awarded a goat as his prize. Strange as this may sound, goats were an important symbol of the god Dionysus, since he spent time as a goat when he was

Euthanasia Rollercoaster 48

by Chloe Wayne

Soft Pretzel Recipe for a Carnival in Your Apartment by Emma Bernstein, Emma Condie, and Emma Eisler

You’re in your apartment. The sounds and smells of a carnival are a distant memory as you watch snow drift past your window. Maybe you live alone. Maybe you live in a dorm with a small and sticky shared kitchen that always smells like popcorn. Maybe you’re stuck at home with your parents, channeling your sexual frustration into baking. To no avail. Or maybe you live in an apartment in Collegetown that might seem a little small, but with two of your best friends, it feels like just the right size. You turn the oven on just for a little warmth and comfort, and you realize you’re in the mood for a snack. What to make? A whole loaf seems too complicated after all, you lead a full and busy life! Every morning, you wake up and go to your little Zoom classes. Every night you must think of something to make for dinner. What does it all mean? Perhaps it means you’re hungry for something salty and a little sweet! Something that tastes like nostalgia - like waiting in line for the carousel at the

county fair when you were seven, like wandering the mall trying and failing to find the perfect school dance outfit with your friends when you were thirteen, like sitting on a picnic blanket in Central Park the first summer you lived by yourself. The thing that you’re after, of course, is the humble pretzel. But how, you ask? Read on to find out! Ingredients: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ ★

1 ½ cups of warm water 2 ¼ teaspoons of dry yeast 1 teaspoon of regular salt 1 tablespoon of sugar 1 tablespoon of melted, unsalted butter 4 cups of all purpose flour Coarse sea salt for sprinkling! ½ cup of baking soda 9 cups of water

Preparation: 1. Pour the warm water into a bowl. Sprinkle the yeast on top and whisk it in. Allow the mixture to sit for one minute, or until it begins to bubble.

2. Add the salt, butter, and sugar, and whisk everything together 3. Use a wooden spoon to gently mix in the flour, adding 1 cup at a time. Keep doing this until the dough is no longer sticky.

4. Flour a surface on which to roll out the dough. Dump out the dough onto your surface and knead it for 3 minutes, then shape it into a ball. Cover it with a towel and let it sit for 10 minutes.

5. Preheat the oven to 400º F. Line 2 baking sheets with parchment paper. 6. While the oven warms up, use a knife to cut the dough into ⅓ cup sized sections.

7. Roll each section into a rope shape with your palms, and then fold it into the shape of a pretzel by connecting the ends, twisting them together so that you have a circular shape, and then taking part of your circle and twisting it into a loop that you attach to the bottom to make a pretzel shape.

8. Boil the 9 cups of water with the baking soda. 9. Drop a couple pretzels at a time into the boiling water. 20-30 seconds later, use a slotted spatula to lift the pretzel and allow the water to drip off.

10. Pop the pretzel on the baking sheet and sprinkle with coarse sea salt.

11. Bake the pretzels until they are golden brown, usually 12-15 minutes.

12. Eat your pretzels with mustard, butter, or nacho cheese!w

It’s All Fun and Games by Jean Cambareri

“Oh shit, not again,” I said, pointing my fin to the dopey-looking pet shop employee with the mop of blonde hair and a black net in his right hand. “Look at the calendar—it’s carnival season.” May, read the calendar above the cashier’s desk, littered with pictures of puppies and kittens. “You freak out every year about the carnival, and every year no one throws that little white ball in our bowl, and then we get to come home. It’s a few days outside of this hellhole, how bad could that be?” Reggie, my tankmate, responded tiredly. But I don’t care, I hate the carnival. The mixing smells of teenage sweat and fried foods make me sick. Besides that, the anticipation night after night of not knowing if or when we will be plucked from our comfortable tank and placed in those small clear containers, just waiting to be aimed at with white plastic balls by middle schoolers… it gives me the shivers just thinking about it. _________________________________________ When we are finally inside that huge tank, just in between the snow cone station and the Ferris wheel, it’s all even worse than I remembered. The lights flash around us nonstop, the children never seem to stop screaming and running and crying, and this is all before our station even opens. The first few days are a blur of anxiety and waiting and gross smells, but on the very last night the fair is open, everything changes. I was distracted, just for a moment, by a teenage boy and his date. He was shooting a ball into a hoop and she was smiling. It seemed nice on the outside, just for that second. Until reality came down in the form of a greedy black net and I was scooped out of the tank and placed carelessly into a tiny clear bowl, the walls of which seemed to be slowly closing around me.

Thankfully, most of these kids can’t aim for shit, so by 9:30 on closing night, I assumed I was in the clear. That is until a little girl with pigtails and a rocket for an arm stepped up to the table and got a ball into a bowl on the left side of the table on her first try. Reggie’s eyes widened in the bowl beside me as if to say, “what a shot!” I was less impressed and more worried as her father paid for her to take two more turns. Plop… The next thing I knew, the white ball was floating above me, and I was being manhandled and tied up in a bag by the meaty hands of the guy working at the fair. You’ve got to be fucking kidding me… I thought to myself as the little girl swung the bag at her side and skipped as she walked away. My eyes fixated on the ground where her sparkly pink shoes hit the gravel as I tried my hardest to stay calm and figure myself out of this one. All around me the lights and noises began to blur. I tried to look back, but Reggie and the tank and the man with meaty hands were all far out of sight.w

“You freak out every year about the carnival, and every year no one throws that little white ball in our bowl, and then we get to come home. It’s a few days outside of this hellhole, how bad could that be?””

Remember When We Danced by Megan Rochlin art by Emma Eisler

Remember when we danced Remember when we danced And my skin felt like your skin Remember tiny volcanos and hands held in hands Persephone was never fucked like this Remember when we were fish And we moved together a school of silver and gold Iridescent scales flashing Remember when vodka made all of us beautiful And we glittered like kings And gleamed like statues and citadels Remember when we loved like Venus fly traps And we dissolved our lovers Between interlocking teeth Remember when red wine spills shaped like California Stained our white canvas shoes And our clothes smelled of ashes Remember when we stole the glow of the moon to press between our lips and just for a moment you loved me?w

Buttons For Eyes: A (Psycho)Analysis of How Coraline Haunted a Generation by Stephanie Tom art by Havi Rojer

Despite first taking AP Psychology in high school just about five years ago now, I will never forget the ‘Four Fs’ of evolutionary psychology. The theory goes that the ‘Four Fs’ are the four most basic and primal motivations that animals (and humans) have, follow and achieve: feeding, fighting, flighting, and fornicating. It’s interesting to note that dolls—in all conceptions and possibilities—can easily elicit all four reactions. I’m sure we’ve all seen videos of zookeepers feeding baby animals that were born in captivity with puppets that are lookalikes of other adults of their species. The famed Bobo Doll psychological experiment demonstrated that children mimicked adult behavior, 54

and that if they witnessed adults beating up a raggedy doll on television, children would do the same to the ‘Bobo doll’ that they had been placed in a room with. Though typically underground and seen as a strange kink, sex dolls exist, and as horror movie lore has made popular, dolls like Chuckie and Anabelle have entered the upper echelons of nightmarish legend. However, interestingly enough, one of the most iconic dolls in modern film manages to elicit emotions that are just as intense without explicitly falling into any of the categories outlined above. The doll in Coraline is just one figure from the film

“What differentiates creepiness from being ‘gross’ scary stuff and ‘horror’ is that it is just one step further into unknown territory.”

among a whole host of unnerving, creepy, and even supernatural entities and occurrences. For those that haven’t seen it, Coraline (2009) follows the story of a young girl—Coraline Jones—who, upon moving to a new town, discovers a parallel world that makes her real life pale in comparison before she realizes the terrifying consequences of crossing over the threshold. Aside from certain cinematography choices that dramatized the effects of the film’s individual storyline and artistic elements—such as the fact that the story’s climactic turning point is timestamped exactly halfway through the film—the aesthetics of the film itself could be identified as “uncanny valley.” The term refers to the aesthetic of objects that straddle the line of what makes something human versus non-human. On the scale of humanness, objects that fall into the vague gray zone of both being human and not make us uncomfortable with their ambiguity, which gives way to senses of uneasiness, eeriness, and what Stephen King identifies as the highest level of scary stuff: terror in the wake of confronting ‘creepiness.’ What differentiates creepiness from being ‘gross’ scary stuff and ‘horror’ is that it is just one step further into unknown territory, and that it is the fear of the unknown that instinctively triggers our primal instincts to be on high alert and cautious. Being creeped out is an adaptive human response to the potentiality of threats from others. When our brains don’t know how to interpret a stimulus or situation, we feel terror as a substitute for fear, and thus are creeped out in the face of potential danger even without a recognizable threat. Given this context, Coraline can be recognized as a poster child for the visualization of uncanny valley vibes. From the very opening scene, we see the reworking of a ragdoll into a perfect replica of our protagonist, before we even meet the girl herself. The songs from the soundtrack that have ‘lyrics’ are sung in complete gibberish—though we can identify language patterns that indicate words, the meaning is completely indecipherable. The key marker of the parallel figures from the Other World—the Other Mother, the Other Father, the Other Wybie—look exactly like the real people that they resemble in Coraline’s reality, except for the striking fact that they have buttons for eyes, making them look like living dolls. The way the Other characters slowly distort after Coraline refuses to have buttons sewn into her

eyes, angering the Other Mother—the ripped seam smile that Other Wybie sports, the elastic stretching of the Other Father’s face when he tugs his mouth open to signify how Other Wybie “pulled a loooooong face”—remind us, as well as our protagonist, that they were never really human to begin with, no matter how much they seemed to be. Furthermore, the fact that the entire movie combines the classic technique of shooting in stop-motion with claymation figures creates an overarching sense of careful curation—a reminder that even when we think of our protagonist as a “real” person, she exists as a constructed doll that is recognized as ‘human’ enough only because the script tells us that she is. Asides from the animated details themselves, the contexts in which we are introduced to the cast of characters and their interactions with Coraline hint at greater forces at work. The story is told from a close third-person point of view. What that means is that, with the camera acting as our eyes, we are able to view all of the characters from an outsider’s point of view, but are only privy to one character’s thoughts and knowledge—in this film, Coraline Jones. The primary characters that Coraline is introduced to but has no specific relational attachment towards are her neighbors, Mr. Bobinsky, Ms. Spink, and Ms. Forcible. Mr. Bobinsky, a blue man with a Russian accent who is attempting to train a jumping mouse circus, lives above Coraline. Meanwhile, Ms. Spink & Forcible, two washed-up burlesque actresses that have a penchant for reading tea leaves and raising Scottish Terriers, live in the flat below her. Each neighbor is characterized in their introduction to Coraline by some various unnatural qualities that unnerve her from the very beginning. She first visits Mr. Bobinsky—referred to only by his last name—to return some mail that reached her door. Bobinsky’s blue skin and his Russian accent immediately evoke foreign eccentricity before we even get to know him. He’s also a naturally acrobatic and flexible character, and his proportions make him move with an unnatural gait, loping across railings and jumping stories to the ground with his extremely long and thin legs. Furthermore, he claims to be 55

able to speak to his mice, and relays to Coraline a warning—“do not go through little door, Coraline,” he whispers conspiratorially, before laughing at the fact that he heard the mice say ‘Coraline,’ since Bobinsky himself is convinced that her name is Caroline. This introductory scene established the precedent that the mice would play a larger role later in the film, that there are some uncanny happenings going on in a world where the mice seem to know more than the man training them. The concept of uncanny adults knowing more than they seem to continues when Coraline meets Ms. Spink and Ms. Forcible the next day after returning to the Other World once more. Spink and Forcible are representative of ‘old crone’ figures that are common in fairy tales and other fantastical stories—whether these ‘old crones’ are witches or fairies, good or evil, they are all understood to have a clairvoyant nature

about them, and to be in touch with greater forces of nature beyond mortal understanding. Spink and Forcible are also fond of stuffing their dead Scottish Terriers, which definitely added a shock factor akin to ‘uncanny valley’ vibes, what with the presence of creatures that were no longer alive yet appeared to be. When they read Coraline’s tea leaves, they see patterns foreseeing “terrible danger” and a “very peculiar hand”—foreshadowing that the audience later realizes to hint at the evolution of the Other Mother into her true and terrifying form as the Beldam. Though neither Coraline nor the audience will realize how correct both predictions made by Bobinsky and Spink and Forcible turn out to be, the fulfillment of these warnings add an element of retrospective shock and unease when we reflect on how these characters could have possibly known what would transpire in the Other World, despite never showing signs that

they were aware of its existence. Of course, moving past the seeming supernaturalness of the characters in Coraline’s ‘real’ world, there is the inherent creepiness of the Other World. Besides the fact that every ‘living’ figure— humanoid or animal—has button eyes to denote their artificiality, the primary occupant and conductor of the Other World—the Other Mother, later referred to as the Beldam— is symbolically and visually associated with spiders, which themselves can be very scary figures. Arachnophobia, or the fear of spiders, is an immediate and common association; to automatically link herself to the manifestation of many people’s fears is telling of the Beldam and the underlying malevolence of her intentions towards Coraline. Spiders are also associated with creativity as they are web-weavers, but more so with trickery, as the primary function of their webs are to trap other bugs to eat. By infusing the Other World with bug imagery, it can be implied that the Beldam views Coraline herself as a bug, a pawn to play and then consume, and herself as the spider weaving the Other World as a trap, then growing over time to resemble that insect. Asides from the Beldam, other notable elements of the Other World that are not under her control also hint at more malevolent forces beyond anyone’s control. The passage to the Other World itself—a tunnel that starts out fabric blue, soft and luminescent, and turns sickly green, cobwebbed and stuck with broken toys—is constantly transforming, deteriorating as the Beldam’s control over the Other World begins to fail as well. The tunnel slowly gets longer, more eerie—full of “old things, lost things, locked things,” as Spink and Forcible remark earlier in the film when they gift Coraline with a stone triangle with the ability to identify what is “real” in the Other World—and seems to grow with a life force of its own. Similarly, the Cat is the only other figure that is never seen to be under the Beldam’s control. He doesn’t have buttons for eyes, and traverses the boundaries between the ‘real’ world and the Other World easily. However, despite the fact that he is largely on Coraline’s side throughout her journey back to the Other World to free the ghost children and save her parents from the Beldam’s clutches, his motives are at times unreadable. Most strikingly, he watches with a cryptic smile when Coraline tosses the key to the Other World down the well to get rid of it before

appearing to walk through a portal at the very end of the film right before the credits roll. It’s as if he’s not on either side of the fight, but rather loyal only to the existence of the Other World. It’s been over a decade since Coraline was released, and it’s still distinct enough to be remembered

“I suppose that’s where the true terror of the “uncanny valley” lies—despite how far you can see from the peaks, you’ll never fully be aware of what threats lie in the shadows of the valley...” years later in life. Many of my friends recall stark memories of watching it in theaters at the ripe age of nine years old and screaming in terror when the Other Mother first started elongating in sharp angles into the mechanical Beldam, noting her metal hands and cracked porcelain face. I remember watching it for the first time one summer evening under the covers, rain pattering outside my window, the soft glow of my iPad illuminating my room. Though I was not as terrified as I may have been had I watched it when I was younger, I was readily creeped out enough. When you’re older, you don’t only find things to be scary in the obvious gore-and-guts way. The older you get, the wiser you feel, and the more you tend to pride yourself on your knowledge. Being primed in a culture that rewards the pursuit of knowledge, one of the most terrifying things is the absence of that, the absence of tangible thought and conclusions. That’s why I still found Coraline to be terrifying. To be left alone with my thoughts and jackrabbit heartbeat once the credits started rolling, as my mind raced retrospectively over the reels of surreal horror and uncanny events, conjured infinitely scarier possibilities than the original film or story could provide. I suppose that’s where the true terror of the “uncanny valley” lies—despite how far you can see from the peaks, you’ll never fully be aware of what threats lie in the shadows of the valley, and it is in this state of being unaware that we fear what exists outside of our consciousness and control.w

Smushed Detritus by Laura Schroeder art by Emma Eisler

One second, you’re a tried and true staple of American food service innovation: A little, laminated paper box full of french fries. The first cousin of the more flashy Dixie cup, you’re reliable, approachable, and fun. Undeniably a pillar of the elementary school carnival food service system. The next, however, you’ve been set down on a table next to the dunk tank. With nothing more than the last mushy fry or two to keep you grounded, a draft carries you into the middle of the busy walkway. Kids run all over you with muddy sneakers. Instead of being toted dutifully along with them, supplying snacks and making greasy little fingers, you’ve been exiled to the swamp-like walkway—in the middle of foot traffic, but now seemingly invisible. If you’re lucky, your loneliness will be memorialized in the grainy background of a photo on someone’s iPhone 5. Your lamination begins to disintegrate, and the last couple of fries have now transformed into a mouse-sized serving of Mashed Potatoes with Other Natural Flavorings. Long since forgotten, you lie crushed as carnival-goers go about their business. Some sit and peoplewatch, and others cause merciless chaos with inflatable baseball bats. Early teens relish in the activities while also pretending to be too cool for them. Parents gossip. Kids experience firsts under the bleachers, away from prying eyes. But you’re just a lump of cardboard. You can watch as people carry out their agenda of carnival activities. But you’re still stuck in the mud, alone. And you know what, kiddo? At times, you really take on the role of that smushed little box. Less

glamorous than Katy Perry’s vision of a plastic bag, and less of a melancholically poetic wallflower than Charlie in Patrick’s eyes. Sometimes you’re just a lump of cardboard in some patchy corner of suburbia. And

“If you’re lucky, your loneliness will be memorialized in the grainy background of a photo on someone’s iPhone 5.”

when you’re sitting in the mud, and you can’t seem to move, and all you do is watch everyone running around you on their own adventures, you start to see how cyclical it is. The waiting to finally be the big kids. Then being the big kids and reveling in it. Then wondering where the old big kids are now. Do they miss it? Do they laugh at how silly they were for thinking it mattered? Am I supposed to do that now? Why did nobody wait for me? ...Why did nobody wait for me? It’s 10:08 PM – the carnival’s over. The tables are empty. The stench of frying oil hangs in the air. A light drizzle descended in the last 20 minutes, as if on cue, which got you even more crumpled. Throughout the night, you acquired some lovely muddy shoe prints on your underbelly. You knew this town had an insidious past, but you never felt so personally left behind— —A few feet to the left—an old cotton candy stick. Stained a faint blue from the fluff that once adorned her.w

Portrait of Perpetuated Adolescence by Emma Goldenthal art by Belle McDonald

we’re used to all kinds of sand in our shoes. marker-paint converse, dirty laces, soles worn smooth from years of wandering suburban beachtown streets. will we ever be taller? sad carnival’s in our sights or we’re in its? stained canvas flags, the slow drifting music that mocks and also yearns. dis-chords. lights float and gleam green orange yellow pink blue against the ever-growing dark, not quite enough to distract from the dusky skim of dust and paper trash on pavement. we mix and match overall shorts and band tees and leftover clover chains linking hands in our pockets. we’re full from our parents’ cooking. we like the carousel best. which creature will we rescue from its plastic cage? which song will be the one we dance to? we reach for the golden ring to prolong the things we cannot change. our hands grasp air and we settle instead on stargazing. voices carry from the bar across the road, all the way to the water that we wade in, beyond the carousel’s warm glow. our bare feet sink in the sand, sneakers piled on the dunes out of sight but we’ll be back for them soon. april 2021w 59

The Perfect First Date by Mariana Meriles image by Emma Condie

There’s a long list of first dates that tween me consistently dreamed of (aside from just any date in the first place). But the one that always made the top of the list was a date at the carnival. The bright lights, the adorable stuffed prizes, the ferris wheel—oh so essential for the perfect first kiss —it all just felt… perfect. That was my image for how my first dates would go—perfectly. The romanticized image of interlocked fingers, ice cream dripping onto my hands, both butterflies and free dinner in my stomach. Awkward silences instead of moments we could look into each other’s eyes, different interests or opinions just a chance for growth. Nothing, I thought, could go wrong. And I do still try to hold onto that image of the perfect first date. The preteen in me relentlessly takes my friends on dates, buys adult me chocolates on Valentine’s Day, and watches romance movies in bed with my stuffed animals (you know, single person stuff). And yet, the preteen in me falters—especially when I think back to the first dates I’ve actually been on. I think of the discomfort, of forced laughter, of the painful seconds before the first kiss. I’m reminded of tinder skeeves, of unwelcome advances, of just plain, unenjoyable, sheer awkwardness. I think back to the guy who performed magic tricks, of the guy who interrogated me for all but my social security number, of the guy who somehow managed to kiss with his

teeth. Yeah, I haven’t had the best luck. But more importantly, I’ve visited the carnival. I’ve stepped over vomit, I’ve sat against seats sticky with sweat, I’ve experienced the oil and the mess and the insane decadence of fried dough. (And tell me, does anyone really know how to eat a candied apple?) And yet, it’s this exact dichotomy—the beauty and what can only be described as the grossness — that the carnival captures that makes it the perfect first date spot. Because what more is a first date, if not the perfect combination of potential and disgust?w

“Because what more is a first date, if not the perfect combination of potential and disgust?”

Notes on Growing Up With Taylor art and article by Leigh Miller and Emma Eisler Emma: “Tim McGraw” “Tim McGraw” always makes me smile. My first real relationship lasted longer than a summer, but it had the same feeling of being separate from the rest of my life that gives those memories the golden tint of summer love. It’s so hard not to do what Taylor does—to wonder what songs make him think of me; what images call that time back for him; and what, if anything, he wanted to say but didn’t. Or if there were things I should’ve said but never found the words for. There’s something special about this kind of love, that can remain unmitigatedly beautiful in memory as if preserved in amber. But, listening to Taylor sing, I understand, too, the sadness of September, of never venturing into those colder months and complexities, so, without knowing the full extent of the relationship, you never fully fall out of love.

—It’s the only song I know every single word to. What I would sing in my mom’s car driving home from elementary school, bobbing head and pigtails. In high school, it became my best friend’s and my song. Although our relationship wasn’t romantic in the traditional sense, we lived so many of those moments together—ridin’ shotgun with my hair undone; sneakin’ out late… maybe even more importantly, comforting and being there for one another at the end of a long day. What I love about “Our Song” is that it celebrates the music in daily life, in repetition, and small acts of love. So many years and states away from those early days of listening, whenever it comes on, I sing along, loud and unembarrassed, and I think of my best friend (or, more often than not, look to where she is sitting beside me) and I think of hers and my song that is the one in my ears, but also every other sound that makes up our years of knowing each other.

—Even though I know it’s a love song, this song always makes me think about my friends–both at home and at college. I see myself in high school, jumping over waves at Ocean Beach or sitting in comfortable silence on my friend’s roof. I see myself with my childhood closest friend, sitting outside eating waffles with powdered sugar. Freshman year, talking in the dining hall until closing hour, or falling asleep curled beside my friends watching a movie. Hikes at Monkey Run, apartment dinners, phone calls when we’re apart, and how all the people I most love bring out different sides of me that make me more who I am.

Leigh: “Our Song” I heard it in my family’s minivan on the radio when I was in around second grade. I told my family this was a singer we would all like...I loved TS from the beginning! Now, this song ALWAYS makes me happy. I love turning it on in the car when the weather gets warm and you can have the windows down. When I was a young kid, it made me idealize being 16, and now it has a timeless ability to brighten the mood of any moment and reminds me to find the dreaminess in any situation.

“I’m Only Me When I’m With You” This song never loses that feeling of young summers with your friends. It reminds me of summer concerts in my town’s park and running through the grass with my friends until it got dark out. There’s such a sense of freedom in long summer days and having so much energy, creativity, and imagination. This song title was definitely an Instagram caption from 13-year-old me and I don’t regret it. What a sweet song of just having fun and making the most of summer days.

“The Best Day” Listening to “The Best Day,” I am skipping school with my dad to drive to Alice’s Restaurant and eat pancakes with sunny side up eggs. I am with my mom driving to Carmel, past the garlic capital of the world and the place where sand blows over the road. I am at the picnic table at San Gregorio, eating sandwiches from the country store, walking up onto the bluffs or down by the sea peeking in caves. For me this song will always taste like ripe raspberries and maple syrup, and will always feel like arriving home tired after a day in the sun; it is all the geography of home that is equally a map of love. “Fifteen” I can’t listen to “Fifteen” without picturing my crumbling concrete high school–seeing myself walking in for the first time, jittery and scared but also feeling so much anticipation for the experiences I would have and the person I’d become. Like Taylor and Abigail, I sat beside two girls in class, and soon enough they were my best friends. We made mistakes and cried, wished to be older and then regretted that longing once we were, laughed on the bus and swore we’d be out of here as soon as we could. When I look back at the person I was walking into high school that first day, part of me feels sad for her—so much of the hurt and pain she will feel in her life, she can’t imagine yet. Equally, though, I feel so much gratitude and tenderness for her. I didn’t know who I was supposed to be, but I knew my own heart enough to love my friends, to know on some “22” My 22nd birthday did not feel like “22.” I didn’t dance in crowded rooms and I definitely didn’t fall in love with strangers. Mid-pandemic, I sat on the couch in my childhood home with two close friends–one who I met in high school, the other freshman year of college– who’d gotten tested so we could spend the weekend together. Despite the difference in circumstances, though, 3 minutes and 50 seconds before midnight when my birthday would officially start, we put on “22.” We swayed and laughed, the two of them hugging me between them. In the morning, we packed beer and sandwiches and drove through a redwood forest and past small towns to my favorite part of the coast, where our shoes were nearly swept away by the sea. Later, my oldest friend from childhood came over and the four of us ate dinner in the backyard and talked until the sky grew dark. I wouldn’t say I felt completely free, or even completely happy (although something close), but despite months of isolation and the loss inherent to this time, I didn’t feel lonely at all. 62

“Tied Together with a Smile” I think when Taylor wrote this, MySpace was about the only social media around, so this was more about someone putting on a real life facade...but as I listen to it now, I think it mirrors or foreshadows the illusion that is Instagram. After years of being on social media, people are now reflecting a lot on how the way most people use it paints a rosy picture that makes followers think their life is worse than other people’s. Even though most of us know at this point that social media is deceiving us, I don’t think it stops those negative feelings from coming.

—My dad always sings this to me when I complain. He got a lot of use out of it when I was actually 15. I think this song kind of always applies, though, and follows me...the older I get, I always look at previous years with this mindset… You think you understand what’s going on, like when Taylor sings, “feelin’ like there’s nothing to figure out,” but you look back a couple years later and can’t believe how much you didn’t know at that point. It’s how you know you’re growing up!

“A Place in this World” Time at home during the pandemic caused a lot of reflection and assessment of what brings fulfillment/ joy to my life as well as what kind of work is helpful to the world. Also, I’m halfway through college and starting to make plans for after school...I never felt such confusion about my path in life until this age. School, then four years of college...everything was sort of mapped out when I was younger. Now I’m at the point of picking my own direction/goals/hopes, and this song has really started to speak to me! 63

“Red” I’ve been thinking about Taylor’s different eras. Young and still purely country on Fearless, cynical and selfrighteous on Reputation. I love quarantine-era Taylor especially, how her albums seem to contain some of the best of each past moment; a little country, some pop that I can dance to, a sprinkle of indie, all buoyed by the storytelling that has always been a touchstone in her music. When I listen to Red, it feels to me like an album of Taylor coming into herself. Some songs like “Begin Again” and “All Too Well” feel transcendent and assured, while others like “I Knew You Were Trouble” and “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together” seem to come with the growing pains of trying to be someone else or do something new but not yet being wholly sure of your footing. For the past couple of years, I’ve dyed my hair red, so I joke sometimes that I’m in my red era, too. Sometimes I’m confident and assured, and I know exactly how to articulate my own feelings and what I want. Other times my voice quavers or I lose the thread halfway through, or I spin through the kitchen then suddenly become self conscious and stop. Still, I can relish the music of this moment. “Never Grow Up” Each birthday comes with a sense of anticipation, but also a sense of loss. If I close my eyes, I can be back in my bedroom, hearing the sounds of my parents talking in the kitchen. Only it isn’t my bedroom anymore, but my childhood room where now I am a visitor. When I listen to “Never Grow Up,” I think of the versions of myself I’ve been and phases of my life past, but I am reminded also to take in the sounds and smells of my life at this moment, not to take for granted even what seems at the time mundane. Here I am in my first apartment, the air smelling of vanilla and baking cake. Two of my best friends in the world are laughing in the kitchen, and in a minute I’ll get up and join them. This, too, is home. Let me hold onto this, in memory, yes, but also as I live it, knowing we’ll all soon be older and on to the next place.

“Last Kiss” We never thought we’d be looking back at socializing as a thing of the past...I never thought the last party I went to in March 2020 would be a “last.” This song mirrors the abrupt change the pandemic brought, and being haunted by a lack of closure, or a change you never saw coming. It reminds me of leaving without saying goodbye to so many of my friends and not knowing the last time I saw them would be the last time for half a year! Just like Taylor says, “Never thought we’d have a last…” “Long Live” I sort of tie this in as a sequel to “I’m Only Me When I’m With You.” That song transports me back to late middle school/early teen years of just running around and never getting tired or bored with my friends. “Long Live” of course brings the nostalgia for high school, so it immortalizes the magic of being at such a special but short time of your life. Now it has a second meaning for me–sort of the partner to “Last Kiss” as a reflection on the period of time before the pandemic. Now, things are coming to an end, or perhaps already ended, faster than we anticipated–for the class of 2020 who lost the end of their senior year, the class of 2021 who lost their whole last year, and all of us who have had to accept that some parts of our life are a thing of the past. Those nights out late with my friends (hopefully they’ll return soon, though some friends will be gone by then) that ended with starry walks through campus–they have a magic associated with them now. Long live those nights! “Innocent” The more years you live, the more mistakes you make, and the more perspective you gain to reflect on things from your past that you wish you did differently. The early months of lockdown provided such a long, quiet, reflective time to sort of process the end of my teens and what college had been like so far, and that left a lot of room to be critical. It’s the sort of feeling where you know you’re young, you’re supposed to mess up and not know things, and you haven’t done anything majorly terrible, but you’ve still taken some missteps. This song reminded me to give myself grace while reflecting during the long days of isolation.vw

small town gothic by Sarah Bastos art by Chloe Wayne

All of the houses look the same with their manicured lawns, picket white fences, and leftover holiday decorations. You don’t remember when the next-door neighbors moved out. Or when the new neighbors began living there. Every Friday night, there’s a party in someone’s basement. No one knows who’s throwing it. You don’t remember how you ended up taking shots of cheap vodka while some shitty pop song from the 2010s played in the background. You drink to forget, but you can’t put a name on what precisely it is you want to forget. You and your friends go out on a 3 AM car ride to escape the confines of this subdivision. It’s been 20 minutes. You’re back at where you started. Your parents work in the city. You don’t know what their jobs are. You doubt they even know what they do. Everything is supposed to be ok. Whatever that means. No one knows about what goes on at home. You drink to forget. You hoard pills from your parent’s medicine cabinet to feel. You want to feel something real. There are rumors about what happened to that freshman girl at that party last night. No one has seen her since then. You wonder if she was even real.w

by Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe

An Eye Out for Ladybugs by Quinn Theobald art by Belle McDonald As far as I can remember, there were three reasons why Gran called her garden a faerie garden. Firstly, she grew carrots and zinnias. She said that there were no plants more faerie than carrots and zinnias. The zinnias were a bright, almost painful purple. It was my favorite color as a kid. Grandma purple. In second grade, my best friend Tom informed me that it was a girly color and that I had to pick a new one. I didn’t listen to him–a rare occurrence in my young life. Tom was the smartest and the leader and the only one who had already had two girlfriends. Yet I stuck with the zinnias. Gran assured me it was a very magical color. As for carrots, they were rain food and Saturday morning food. Those were Gran’s favorite times. Faeries’ favorite, too. Secondly, there was this little brick house in the middle of the garden, about four feet tall. I was small enough to fit inside, but Gran had to crawl on her hands and knees to get in. It was my favorite spot to hide away or escape my parents. The ceiling was covered in cobwebs, and there was a little hidey-hole behind some loose bricks where I would hide books and jelly sandwiches. I showed it to Tom once when he came over to my Gran’s for a playdate. He didn’t think much of the garden, but he liked the house. “We could turn this into a fort,” he said to me. “Knock out some of the bricks and stick muskets out in every direction.” He made shooting motions with his fingers and grinned at me, a large gap between his incisors. We never did that. Tom often forgot his plans, and I was relieved when he didn’t bring that one up again. Gran said the house was built by faeries long ago. Normally I would have been skeptical, but I did feel some strange stirring inside the house. Some wayward magic left behind. Plus, it was real small, and kids couldn’t construct a whole brick house like that. It even had two rooms! At first, I thought the second room was a study, like my Pa’s study that sat at the top of the stairs. Gran said it used to be the toilet. Thirdly, the garden was a faerie garden because it had the occasional glasswing butterfly. I knew because I looked it up in a book. There were monarch butterflies in the garden in front of Tom’s house, 68

fluttering from tulip to tulip. But I had never once seen a glasswing there. I wondered if glasswings were faeries in disguise, coming back to get a glimpse of their old home. In my clearest memory of the garden, it was summer–I don’t remember which year. I was seven, or eight, or maybe nine. I know it was summer because my parents let me go out to Gran’s every day. They would never do that if school was on. There was a hammock in the garden. It was yellow because Gran said yellow went well with the zinnias. I remember lying in it, staring over the faerie garden like a conqueror. It was hot, but Gran always laid out sheets of ice cubes when I came over, and I had one on my tongue, melting into lemony liquid in my mouth. I must have known by then that she was selling the house. My parents certainly talked about it in that study at the top of the stairs. But it didn’t seem dire enough for my attention. Or I had forgotten. It’s hard to remember why things like that didn’t bother you at the time. Gran came into the yard, and her pants had grass stains on them. At least, that’s how I always remember her. She squinted at the sky because it had voluptuous and angry clouds. But it was hot enough that no one would mind getting a little rained on. Besides, then we would get to eat some of her fresh carrots. We always ate carrots when it rained. “How are you doing, Willie?” she asked. No one else called me that. To Mother I was Will, to Pa I was a strict William, and Tom and the others at school called me Teddy. I didn’t answer because I had an ice cube on my tongue, and I slurped noisily so that she knew. “They must be angry with me,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Who?” I asked. Gran smiled at me, that mischievous hidden smile of hers. “Oh, Willie,” she said, “Who else would be angry with me?” She came by the hammock and sat down, depressing the yellow cloth. I slurped my ice cube. Gran looked down at me with her smile. She had beautiful eyes. They were bright blue and startling, like a chip of smuggled ice or the bottom of a clear

pool. Things always seemed more full of color at Gran’s house. Maybe that was part of why I loved going there so much. “This is the end of it,” she said with a sigh. End of what? I wondered. But I didn’t ask. With Gran, you just had to wait for answers. As my mother put it: patience is a virtue. As Gran put it: patience is an art. (I asked her once what she meant by that. She said, “You ever try painting a canvas with patience, Willie?” I said no. She chuckled to herself and said, “Try it.” So I did. After about two and a half hours of staring at the white sheet, a bird flew by and plopped its droppings on it. I went in to tell Gran the painting was ruined, and she hung it above the mantelpiece.)

scattering across my face. Gran looked up at the sky. I wasn’t sad yet, not then, but I could tell Gran was. It was strange because I’d never seen her sad. She told me once she had a spat with Sadness, and he was banned from the house. “They’re not angry with you, Gran,” I said. I felt droplets splatter on my bare arms. I cast about for something reassuring to say, something to prove to her that nobody was angry. Gran once confided in me that partings were her favorite part in books. She liked when people realized they were losing something they never knew they had. You always see things clearly over your shoulder. Her words, not mine. “They’re saying goodbye,” I said.

“Gran said the house was built by faeries long ago. Normally I would have been skeptical, but I did feel some strange stirring inside the house. Some wayward magic left behind.” “I’m gonna miss this old faerie garden,” she said, her eyes roving over the carrot stalks and zinnias. “What do you say we take a piece with us? Keep a zinnia to remind us of this place?” I thought about this, and then I shook my head. I can’t recall why. “Hmm. No, you’re right,” said Gran, shaking her head. “It wouldn’t be right to.” She was silent for a moment. I swallowed the rest of my ice, melted to a puddle in my mouth. “We can come back,” I offered. I know now it was a foolish thing to say, but the realization that we would never see the place again had not hit me. But Gran didn’t think it was silly. That was the thing about Gran. While most adults dismissed me out of hand, Gran always stopped to think. It wasn’t because she was daft. Gran liked to keep an open mind. She said ideas were like ladybugs. They’re all around if you keep your eye out – but it’s easy to focus straight ahead and let them all fly by. “Okay,” Gran said at length. “We’ll come back.” I’m convinced she meant it, too. If she had lived long enough, the two of us would have been creeping through this stranger’s yard, hiding in the small brick faerie house. She wasn’t that old as grandmas go, and she wasn’t scared of anything. It started to rain. It wasn’t a lot, but the drops that did fall were huge. One plopped on my forehead,

Gran smiled at that. She turned her face up toward the sky and let those big droplets fall on her cheeks and on her chin and above her bushy eyebrows. Her arms were outstretched, like a scarecrow. Or like that moment just before a hug. After a minute, I stood up off the hammock. I went next to her, my head reaching just below her shoulder. Then I threw my arms wide and closed my eyes, lifting my face toward those tearful clouds. Goodbye, clouds, I thought. I stuck out my tongue to see if I could catch any droplets in my mouth. That moment is so vivid in my memory, even when the faerie garden itself has begun to fade into the past. But that moment, I know I’ll never forget: droplets hitting my face and arms like water balloons, my tongue sticking out, my senses alert to hear if the clouds or any other creature or presence in the air that day would answer me. I didn’t want to let any ladybugs fly by. When I finally opened my eyes, I looked at Gran. Her hair was plastered to her forehead. Her clothes were wet, too, and sticking to her skin. I’m sure I was just as soaked. It reminded me of when Tom had us play Wax Museum in the middle of a storm. “Help me pick carrots?” Gran asked. I nodded. The two of us walked into the faerie garden, the ground muddy and slick beneath our feet. I dug my hands into the mud, relishing the feeling between fingers as 69

I tugged on a root. We took as many as we could carry in our arms. Usually we didn’t disturb so many, but I suppose it was a going-away present. We headed to the house, our arms muddy to the elbows and our shirts soaked against our bodies. I don’t remember feeling any discomfort – I know Gran never did. She didn’t believe in discomfort. I don’t even remember eating the carrots. All I can recall is that moment with my head held high and rain splattering my face and Gran’s. It’s my favorite memory of Gran. I wonder if that was her favorite memory of me, too. She always had a favorite. She thought everyone ought to have a favorite of everything. A favorite food, a favorite movie. A favorite feeling. My favorite is remembering, if that counts. No one remembers Gran much nowadays. My little sister hadn’t learned to speak before Gran passed. And Pa’s lost a lot of his memories in the last few years. Sometimes he sits in his study at the top of the stairs, talking to my mother as if she’s still in the room. Maybe she is. I remember Gran every time I see a ladybug crawling across my window at my office. Her face is hazy; so is the garden and that little brick house. I

missed it painfully for a while. A piece of my childhood torn away. Sometimes I wonder if the faerie garden is still there. Is that yard still filled with gaudy purple zinnias? Or did someone tear them up to plant rose bushes? Or maybe the weeds and bracken crawled their way in and overgrew it. I mentioned it to Tom once when I bumped into him at a gas station (of all places). I almost didn’t recognise him, even though we had seen each other at the high school reunion. He didn’t remember the brick house. I didn’t bother asking if he remembered his plan with the muskets. I try not to forget Gran. But I’ll be honest, I forget sometimes too. It was a long time ago, and I didn’t know her very long in the grand scheme of life. I was too young then to really understand that it was the end. Too young to be sad at her funeral. Although I did refuse to look in the casket – Pa was annoyed at me, but I’m glad I did that. I like Gran better the way I remember her. I have a feeling the funeral directors forgot to put grass stains on her pants. But even if I forget her sometimes, I know Gran wouldn’t be mad at me. She knows I’m looking at her over my shoulder. And, in part, she’s still here with me in the little drawer in my fridge. It’s full of carrots – for Saturday mornings and when it rains.w

Your Body is a Funhouse by Sofia Paredes by Belle McDonald

Going to the carnival funhouse as a kid was fun. Seeing yourself stretched thin, wide, short, fat… You would point at your friends’ reflections and laugh at them until your stomach hurt. When you’d leave the funhouse, you’d go back to your normal perception of yourself as if nothing had happened. As I grow older, though, it has become impossible to leave the funhouse and go back to reality. Living with body dysmorphia is like living in a room of funhouse mirrors. Every single look in the mirror has you thinking, “Did I look like this last week? Yesterday? Thirty minutes ago?” You spend hours pinpointing every insecurity, only to look at the same spot a minute later and say, “Oh, I don’t look that bad.” It’s thinking to yourself, “I look kind of skinny today,” and then wondering, “Is this a skinny mirror?” And even though there is no inherent value in being skinny, when you live in a society that lauds thinness as the ultimate accomplishment, it’s hard not to judge yourself by those standards. It’s not trusting your perception of your own body, the space where all your thoughts and actions arise from. And this goes beyond the physical appearance. It obstructs your entire view of yourself, and leaves you in a state of perpetual confusion. If you don’t know what you look like, how will you navigate the rest of your identity?

“...in a society where physical beauty is seen as being of utmost importance, where you’re judged based on how thin you can be, it’s impossible to separate your self-perception from your appearance.” We try to tell ourselves that our self-worth isn’t tied to our appearance—that what matters is what’s on the inside, what you stand for. But in a society where physical beauty is seen as being of utmost importance, where you’re judged based on how thin you can be, it’s impossible to separate your self-perception from your appearance.

As a kid, I loved the funhouses. The constant changing shapes, the exciting patterns throughout, always something new to see… But now, with my dazed perception of my body, after every new diet and weight fluctuation and crying over the glimpse I caught of myself in the mirror that day, I begin to wonder… will I ever leave this funhouse?w

Oceanside poem and image by Havi Rojer

she moves long, light fingers with careful motions and creates little circles on the beach. her nails are very short and the sand waits patiently to crawl beneath them. the sea whispers to us with the scent of midnight moon. it knows we share no blood, yet we are sisters. i speak, and my words are as soft as the ocean bed. i address them to her tumbled hair, to the dying daffodils resting on her back. “are you awake? there’s a beetle on your arm.” she meets my eyes with her lidded ones. she curls her toes into the old, wet sand. she sighs, “waking up is so difficult. why do you always try to wake me up?”w

Freak Show by Sophie Torres art by Chloe Wayne The Freak Show is just a large, red and white striped tent in the middle of… well, nowhere really. It’s discreet. No posters will appear in your city announcing its presence. In fact, you get the sense that everybody keeps it “hush-hush.” So, of course, it’s all the more enticing. There is a sense of seduction lingering about the tent that seems to draw you inside; it’s strong and powerful and you feel as though your body is quite literally being sucked into the entrance. You can’t help but give in, so you inch your way inside, brushing past the flaps of the tent’s entrance. Your eyes go wide as you take in the whole new world before you… Come one, come all! See the wonders of the freak show for yourself! There’s an act for everybody, every member of the family, just drop your singles at the door in exchange for a ticket and walk right in— we’ve got nearly any and every act you can think of! Prepare to be amazed and let your drawers—er, I mean jaws—drop. Our freak show shines a spotlight on the beautiful horrors that you don’t see or hear about every day in your mundane little worlds. And trust me, folks, when I say we have all of that and more. Just to warm you all up before you’re shoved against the wall, metaphorically, of course, we do this show because society only sanctions the vanilla; as of now, only the ‘idea’ of sex is accepted. Desire. Intimacy. Fantasy. Eccentricity. They all remain foreign concepts. Why don’t I take a step back and say… maybe don’t buy your kids a ticket because this show is an X-rated event. So, step right up! And walk right through here…let us show you how we put the “freak” in freak show.

the exhibitions of the show’s various performers. All you see is rainbow. Red LED lights on the ceiling, orange dildos, yellow and green vibrators, blue lingerie and purple edible underwear. Rainbow stripes everywhere, and it isn’t just from the circus decor. What catches your eye next is two women, one on top of the other, legs intertwined and rocking against each other like waves of the ocean, if the ocean could moan. And what’s this?! You hear a loud grunt to your left, so you turn your head slightly and see a man down on his knees in a tabletop position in front of a woman who is sending him forward with thrusts of pleasure. Next, you see two men on a couch together, doing seemingly very un-couchly things, and you are unable to tell where one man’s body ends and the other begins. Lastly, you arrive at The Train Station: a group of three, two men and a woman, lined up like train cars in that order, all physically connected to

Pride and Promiscuity You’re immediately thrust forward and invited to watch 73

each other and moving in a way not unlike that of a Newton’s Cradle. The Dominator and His Toy Ushered to the next act, the mood of the room immediately transitions. It’s a bit darker and more mysterious. Black floors, black walls, black furniture, red lights, the delicious horror of it all is oh-so enticing. The Dominator and His Toy. You jump the moment you hear the crack of a whip, and you see a shirtless man wearing black dress pants pacing around a woman scantily clad in red lace lingerie and chained to a bondage wall. The man pulls a slender riding crop off the wall and traces it along the small peaks of the woman’s chest, sending shivers throughout her whole body and making her lightly bite her lip. Then he cracks down on one of the peaks, sending a sharp pain through the flesh and causing her to pull against her chains. But, then you hear her… “More, Master. Please.” The tension between them is sexy yet strong, romantic but rough. The constant push and pull between pleasure and pain, that is a select few’s fantasy. Bottoms Up The next act is in the rear. Of the tent, I mean. You see a woman on her hands and knees, back arched

over the edge, the ride suddenly… STOPS! Shut down. Turned off. She is completely at her partner’s will; the only way the ride can get going again is if he turns it back on and let’s her follow the wave down. Bodies in Bulk As your tour continues on to the next act, you see the tour ahead of you doing something quite a bit different than your own. It’s Bodies in Bulk. The ringmaster sees you gawking and chuckles, “Audience participation is encouraged but not required.” There are almost too many appendages to focus on, all of them intertwined and engaged. Like a framed and illustrated Roman orgy come to life before your eyes, a party fit for Cupid and Dionysius. Alright, folks, we’ve just come—to the end of our little show that is. And we do hope you’ve enjoyed your time here and that you’ve received as much as you gave to us. All types of sex are normal and legitimate, because we are all human, and sex is real. Sex is about fulfillment and it should be normal to talk with and hear about sex from partners and friends and to feel that one’s own desires are neither normal nor abnormal, but rather one or some of a multitude of preferences. Sex is everywhere! Including here at the freak show, where you were able to feast your sexy little eyes on our amazing wonders and sights of

“Our freak show shines a spotlight on the beautiful horrors that you don’t see or hear about every day in your mundane little worlds. And trust me, folks, when I say we have all of that and more.” so her bottom is raised slightly higher than the rest of her body. The man utilizes her unconventional entrance to induce feelings of pure, tight bliss as she is brought to climax from the immense sensation of fullness. Don’t worry, folks, the tables will turn soon enough. You look back at the couple and witness them intentionally drowning their goodies with lube. After all, nobody likes a dry salad. The Beggar Moving on with permission from the Ringmaster… you’re brought to The Beggar. Similar to the experience on the top of a roller coaster, you see, and hear the screams of, a woman just before climax. She begs her partner to allow her to begin her intense journey, but just after the big hump and just before she goes 74

all kinds. This show, like your usual freak show, was meant to showcase the unconventional so that it may become more normalized through exposure. You’ve just witnessed the sexual empowerment movement, the show of a lifetime, the presentation of your dreams! And you were lucky enough to have a ticket for it, live and in-person. The ringmaster shuffles you along towards the exit as you realize there are still tents full of more kinky, freakish marvels [than your textbook heterosexual missionary under the covers] left to explore. With a sly wink and a crocodile smile, they say, “Now you really didn’t think I would bear it all for just a couple dollars? You know the saying: always leave them wanting more.”w

The Act by Jean Cambareri

The metal bar squeezes hard against my chest Our thighs are touching The air is crisp A night in early May I should feel careless and free, like all the smiling faces below us Suddenly, the metal is moving beneath our legs The May air whips around us All of the lights and faces quickly blur And I’m suddenly disconnected from my body Disconnected from the act I’m everywhere and nowhere Suspended in space with you Your hand brushes against my knee Why are you looking at me like that? Don’t you know other people could see? Aren’t you afraid they’ll read our minds? Stuck on this ride It turns faster and faster Compressing us into something we were not before I wish I hadn’t pretended to be someone I’m not Pretended that I’m just like the blurs of smiling faces that surround us as we spin in the night Slower and slower now Until the blurs come back to life We are no longer suspended The act resumes I think I’m gonna be sick And my eyes follow your battered converse As they step off the ridew

One Promised Happy Day by Emma Bernstein art by Belle McDonald

Even if you’ve never been, even if you grew up in the claustrophobic crush of a city where no one knows their neighbors’ names, a corner of your memory is reserved just for the idea of it: a once-in-a-blue moon occasion; the trample of boots in an open field; deep-fried everything and popcorn so salty it scorches your tongue; the sky swing; muddy Converse flung against a blank sky; the old wooden roller-coaster that lurches under you so that you feel your stomach drop–but afterwards, breathless, you grab your friend or cousin by the hand and run again to the back of the line, your heart thumping to the tune of “just once more” until the sky deepens its hue and fireworks rain, kaleidoscopic, over the town you’ve known all your life. Yeah, you remember the county fair. You remember the heat of it, the sweat slick on the back of your neck. Most of all, you remember watching the painted trailers barreling down the highway in late summer, bearing with them the small-time miracle of one promised happy day amid all the boredoms and injustices of your long childhood. Like a birthday or a New Years Eve, except that the fair is not marked on the calendar; appearing suddenly from nothing and nowhere, it is unmarred by expectation. Maybe the county fair is not even a county fair. Maybe it is the first truly hot day of spring, after a long winter, when you and your friends ditch school 76

to eat cherries on the beach in Pescadero and gather sea salt in the backs of your knees. Maybe it is the morning you and your brother sit in the bed of an old pickup, groggy before dawn, and watch a thousand hot air balloons billow up from the bluegreen field and out over the Sandias. Or it is a night that starts slow, just you and a few people that you wish you knew better trading anecdotes over shitty wine coolers, but gathers steam by your shared will to feel something worth remembering; someone plays that song, and even though it is silly and earnest, you have all decided to lean into this moment, so you lie on your backs on your new friend’s blue rooftop, or on the asphalt of your high school’s parking lot, or under a peeling swing set and a sky full of stars, and you sing along and let yourself love these people lying next to you and this night, which is nothing except what you make of it. The summer ends. The carnival heads on to another town, leaving behind a bellyache and crushed grass on the fairground. School starts again. Still, you remember how it felt, how you let yourself get caught up in the wonder of bare legs and funnel cake. The county fair is not always a county fair, and if you try, if you can forgive the absence of a ferris wheel or a big top tent; you can make a carnival of any day. Listen: those could be trumpets and bells in the distance. Let’s watch the road for painted trailers, and let’s make our own joy while we wait.w

Love Letter to the Strawberry Queen by Evelyn Kennedy Jaffe art by Havi Rojer

Dear Strawberry Queen, The first time I met you I was about five years old. You towered above me on a beautiful plinth covered with vines, strawberries, and leaves, and you were wearing the most beautiful white dress I had ever seen. Draped across you was a sash proclaiming you the queen. There was no doubt in my mind that if you were the queen, I was the peasant. My mouth was stained from the strawberries I had been devouring like mad, and my walk was wobbly from my time spinning in the strawberry-shaped teacup ride. Eyes wide, knees muddy. I wanted to be you, Strawberry Queen—as I got older, some of my friends waited for their annual shot to be honored as the town’s queen, the taster of the strawberry shortcake, the larger-than-life angel floating above the crowd—just out of reach. I tried hard to be you, Strawberry Queen. I wore a red dress for my prom. I walked in heels. It all fit beautifully, but it felt wrong, like I was wearing someone else’s skin. I saw you year after year. I couldn’t imagine smiling in your dress. It’s past the point of possible, your highness. I’m too old now, and your shoes are too pointy for me to fill. I’ll remember your glow, but I’ve learned I can’t glow like that. I’ll dedicate every strawberry-stained kiss to you. Love, Evelynw

What We Lost When We Lost Carnival by Megan Rochlin

“Like a birthday or a New Years Eve, except that the fair is not marked on the calendar; appearing suddenly from nothing and nowhere, it is unmarred by expectation.”

out over the Sandias. Or it is a night that starts slow, just you and a few people that you wish you knew better trading anecdotes over shitty wine coolers, but gathers steam by your shared will to feel something worth remembering; someone plays that song, and even though it is silly and earnest, you have all decided to lean into this moment, so you lie on your backs on your new friend’s blue rooftop, or on the asphalt of your high school’s parking lot, or under a peeling swing set and a sky full of stars, and you sing along and let yourself love these people lying next to you and this night, which is nothing except what you make of it. The summer ends. The carnival heads on to another town, leaving behind a bellyache and crushed grass on the fairground. School starts again. Still, you remember how it felt, how you let yourself get caught up in the wonder of bare legs and funnel cake. The county fair is not always a county fair, and if you try, if you can forgive the absence of a ferris wheel or a big top tent; you can make a carnival of any day. Listen: those could be trumpets and bells in the distance. Let’s watch the road for painted trailers, and let’s make our own joy while we wait.w

by Belle McDonald

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