LIBERTAS
Wasteland / Wonderland
v ol . 26, n o. 4
SATREBIL Editorial Staff EDITORS IN CHIEF Raven Hudson Maddy Page
ART EDITORS
WRITING EDITORS
Emily Hoke
Ben Caldwell
Hannah Lee
Jayleen Jaime
Isaac Scharbach
Emelyn Schaeffer Katie Walsh
Dear Readers, With this issue, we wanted to celebrate the good, the bad, and everything in-between. To draw attention to contradictions as well as extremes. Even in the most barren landscape, there is often life; and even paradise can be full of hidden hells (shoutout to those who have seen season four of The Good Place). The dichotomy of Wasteland/Wonderland, then, is not as clear-cut as we’re led to believe. Although all of our issues are varied, this theme runs the gamut, lending itself to ambivalence and to gut reactions. Caroline Webster’s poem “Applebee’s Summer” reveals the ways in which the wonderland of our childhood homes can embody both imperfection and nostalgia. Rebecca Cobo’s still-life and Paul Stouffer’s photography offer two different, strangely beautiful portraits of wasteland (or wonderland?). Julia Tayloe’s review of Birds of Prey urges us to demand more from cinema, even when they are set in fantasy worlds. Finally, our Last Word looks to the future and the impending 2020 presidential elections... Wastelands can be desolate and gray, but once everything of value is gone, we can build anew. Meanwhile, wonderlands are often full of bright colors, whimsy, and iced pastries that read “Eat me;” but, of course, if you ask Alice, a wonderland is just as likely to be a surrealist, LSD-induced nightmare. As you read this issue, we hope you find a new world within our pages. Sweet dreams, Maddy Page and Raven Hudson
Libertas belongs to the students of Davidson College. Contact the editors at libertas@davidson.edu.
LIBERTAS February 2020 WRITING
ART
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The Night I Met Owen Ashworth Woody Moore
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The Illusion of Definite Times Gianna Colombo
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4 5 6 7 8
La Puerta de Entrada Carlina Green To Be the Other Lily Mccalla Applebee’s Summer Caroline Webster Wasted. Hannah Lee Oh, Fuck: A Review of Birds of Prey Julia Tayloe
9 11 12 13 14
Georgia and Cowboy Landin Eldridge Photograph Paul Stouffer Untitled Landin Eldridge Oedipus Landin Eldridge Untitled/Raindrops on Roses Lily Mccalla Ernest Wishes Rebecca Cobo Untitled Helen Sturm Untitled Paul Stouffer Meg’s Circle 8.4.19/AMPHaus 8.2.19 Various Artists Glass, Stems, and Bones Rebecca Cobo, Joyride Basil Wiering
Cover: Communion Landin Eldridge
special thanks to... Faculty Advisors: Zoran Kuzmanovich, Paul Miller (emeritus), Scott Denham (emeritus), Ann Fox (emeritus) Previous Editors: Alyssa Glover, Samantha Gowing, Meg Mendenhall, Michael DeSimone, Jordan Luebkemann, Will Reese, Emily Romeyn, Vincent Weir, Mike Scarbo, Vic Brand, Ann Culp, Erin Smith, Scott Geiger, James Everett, Lamar Clarkson, Andrew Haupt, Jimmy Newtin, Catherine Walker, Elizabeth Burkhead, Chris Cantanese, Kate Wiseman, Lila Allen, Jessica Malordy, Nina Hawley, Kate Kelly, Zoe Balaconis, Rebecca Hawk, and Hannah Wright Founder: Zac Lacy
The Night I Met Owen Ashworth Woody Moore
At the time, I thought There was nothing left to say About the moon. Keep in mind, I was sleeping On an air mattress. An air mattress was all I had To come home to. You were gone, So a friend came to stay with me. A hospital friend. I was nostalgic for that place. Maybe I missed being taken care of. Maybe I was remembering wrong. Memories are words That mean a something different Every time they are transcribed. We got off in Adams Morgan And had to walk across a bridge With no water under it. Metaphors are bridges sometimes. I am too drunk.
Georgia and Cowboy by Landin Eldridge 4
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The room was like an imaginary chapel Where no one says a word, They just listen attentively And believe in damnation. A voice wove in and out Of the histories waiting in that room. The synths bled droplets of sound Into the air. The show didn’t last forever. When it was done, I waited for him. He said the dog on the album cover Belonged to his friend. He said he was more of a Cat person. Outside I smoked one of those Useless hemp cigarettes That my friend bought Just for the ritual, And I watched as people Lined up to be made strange In her light. We missed the last metro. The moon looked like everything.
Photograph
by Paul Stouffer
the illusion of DEFINITE TIMES Gianna Colombo
Definition: The exact statement or description of the nature, scope, or meaning of something. 1. The definition of what constitutes an entity or life in general is elusive to even the greatest of philosophers. Why should I trust just another interpretation by one individual with only their experiences? We do not share the same life. They did not raise me as my mother did. Who says your words are better than mine?
2. Words never had true inherent meaning until at one point we all agreed they did. A certain collection of syllables in one language is gibberish in another. Sensible syllables only appear sensible to the trained ear, Syllables that were born without meaning until we gave it. Just as well, we were not born into this world with meaning just our ability to make it. 3. Why do we rush to define what we feel? Time feels blurry and sleepy— it’s a dream filled folly. I see my future through past tears and the words we shared. Salt-filled waters flood each year. Try not to focus on them right now. Don’t focus their meaning The time will come for dreams and tears. Right now is time for being.
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d e a entr t r e u a p da a L Carlina Green
Untitled Landin Eldridge
“El acto delicado de girar el picaporte, ese acto por el cual todo podría transformarse, se cumple con la fría eficacia de un reflejo cotidiano.” –Julio Cortázar “Yo no soy tu mamá,” Marina de los Santos Cabrera le dijo a su esposo, mirando deliberadamente al calcetín sucio que él había dejado en el centro del piso de la habitación. Después agregó, “Pensándolo bien, ni que fuera tu mamá, recogería esa cosa que tan desconsideradamente dejaste allí. No quiero perpetuar la idea errónea que el juntar tus cosas cae bajo el mundo amplio y deprimente de responsabilidad maternal. Deberías saber lo que haces, chiquitín. Que yo sepa, tenés más de tres años de edad.” Marina suspiró afligidamente. “Cuando yo estaba estudiando, a veces me preguntaba si era lesbiana. Debería haber prestado más atención a esa sospecha: qué linda vida podría haber tenido. ¡Te imaginas!” Marina agitó la cabeza enfáticamente, y sus rizos rebotaron como muelles. En un par de años, tendría que teñirlos a fuerzas para cubrir las canas que le comenzarían a aparecer, pero a la edad de 30 años, aún teñía su cabello por elección y no por necesidad. “Perdón, no soy suficientemente Jesús para soportar esta cruz. Mejor me voy, cariño.” Abrió el armario y sacó de detrás de unas cajas de cartón un maletín elegante, cubierto de polvo, sugiriendo un plan previo hecho, resuelto y abandonado un par de veces. Ahora lo retomó con una venganza. “Chau chau.” Le aventó un beso y salió del cuarto en una nube de perfume y después por la puerta de entrada, tarareando el coro de “Libre soy” de la película Frozen. A 15 kilómetros de allí, Belén Montoya Sánchez se sentaba, encorvada sobre su cuaderno, escribiendo. La mano izquierda recorría su cabello castaño mientras la mano derecha formaba las letras con toda la velocidad del conejo blanco de Alicia en el país de las maravillas. Su ceño fruncido arrugó su por demás lisa tez. En sus 26 años de vida, nunca había tenido un golpe de inspi6
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ración tan súbito y exigente. “Instrucciones para el placer” había puesto de título, subrayándolo dos veces. La luz suave de la lámpara reflejaba en sus ojos e iluminaba su garabato apresurado. Se leía: Quitáte cualquier tipo de inseguridad corporal o sentimiento de culpabilidad por gozar las facultades físicas con las cuales Dios todo generoso te otorgó. Sacáte cualquier prenda de ropa que aprisione tu cuerpo y sentíte libre en el sol naciente. Ahora podés introducir un elemento de toque, sea de un pariente, un objeto o de tus propias manos, dejando que éste atraviese tu piel sin bordes. Algún día te vas a morir, esto es un hecho cierto e intocable. Pero ese día aún no ha llegado, entonces no desperdicies ni un momento en algo tan tonto como los detalles prácticos de la cotidianidad. Belén soltó la lapicera, dejándola caer al escritorio para sacudir y masajear su mano dolorida. Sólo necesitaba unos minutos más para poder terminar. Inclinó su cabeza hacia su hombro izquierdo, después el derecho, y finalmente al frente, estirando su columna. Entonces estaba lista para regresar a su mandato escrito. Enfocáte en ese contacto suave. Amá a tu cuerpo por producirte esos placeres que desaparecen con el pasaje de cada segundo, cada suspiro, cada gemido desatado que se junta a la sinfonía rodante de este universo tan loco, pero tan bello a la vez. Belén suspiró con satisfacción y se levantó de su silla. Mientras caminaba a la cocina, recordó aquel dulce otoño cuando hizo el amor por primera vez. Ella justo se había dado cuenta que le gustaban las mujeres cuando conoció la más bella. Belén estaba en tercer año de la secundaria y Marina en sexto. Mientras Belén era callada y soñadora, Marina era parlanchina. En
todo momento, Marina estaba rodeada de adoradoras. Pero un día cuando Belén había salido al baño y caminaba de regreso al aula, se topó con Marina a solas. Ella estaba fumando un cigarro, apoyándose en el balcón del segundo piso mirando hacia el patio. Volteó la cabeza cuando le escuchó a Belén acercarse. “¿Querés uno?” Dos meses después, se encontraron vagando por el bosque selvático. Marina tarareaba una chacarera mientras andaban entre los árboles musgosos. De vez en cuando, Belén se paraba para examinar una flor o un insecto. Cuando ya habían penetrado la jungla muy profunda, llegaron a un claro entre los árboles. Era la hora del crepúsculo y ya estaban saliendo las luciérnagas. Unos senderos serpentinos conducían hacia el centro, donde había una cama con baldaquino envuelta con telas de color lavanda. Parecía encantado el lugar, como si estuvieran en un sueño. Marina la tomó de la mano y la guio hacia la cama, empujándolo ligeramente hasta que estuvo recostada en el colchón. Tan suave era que Belén se hundía un poquito. Marina se quitó el solero que llevaba, y así en su ropa interior se subió encima del cuerpo ansioso de Belén. Simplemente le montó. El croar amable de las ranas cosquilleó a sus oídos mientras Marina se inclinaba hacia adelante para besarle. Sus labios se partieron ligeramente y Belén conoció su lengua curiosa. Sabía a frambuesa y un dejo de limón. Belén la envolvió en sus brazos, acercándosela a su pecho, esforzándose para contener su sonrisa para poder seguir besándola. Una neblina ascendió del suelo cálido, abrazándolas suavemente y dejando un rastro de rocío en la espalda de Marina, en
los brazos de Belén, en la cama que les apoyaba. De pronto apareció una corona de amapolas en la cabeza de Marina, como para reconocer su majestad. Belén, sorprendida, cerró los ojos, soltándole a Marina, los frotó para quitar la alucinación. Abriéndolos de nuevo, vio no más su cabello resplandeciente. Belén le pasó los dedos por su melena y después por sus hombros, así bajando su espalda con los puntos de sus dedos. Qué prometedora se veía la Marina, como un membrillo aún envuelto en su cáscara, esperando a que la pelara para llevarla a su boca. Así era la introducción de Belén a los placeres de la carne, y aunque habían pasado casi 12 años, de vez en cuando aún le cruzó la mente ese momento tan mágico como inesperado. Belén abrió la heladera y sacó la jarra de limonada. Vertiéndola en un vaso, Belén se preguntaba dónde se encontraría Marina en este momento. La imaginó en París, tomando un café en una mesita en la acera, viendo a los residentes elegantes mientras se pasaban con sus caniches presumidos por las calles angostas de la ciudad del amor. De pronto sonó el timbre, interrumpiendo su fantasía y casi haciéndola dejar caer su vaso de limonada. Lo dejó en el mostrador y se apuraba hacia la puerta de entrada. ¿Quién podría ser? Belén no anticipaba visitantes. Llegó a la puerta y la abrió curiosamente. Lo que vio momentáneamente la paralizó. Esa mujer rubia que se paraba en su umbral no era otra que Marina de los Santos Cabrera.
Landin Eldridge Oedipus
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To Be the Other I sit, and I listen. They talk about life as if it were a movie in which they have a main role. And I want to be like them. I want to be... interesting? But they are the candles illuminating the stained glass windows, and I am the hardened wax adorning the aging floors. They are the bold, blooming flowers of spring, and I am the leaves that fall from the tired trees of autumn. They are poetry, bending words to their will and making wreathes of the arrangements, and I am prose. The most beautiful thing I have ever written is a eulogy. I sit, and I listen. They talk about things I cannot understand. And I want to be like them. I want to be interesting. But I know I cannot pretend to live in the present when I’m still mourning the past, When I have not forgiven myself for all I didn’t say until it was too late, When I am a ghost trapped in a living, breathing body. It is a fool’s errand to pretend to be something other than you are. I am not like them. Maybe I never will be. Maybe that’s not the point.
writing and photography by
Lily McCalla top right: Untitled bottom left: Raindrops on Roses
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Applebee’s Summer
by Caroline Webster
I open a text “it feels like I either never left home or I’m never going back.” That’s the big empty West, or is it everywhere I’ve ever been, or is it the inside of this peculiar brown house, the green of which I so desperately cling to. I’d rather sit back against clapboard, my feet wrapped with weeds and tomatoes of the garden to scare away deer from sunup til late in the night, than live in the blanket-warm house: my parents argue their every inhalation— I don’t want that kind of pressure on my lungs. My brother lifeguards at the city pool— I don’t want that kind of sun on my neck. There’s a falling apart that happens to people and houses left silent. A cohort of ghosts shaking striped-wallpaper pipes,
Ernest Wishes
a ringing toilet that echoes in the ears. I curl up in dirt under the dining room window, darkened forest of mint encroaching on metal doors to the under home, nearby leaves of sickly basil easy to pinch at the stalk, peonies lolling heavy on their stems, heads down for the ants who crown them. There’s something nostalgic always in honeysuckle: elementary school’s wet wooden earth, creek racing tin foil boats, ground ivy bouquet, white clover wreath, my hair. Cilantro does not taste like soap: thirsty and spotted or fragrant and strong I will be a mother who grows her own herbs. Either I never left or I’m never going back but both ways I’m here and both ways I’m never getting out.
Rebecca Cobo LIBERTAS Vol. 26 No. 4
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WASTED. Hannah Lee
I blame Ki-woong because he called me a pussy for not drinking enough, and now look at him, he’s collapsed on the floor with a puddle of vomit by his parted lips, and now look at me, I’m clutching a cup of revoltingly cheap soju and Bud Light and apple juice that screams Korean-American, and now I’m looking at you. I force myself up from the couch, partially because of the couple making out next to me, and partially because I want to get a better look at you. I take another swig of my drink and recoil in disgust, but I ignore the sloshy consistency and nauseating aftertaste and down the rest of it. Won-seok looks at me. He’s the most sober one here, obviously. He’s wearing a sad, pitying expression and says something, but I can’t hear him over the roar of blasting J-pop music, indistinguishable screams and laughs, and my spiraling, buzzing mind that’s submerged in feverish fantasy. “Whaaat?” He leans closer to me. “You good?” I roll my eyes. “Do you think someone who’s good would be drinking this shit? God, I fucking hate alcohol. Is there more?” I laugh, showing him yet another empty cup. Won-seok gently pulls me to his side, trying but failing to make eye contact. “Hey. We should head back now.” No can do, because I haven’t stopped looking at you. I didn’t think you’d come, but there you are, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, someone playfully touching your arm, but you’re having none of it. It makes me smile wickedly. Deliriously. I really should not be, but I am, I’m looking at you. Fantasies of us being together again whisper in my ears, deluding my mind, consuming copious amounts of saccharine sweets to cope, glossing over with superficial lies and lamentations. And Won-seok backs off because I flip him off and am clumsily making my way across the room to you, my legs sluggish and sleepy but my mind racing and raging, my body on fire either from the Asian-glow or anger, and it’s not long before you notice me, and the person flirting with you gets a hint and moves on. “Hey,” I say, a little too forcibly and tense, but I say it, and it feels like a breath of fresh air, and I want to say so much more, but I’m afraid if I do, everything that’s been boiling at the surface will explode, unlocking and unleashing painful memories. You’re smirking at me, mouth curled up charismatically, and I can’t help but think about how many times I’ve kissed those lips, heard those lips tell me promises, or maybe lies. “You’re a wreck,” is all you say, and honestly, you’re right. I can’t even imagine how I look right now–makeup smeared, rosy face glistening with sweat, and what’s this, a remarkably large stain on my new shirt? Fantastic. Naively, I was hoping the dim lights would hide my disheveled appearance. And even though it’s an insult, and even though you said it so I would shut up, my heart is palpitating with such excitement, because at least we are talking again. I sneer. “Say so yourself.” But it’s not true. Because you look beautiful, untouched, you stand out in this crowd where everyone is falling apart, you have fallen together like the dovetailing, meshing 10 LIBERTAS
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last chords of a song. “What do you want?” you ask, straight-forward as always. I want you, I think to myself. “I just wanted to say hi.” “You always want to say hi when you’re wasted,” you say matter-of-factly. “So? Why does that matter?” “Well, it tells me that you’re still hurt and foolish and,” you grimace a bit before saying the last part, “still in love with me.” “I’m not in love with you. I never was.” But both of those are lies. Sighing, you run your hand through your hair, and it gives me a thrill to see you do it again. “Hey… I know things ended on a bad note,” I start, “We fought a lot, and we’re different or whatever, and… you were losing interest, but-” “Things will never be the same,” your voice cuts through, “and you know I don’t have any intention to get back together again.” I dig my fingernails into my palms. “But why?” I feel pathetic, but I can’t help but entertain the possibility of being with you again, someone so ideal, so flawless, so consummate, like chiseled Michaelangelo’s David, or a perfectly-oiled machine. “You and I are incompatible on so many levels.” You’re glaring at me, bitterly. And it’s warranted. I’ve asked you why several times before. “As I said previously, you live in this fantastical, magical world that exudes ignorance. You wear rose-tinted glasses and distort reality. You smoke and drink like you eat and sleep.” You’re listing things off, firing bullets off straight to my heart. My eye twitches. “Okay, you don’t need to say it like that--” “You’re not built for reality, nor will you ever adapt to it. You’re Alice in Wonderland. You--” “I get it, okay, I--” “Are pathetically reliant on lies and hallucinations as coping mechanisms. You--” “I get it! Shut up!” I pray I don’t cry. I can’t cry, definitely cannot cry. “I know I can be awful, but you’re bad, too.” Even though I don’t believe you’re bad. “Insensitive, snobby, cold-hearted,” I blurt, even though I don’t believe you’re those things. It’s just what Wonseok tells me to think. I take a step closer, close enough until… if I angled my head the right way… I could… “Kiss me,” I say. “What? No, I’m not going to--” “Please! Kiss me.” You sigh your sigh again. “No.” “Pleaaase?” I whine. I know you’re dismissing me because I’m desperate and drunk, because I’m all the things you say, and you may be right, but I’m still hopeful that maybe… “No.” I grab your shoulders and my face is in yours, and I hear your breath hitch in the midst of the drunken disarray, but it’s all behind me, and I swear to God sometimes time really does go slowly, because
UNTITLED Helen Sturm
I’m about to kiss you, one more time, one last time, until you shove me with such force that I stumble onto the floor. We make eye contact for a split second before people start stepping over me, coming between us, but in that split second, I see your disgusted, repulsed expression, and that you’re starting to leave the room. I feel ashamed, like vermin, my face is certainly beet red, my heart is screeching, and before I know it I’m pulling myself up--slowly but surely-- from Tae-woo’s apartment floor and am stumbling out. I shove the door open and my eyes frantically search for you. I see your silhouette, storming off in the darkness. “Hey! Wait! I’m sorry,” I cry out, hoping you’ll turn around. Please please please. The door reopens from behind me, and I turn to see Wonseok’s bewildered expression. He must have seen that I ran out. “What the hell are you doing?” he cries. He looks crazy. But maybe I look crazy to him. I ignore him and look to see your shadow slowing. I bite my
lips to keep my satisfied smile away. “I’m stupid, I know,” I admit, hoping it’ll soften you. “I’m sorry.” Won-seok’s saying something, asking me who it is, but I don’t hear him anymore, because you turn around and smile at me, surprisingly bright and happy… and I can’t help but feel elated and in love all over again. And that night when you kiss me, I think maybe dreams do come true, and when we make love, I think maybe perfection does exist. *** When I wake up, I can sense that something is not right. A throbbing headache. Slow limbs. And what time is it? An unfamiliar bedroom. The blankets on top of me are suffocating, and I shove them off. I turn to my side, and my mouth is wide open, in absolute horror, in dread and disgust. And now I’m frantically climbing out, like I’m on a hot bed of coal, throwing my clothes back on and freaking the fuck out because how could that be, what happened last night, this is all a nightmare LIBERTAS Vol. 26 No. 4
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and a shitty one at that, and-The person in bed stirs before sitting up, looking at me. “Ah, fuck… my head hurts,” they say before stretching. “Y-you…” They look at me curiously. “What?” Their facial features are blurry to me, borderline glitching, jumbled and mismatched, and when I squint I can’t tell who or what they are. They remind me of Picasso’s cubism, or someone you met once on a street and never see again. “You’re… not you!” I’m shaking my head, over and over again. What happened? What happened what happened what happened? Why is it not you? “What the fuck are you on?” Slow down, I tell myself. This is all a prank, I’m sure of it. You’re in here somewhere. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale exhale inhaleexhaleinhaleexhale-“Calm down,” they’re saying, but I keep shaking my head. “You used me!” I scream, hot, angry tears rolling down my face. I don’t even bother to wipe them away. Blinding frustration and repulsion surge through my veins. My hands tremble like earthquakes. “What do you mean? You came up to me last night.” My tears morph into sobs, and I wrap my arms around myself.
Photography by
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“No no no no no--” I say, breath hitching, “I thought it was you, but it wasn’t.” “Who the fuck are you talking about?”How did I not detect it? Where did you go, and who is this beast lying on the bed? Where were your amused eyes and charismatic smile? “Don’t you know who I am?” I want to see if I can identify them, but I can’t look at them properly. I want to say something, but I can’t. I shut my eyes. I hold my breath and remember you, and your hands and lips, and all those times I could cry on your shoulder and you’d stroke my hair, those times you laughed at my jokes and kissed me softly… I hold my breath, because among the monochrome, you were this polychromatic lens in the aftermath of a disastrous fire, skewing the world in honey hues and golden gleams, the sun setting as streaks of fuschia melt, blending into the freshly whipped cotton candy clouds, burning with passion as crimson and amber lights the sky, dizzy and drunk and dreaming, laced with warmth and love…
PAUL STOUFFER
Meg’s Circle 8.4.19
VARIOUS ARTISTS
AMPHaus 8.2.19
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Glass,Stems, and Bones Rebecca Cobo
Joyride
Basil Wiering
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Oh, Fuck
A Review of Birds of Prey Birds of Prey is perfect for the Wasteland/Wonderland Issue, but not just because the climax of the film takes place in an abandoned amusement park. In Birds of Prey, Harley Quinn, the token “sexy female” character in DC’s 2016 Suicide Squad, tells the story of her life post-breakup with the (Jared Leto) Joker. The film is a real attempt at unapologetic girl power: Cathy Yan, a woman, directed it and Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn is much less sexualized than she was in Suicide Squad. She’s also largely incompetent, aimless and unsympathetic, however. It’s colorful, yet dark; it’s optimistic, yet cynical; it manages to get so much wrong, yet simultaneously gives me hope for women in film. Harley’s obstacle in the film is a ham-handed and vague depiction of patriarchy. For the majority of the film men and patriarchal systems of power put women on the back foot. Since Harley is no longer “protected” by the Joker after their breakup, all her power is gone (except for convenient, comedic purposes), and she’s vulnerable to her enemies. I went into the film with the understanding that she had value in and of herself as an interesting character with unique abilities, but the film didn’t seem ready to meet me at that assumption. It felt like a backslide when it took most of the film for her to realize her worth transcends her value as a tool for the men in her life. Another particularly frustrating part of the film was the antagonist, Roman Sionas. He is exactly the white, queer coded bad guy we expect from comic-book movies: he wears eyeliner; he has a henchman who seems to be more than a friend; he gestures wildly; and he dresses well. He is in complete control of the story–and almost all of the female characters–until the last ten minutes of the film. Despite the large number of women in the cast, men drive the plot and hold the power.
To center the film around women battling sexist men and patriarchal systems of power felt out of place in a fantasy film, one in which women could have started with power. Why not have a female antagonist? Why, when the female characters have magic powers and are the experts in their field, are we forced to watch them tolerate casual sexism from their bosses and coworkers? Why do we need to see the villain rip a woman’s clothes off in public to know he’s a bad guy? Birds of Prey brought wasteland into the wonderland it was trying to create by continuing to perpetuate the assumption that men have all the power in the world. Allowing the female characters overcome (to some extent) their patriarchal obstacles fails to be an actually inspiring narrative. I hesitate to call myself a fan of comics to avoid the test I inevitably get on obscure details from someone (probably a man) intent on gatekeeping, but I am personally very invested in them. Watching women work together to achieve their individual and collective goals in a mainstream comic-book film was a really powerful experience. Major film productions finally seem to be catching on to the idea that people might be interested in fleshed-out, female comicbook characters. Ultimately, Birds of Prey felt off in its boiled down feminist™ pandering, saying nothing more interesting or controversial than “sexism exists.” I’m looking forward to the next film like it, and I hope it will be onet that doesn’t treat narratives of male power as a given.
-Julia Tayloe
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LIBERTAS last word Primaries are coming up! Please vote. In the interest of democracy, the Libertas staff approached third-party candidates from around the country and asked them about their policy proposals. These six candidates responded to our email; some of them were so excited to have been contacted that they altered their policies to appeal to our readership. Here are six potentially-soon-to-be-presidents, in their own words:
Allan Allensby
Arthur Dent
Greg “sleeveless-flannel” Jenkins
Pete
The Practicality Party Age: could be 40, could be 70 -Stop letting professors do anything other than self-scheduled exams that are due on the last day of exams, and papers are not allowed -Redo all of the pathways so they’re straight from Point A to Point B and level so no one trips on bricks anymore -Renovate Chambers and the Library – it can’t just be STEM majors who get the fancy new building -Make sure printers are stocked with paper and staplers with staples at all times -Stop Commons from serving yogurt parfaits and scoopies – no more gloopy food!
The Party Party Age: 69 or 420 lmao -Replace all them salad fixins at the Commons with potato cubes -Let my Uncle Ted keep his pontoon boat at Lake Campus -Bring one of them Vegas hangover cure buses to campus every weekend -Secure the rights of the proletariat by returning the means of production to the working class -PBR in vending machines
Aquamarine Ocean
The Pisces for President Party Age: somewhere between 15 and 25 -Turn the State of the Union into a wine night vent session -Teach everyone how to cry -Roommate matching based on astrological sign -Must introduce yourself by major and “big three” signs -No tests or essays during Mercury Retrograde
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LIBERTAS Vol. 26 No. 4
The Palaxy Pitchpikers Party Age: 42 -Help everyone escape Earth before it is destroyed -Find the ultimate question to the ultimate answer -Put “DON’T PANIC” signs all over campus -Give everyone a towel -Replace the scientists in Wall with mice
The Political Party Age: Unknown [redacted]
Jesus of Nazareth
The Peace Party Age: says he’s 36, but also says he was born in 0 A.D. -Stock all water fountains on campus with Franzia -Wash everyone’s feet -Still the storm of Davidson’s workload AND the rain that keeps flooding Down the Hill -Feed everyone fish and bread at F -Get rid of capitalism
