RAG F EBR UARY 2015 | IS S U E 2 | MOVE ME N T
RAG Definition noun: magazine verb: to rag on idiom: “on the rag” Dear RAG readers, We are a group of humyns at Mizzou who want to hear your voices, your experiences, your truths. On such a big campus, many people’s voices are never heard and their stories frequently ignored. We created RAG because we want to create a safe space for students, faculty, and staff to share their opinions, criticisms, stories, and art. This is a submission based publication and each issue will revolve around a specific theme open to your interpretation. We invite everyone to submit and contribute as this project will only be a success with your help. We thoroughly
SUBMIT TO
RAG APRIL 2015 | ISSUE 3 | BODY
Issue 3’s theme will be BODY. Art, photography, poetry, prose, and more are welcome! Submissions may be authored or anonymous.
hope that this zine will be a positive catalyst for change and inclusion on campus and foster a culture of vulnerability, sharing, and genuine listening. With radical love, the RAG Collective A Note on MOVEMENT the act of moving from one place or position to another
1
a group of people working together to advance their
2
shared political, social, or artistic ideas Movement implies a motion, a change. You sent us stories of internal struggle-- shifts in conscious, evolving relationships, meditations on cultural change. You sent us writing about changes that have yet to be-- critiques of current movements, calls to action to incite new ones, and sharp commentary of the culture with which we are in constant negotiation. We are confident these will inspire movement of the minds, bodies, and hearts that encounter them. They moved us.
SUBMIT BY MARCH 18 TO RAGMAGZINE@GMAIL.COM
Mandalas, moving on, and healing.
Growing up I never felt classically beautiful like my friends. I had dark skin and hair that bent like wire and always seemed to defy gravity in two messy puff balls. Not to mention, I felt that my body had matured much early than the girls in my class. I am most certainly sure that if we had grade school superlatives I would have won The Biggest Butt. I suppose now I should be proud of it because everyone is trying to buy it, but back then I would try my hardest to hide it. Though, soon I became a pro at hiding things. I cannot count nor tell you how many times that I have wasted shooting stars and prayers to some spirit, to make me more classically beautiful, slender like my “closest� friends. I would dream and hold hope, that I would wake up smarter and that, I would wake up with eyes the color hazel and the skin complexion lighter than my own. I was tired of being overlooked, and tired of being labeled as dirty or darky. I just wanted to be classically beautiful, like those I saw on TV. Despite my low self-esteem, I found it in me to carry on. I was not allowed to feel down about myself, complain to my parents, or have mental problems, because mom and dad did not have any money for that. So I would keep to myself and carry on. I remember carrying on all the way through middle school and high school, keeping all my insecurities and wounds to myself. I wish that I could tell you how I found the strength to carry on, but the truth is I do not know. I myself am still figuring that out and still carrying on. Somewhere in the strength of me carrying on, I felt the need to believe in this skin. I no longer wasted my shooting stars on who I wanted to look like. I wasted shooting starts on my dreams and hopes of becoming extraordinary. I am not saying it was easy, I just want you know to my Black Stars, that if you ever felt less than, you are not alone, because I am still today trying to carry on.
Colored Girl
BLACK STAR
Series
Check your neck 1
In f r ont of a mirro r, s tr e tc h your n eck ba ck s o that you can still see the ar e a of yo ur neck b e l ow the Adam’s apple and r i g ht a bove th e c ol l ar b on e. This is th e g e ne r al l oca tion of yo ur thyr oi d g land.
2
Ta ke a d r i n k of wa t er a n d s wa llow. A s you s wa llow, c a r ef u lly wa t c h t h a t a r ea f or a n y b u lg es , p r ot r u s i on s , or en la r g em en t s .
3
If you s ee a n y t h i n g at al l u n u s u a l, b e s ur e t o co n t a c t you r d oc t o r as s o o n a s p os s i b le t o ge t yo u r t h y r oi d c h ec ke d o u t .
UNTITLED #567 by Farah El-Jayyousi I scar badly I scar plainly, openly, in broad daylight I scar freely Bleed easily My skin looks thicker than it is I scar obviously Wear my scars like they’re battle wounds Like I’m a warrior I scar so the world can see Match my headscarf to my scar My makeup to my scars I wear colors like bruises Plainly Painfully I scar greatly, beautifully My scars heal publicly
WOMEN ARE 5-8x more likely than men to have thyroid problems
1 in 8 women will develop a thyroid disorder in her lifetime via American Thyroid Association, thyroid.org
I wish I would learned I mean, what does it mean that I gave my life to her?
she reads your journal.
What does it mean how much I gave up?
I learned from the closeted one how desperate I was to hold onto the only good I’d experienced in the world.
What does it mean about my future, and my ability to love, and my ability to love myself enough to do it
I learned from the closeted one how two people can
right?
talk forever and still never have enough time to say it all.
I didn’t stand up for myself. I didn’t stay true. I didn’t
require or demand or hardly ask for her to be a good
I learned from the closeted one how excruciating and
partner: to treat me with kindness, to care for me when
extravagant stolen hidden kisses can be. How your
I feel sad, to hug me when I’m in need of an embrace. I
whole life can be pinpoint-funneled into your hot
didn’t require or demand or hardly ask for her to listen
breath on the top of her neck behind her ear, her body
to my stories, or to be interested in my thoughts and
up against the kitchen wall, your hands on her sides,
feelings.
grasping for her, the rush of listening for footsteps.
I promised her I’d be with her and love her forever.
I also learned how hiding kisses gets you really good at not getting them at all.
She broke her promises and I’m glad I cared at least
enough to use broken promises to get out, but why
I wish I would have learned how if it’s going to end
wasn’t happiness enough of a reason to get out? Why
anyway, end it sooner, end it when you will still feel
did it matter more to me to stick it through and stay
sad to see it go, when there is still hurt to share with
true to what I’d promised than to live a life I’m proud
those supporting you on the other side, before all is
of? To live a life of passion and truth?
lost and you’ve dealt with the pain of loss all on your own, slowly, stuck in it all.
What have I learned?
End it in that moment, walking down the steps of the
1. I learned from the closeted one that love feels good.
old building, past the courageous ones on the left, and
I learned from the closeted one that another person
the art space on the right.
can save your life. I learned from her dad how to make chicken salad, to clean as you go, and the importance
When something bad happened, then something
of humor.
good, and you thought “I could break up with the clos-
eted one. We could end. And someone would date me
I learned from the closeted one that it won’t work if
in public. And we could be out.”
she won’t love you publicly.
I learned end it that moment.
I learned from the closeted one that it won’t work if
2. I learned from the partier that I like partying.
I learned from the partier how easy it is to fall into
being followed home again
someone else’s life and in so doing have a different
that walking out is wrong but can work
one of my own.
that sometimes relationships entail giving back what belongs to the other in the front yard
I learned how I prefer upfront selfishness to the kind
and that you can’t always help but yell.
that infiltrates slowly, from inner vulnerabilities, with-
I learned that December 25th can be a vacation day if
out you noticing how you’ve gotten there.
you have the right person to share it with.
I learned that sex can be fun, and good, and constant.
I learned how to drink too much.
I learned how to leave a drink on the table. I learned how pleasant lazy weekend mornings can be,
d have d I learned how to turn down a shot a stranger or new
with breakfast food and crossword puzzles, no conver-
friend bought for me.
sation necessary.
I learned I don’t want to date an alcoholic.
3. I learned from another that if I don’t want it to be a relationship I need to say that up front, before I kiss her,
I learned that another’s tortured pain might cause
before I go home with her.
them to hurt you over and over and not know how to notice.
I learned from succeeding at a one night stand that even if you are up front, you can’t quote poetry while
I learned you can have a loving, real relationship that’s
laying together after sex and not have them find you
unhealthy and not for the long haul - even in attempt.
online afterwards.
I learned that I’m almost incapable of resisting a wom-
I learned from the hot Australian to not be afraid to
an passionately playing the guitar. (Someone in San
fight for the woman I want, to believe I am the hottest
Francisco reinforced this.)
one in the bar. I also learned that getting too drunk is just embarrassing when you can’t remember the de-
I wish I would have learned not to value my relation-
tails the next day and you run into her, and just a loss
ship over my friendships.
when you can’t remember the details for your self.
I wish I would have learned how not to leave the party,
I learned from a dancer what purpose simply being in
just because she was ready to go.
a relationship can serve. I learned from her how you can stay with someone just for the perks they provide,
I wish I would have learned to say no.
and even if it wasn’t right and you might even regret it, how good the poetry can still be, and how well I write
I learned
among the trees of rock quarry woods and grasses and
screaming fights in the rain, shoes untied
beings.
Let’s create more inclusive feminist spaces. queer spaces. activist spaces. party spaces. creative spaces. Let’s create a more inclusive world. Let us carve out feminist spaces that are alcohol free. queer spaces that are alcohol free. activist spaces that are alcohol free. party spaces that are alcohol free. creative spaces that are alcohol free. Let us carve out spaces in this world that are alcohol free. I want a space for me. I want a space to feel comfortable, around fellow feminists, queer people, people of color, activists, advocates, and friends, without alcohol third-wheeling it. I need spaces that are not triggering and not on campus or at work. I need spaces where I can practice my religion without feeling othered. I need spaces where I do not feel pressured to drink just because everyone else is. I want to dance completely sober. Make jokes about the ridiculously privileged completely sober. Laugh til every muscle hurts with my chosen family. Sober. Cry while sipping on virgin sangria. Sober. Let’s make our spaces more inclusive.
RESouRCES Sober in College
facebook.com/mizsic
Wellness Resource Center @ wellness.missouri.edu/alcohol.html
When Whiskey Runs in Your Blood - by s e quo y a h mo o re People tell me that I drink liquor like a sailor. That I throw back shots like quick prayers to god and that I drink bottles like thirsty desert soil. I tell them no. That I drink like my father whose laughs smell like Hennessey and home and whose teeth look like they take daily baths in cold gin. That I drink like my grandmother whose purple Crown bags I’d carry my barbies in and whose trashed beer cans were home to her purple lipstick and my curious tongue. I tell them that I was a master beer retriever at age 8 and by 12 I had built strategies for sneaking into the trenches of the kitchen to pour ‘forbidden juice’ into my Kool-aid. Then I tell them that I Could spell Cognac before I could spell sarcophagus and that Liquor is like the cousin that everyone secretly hates but continues to send over to my house. I Don’t drink like a sailor; I drink because it’s the only constant thing in my life. People tell me that I have a problem. That I throw back shots like i’m counting how many things I need to forget from the past week. And that I Drink like the bottom of bottles would be a good hiding place from life. I tell them that I wish I could drink to that.
“Parents with alcohol use disorders display particular patterns of
“More than 10 percent of U.S. children live with
alcohol consumption and thereby increase the likelihood that their
a parent with alcohol problems, according to a
children will develop drinking patterns associated with high risk of
2012 study”
alcohol use disorders when they are introduced to alcohol.” World Health Organization, www.who.int
National Institute of Alcohol Abuse & Alocoholism
I L E I N v G N ” u “
ONE EXPERIENCE
The other day, I walked into a classroom and was ambushed by whiteness. Never before had it been so apparent that the scarf I wear on my head makes me the Other and that my peers regard me first and foremost by what’s on top of my head and not what’s in it. I took a seat at the front, too uncomfortable to wade through the backpacks and winter
I recently revised this piece of writing after, in the last week,
coats to take my preferred seat at the back. Too uncomfort-
there were 5 hate crimes committed against Muslims within 6
able because all eyes were on me, likely wondering where I
days*. I send peace to my Muslim brothers and sisters and want
was from and what language I spoke.
to remind you that you are strong, you are important., your existence is valid and this is all temporary: “the pens have been
You ask: Do you wear that in the shower? Do you ever take
lifted, and the pages are dry” (Tirmidhi, Hadith 19).
that off? Does your dad make you wear it? Does your husband make you wear it? Do you wear it in front of your male
* February 9, 2015: Mustafa Matan was shot dead in his Fort McMurry apartment February 10, 2015: Deah Barakat, 23, Yusor Mohammad Abu-Salha, 21, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Salha, 19, were shot in their apartment in Chapel Hill, NC February 12, 2015: a Muslim man is physically attacked at a Kroger in Dearborn February 13, 2015: one of three buildings of the Quba Islamic Institute in Houston were destroyed by arson February 15, 2015: the non-profit Islamic School of Rhode Island was vandalized with hateful graffiti
cat? Are your ears warm? Aren’t you hot?! Actually, I’m gorgeous. I made an active choice to wear hijab - a headscarf and modest dress - when I was 10 and every day since then, I’ve made the conscious decision to identify as a Muslim womyn in public by wearing it; I wear hijab for very personal reasons but my choice simultaneously functions as a political act . My hijab has incited debate over topics of autonomy, op-
We are all unique, though some of us are not afforded this
pression, and freedom. (My voice is never asked to be a part
status. People approach me with a single story in mind. Chi-
of that debate.) My hijab has been used by Western powers
mamanda Adichie gave a talk called “the danger of a single
to incite pity and as an excuse to intervene and commit acts
story” in which she describes a single story as being that sto-
of violence in places like the Middle East, Pakistan, and Af-
ry which is told about a people or a place over and over again
ghanistan. It has been a platform of racialization – if you wear
so that this is the only story people know about those people
hijab, you are often automatically identified as Arab. Some-
or that place.
how, wearing a scarf on my head makes people feel that they are allowed to presume to know every aspect of my identity
I move through this campus constantly facing variations of
and my story.
a single story; I move through this campus falling under the gaze of assumptive stereotypes, under the weight of repre-
I move through this country constantly facing variations of a
sentational responsibility and considerable ignorance. And
single story; I move through this country as the Other, facing
all of this because one story is told. Over and over again.
TV screens airing Islamophobic sentiments; approached by white feminists with a savior complex who inform me that
This is not your single story; this is my story about how a sin-
I’m oppressed and that I don’t have to wear that anymore;
gle story falls short. And while this story is my own, I suspect
unwelcome when called out on the street by cowards yelling
that this experience of being marginalized and stigmatized is
“terrorist,” “towel head,” “go back to your country.” (Y’all, I was
shared by those who move through this world like me, facing
born in Texas.) And all of this because one story is told. Over
the same single story.
and over again.
The first time someone introduced me to what the single story of my Muslim identity would be was in the second grade. We used to sit in the hallway before classes started, lined up
S
STANDING COMMON MISUNDER
against the wall with our backpacks and chatting with our
WORDS
friends. Two days after 9/11, my two best friends came to me. They said, “We can’t be your friend anymore. You’re like, related to Osama bin Laden or something.” So casually, just
ALLAH
derived from al-Ilah, meaning the One deserving all worship; Arabic word for God used by Muslims and Arabic-speaking non-Muslims alike
ISLAM
derived from salam, meaning peace through submission to God; a religion and way of life characterized by the belief in one God
like that. I didn’t know who that was, I didn’t know what was going on, and I’m sure they didn’t either. I didn’t know why, just the other night, my mother had been crying in front of the television screen in the dark saying, “Everything is going to be different now.” Second graders. Hate is taught. Single stories are taught.
MUSLIM
They are read to us like bedtime stories so we fall asleep to them, so that we become unconscious of their reality. Single stories are drilled into our brains, into our subcomscious, and in that way, they are more harmful than we can ever imagine.
JIHAD
derived from juhd which means strive, effort or exert; jihad literally means “struggle,” referencing different forms of struggle but most popularly the struggle against temptations in attempt to better and purify oneself; a physical jihad is NOT a holy war, it is a struggle against those who threaten or oppress people
HIJAB
literally means “cover,” and within a contemporary context, it is the headcover worn by Muslim women
NIQAB
the head and face veil that covers everything except for the eyes
BURQA
the head and face veil that covers everything, including the eyes which is often covered by a mesh screen
You say: American Sniper is great. FOX News airs the truth. Je Suis Charlie. Islam is an inherently violent religion. Actually, American Sniper is propaganda. FOX News is some buffoonery I cannot even… The Je Suis Charlie movement has only functioned to further stigmatize already Othered communities, and has become a catalyst for anti-Muslim racism, spurring hate crimes both in Europe and in North America. As for violence, when I greet another Muslim, I say the universal “Salam Alaikum” - May Peace Be Upon You - and they respond with “Wa’alaikum As-salam” - May Peace Be Upon You Too. Remind me again how a greeting of peace comes from a religion of violence. Remind me again of how white terrorists are mentally ill and a product of their environment, but brown and black people can never be because they are “in-
a follower of Islam; one who submits to God, associating no one and nothing with Him; Muslims DO NOT worship the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him)
herently violent,” “thugs,” “terrorists.” There are 1.6 billion Muslims in the world, making up around 23% of the world’s population (pewresearchcenter.org). How can you presume that we are all the same?
INTERESTED IN LEARNING MORE? Schedule a group presentation with the
MUS L IM S PE A K E R ’S BUR E A U O F COLUM BIA email tlkt3@mail.missouri.edu
How I Saw
Ferguson By Tiffany Melecio The photos I decided to submit to RAG do not fully encompass everything I got to see and experience when I went to the protests over Thanksgiving Break. These are just mere snapshots, blinks rather, of what took place. I grew up in Florissant, a town that neighbors Ferguson, and it’s infuriating when all I see on TV and the internet are photos and videos of looting, riots, and anger of a town I grew up in. This is a town that raised me, molded me, and welcomes me every time I go home. Yes, the things you see on TV are true to an extent and just as important to this movement as anything else, but it’s just ONE increment on the long scale of events that continue to take place. When I attended the protests back at home, I witnessed solidarity, anger, peaceful protests, kindness, and bravery. My photos are my testimony.
How I Saw
Ferguson
Photos by Tiffany Melecio
How I Saw
Ferguson
Photos by Tiffany Melecio
“Stop bitching about straight people”, typed the junior social work major, too angry at his misreading of a Facebook status condemning the bad behavior of straight people to notice his good and noble character was not, in fact, being impugned. “I care a shit ton about these issues,” he continued, as he thought about how best to explain the struggle for queer liberation to the gay men he was talking at. He was typing so fervently that he didn’t notice he ate the last Red Velvet Oreo in the box his roommate bought at Target earlier that day. It mattered not. These were not the cookies he was looking for. Facebook, as everyone knows, is a difficult space to navigate for a straight white cis ally feminist man who’s supported Obama in both of the last two elections. He has to deal with his conservative relatives saying insensitive things about people of color, which he knows would upset his black friend. But he also has to be careful not to say something that would offend the women in his life, because they never seem to understand that he’s really on their side. Maybe if they weren’t so busy being angry. Like these goddamn gay men who just don’t get why they need to be sensitive to straight people. Don’t they know that he has struggles too? He knew in is heart that the pain he felt when his grandfather passed was akin to centuries of violence committed against marginalized people and systems of exclusion that relegated them to a second-class position in society. And could any kind of psychological pain really hurt more than that time he broke his leg on the middle school ski trip? Certainly not! He was literally so frustrated that such unassuming and apolitical statements like the ones had been making were being met with such resistance. He of all people knew that the gays were just like him. And he wanted them to be treated just like him. Who, he dared to ask, wouldn’t want to be just like him? He just had so much to teach the world. If only everyone knew, like he knew, that racism could just be over if everyone decided to be nice. Sometimes he became so overwhelmed with this notion that it moved him to tears—tears that he would probably even admit to having shed to a select few of his friends, but not the ones he played football with in high school. As the full extent of his genius washed over him, he tried to get up to find a tissue, but the weight of his insight was so strong that he vanished completely and was never heard from again.
a call to action I grew up surrounded by the natural world and was in-
We wonder why everyone isn’t marching with us around
stilled with a deep appreciation for our environment and
the white house, writing letters and calling our represen-
it’s preservation. Naturally, I found myself as a part of the
tatives, dropping banners from coal plants, handcuffing
environmental movement. I became immersed in it, and
themselves to mining equipment.
it gave me a voice. I was inspired by the dedication and strength of those I looked up to. They taught me most of
We wonder this while women worry about walking
what I know and made me who I am today.
through streets by themselves because they know they have a 1 in 4 chance of being raped.
I was angry. Angry that big oil was polluting our drinking water and our oceans. That coal companies were destroy-
Once, at an environmental protest, I actually heard the
ing communities and our air. That the fossil fuel industry
speaker say that we need our representatives to focus on
had so much control over our government and society. I
and make legislation about important things, like climate
stood alongside those I loved and kept protesting.
change, instead of flashy issues that get them attention and voter support, like rape in the military.
I wondered why everyone wasn’t beside us. This was a fight for everyone, wasn’t it? The fight went well beyond
We complain that people just don’t understand. They just
climate change and some changing temperatures.
don’t see that without a world, people don’t exist to concentrate on all the other issues.
Environmentalism was my gateway into social justice. I began to see the interconnectedness in everything. In
We complain while families across the country worry
every movement and every issue. The more I learned the
about having enough money to put food on the table
more I realized, my fellow environmentalists and activists,
and making that month’s rent.
we have seriously got some shit to work on. Not everyone can buy organic onions and sustainable This movement has been criticized over and over. For it’s
light bulbs. Not everyone can afford the time to plant an
lack of inclusivity. It’s tokenization of people. It’s white-
heirloom seed, GMO-free garden and make it out to that
ness and maleness. It’s tendency to coopt messages to fit
Thursday afternoon rally.
it’s own needs. It’s hypocrisy. Let me end by saying that I believe in the environmenAll of that criticism, and, still, we don’t seem to get it.
tal movement. This movement is important. It’s essential. These things affect people. That’s exactly why I’ve devot-
We say that the environmental movement is the move-
ed so much of my life to it. But we need to be better. If we
ment of our generation. The most important issue. The
truly want a movement, we have to change these narra-
most urgent.
tives. We have to create inclusive spaces and understand that many do not have the luxury of participating in our
We say this while the unjust killing of black bodies by po-
movement, because they’re fighting for their lives.
lice still does not result in indictment. I know that there are many in the movement who are alAfter Ferguson, some environmental organizations spoke
ready doing these things. But that’s not enough. So, I’m
out in support of the community of Ferguson. Thousands
giving a call to action to the movement and everyone in
of their members criticized the organizations because
it. Be better.
their statements were irrelevant and inappropriate.
A TRUTH I NEVER
SPOKE TO MY
PARENTS
I am grateful.
This town ain’t big enough for the two of us. But I have no gun to draw, only a hand to put in yours. Let’s leave. Let’s leave footprints all over the places that erase us. Let’s walk so far that we end up with calloused feet and not hearts. I’ll charge us toward California, that lightning bolt in the otherwise rectangular divisions of the West, by way of the South where you’ll find old wounds and new words and worlds to heal them. We will get lost and ask strangers for help. When I wake up with legs aching from inertia, you will remind me to start each day reaching my fingertips for that just past my grasp. When we come across uneven terrain, I will give you my elbow to steady your rolling ankles. Maybe we will stumble upon utopia. Maybe we will dream and write and speak one into being on our way. Maybe we will find a home where we don’t have to fight for our right to be. Or where it doesn’t make us so damn tired. Or maybe not, maybe we just need to be able to take naps. One day, sooner than I’d hope, we might have to runaway from each other. But we will have prepared one another for the journey. And I will write you postcards, reminding you that we are always homeward bound. With you, I know I’m not running from. We are running to.
s y a w a n u R The o t s e f i n Ma
I. Blood-drenched ropes and Blood-soaked leaves, My history chokes on the blood of the innocent and that of their mourners’ screams.
Bloody Fruit; by Sequoyah Moore
II. Bodies one with black asphalt and Bodies defying gravity, I close my eyes an’ pray one day ‘us negroes will be treated like we’s free. III. Black hands caked with familial blood and Black bodies forced to watch themselves bleed, We ain’t never gone stop fightin’ Cuz this blood fertilizes our seed.
OVERCOMING PRIVILEGE GUILT: ALLIES MOVING FORWARD Movement is essential in creating any radical change. We
and some of which are not. As you sit currently reading
have seen this clearly defined in history time and time
this, recognize this act in and of itself is a privilege.
again. Crucial movement from marginalized groups and their allies. Allies have been a vital component of many
There have been countless instances where I have ex-
movements, some of which have been made possible be-
plained to individuals how their microaggressive behav-
cause of allies recognizing and rejecting their privilege.
iors, gaze, or tokenizing perspectives of my existence is an assertion of their privilege and invasion of my human-
A rejection of privilege is key to the movement of our
ity. Of course always navigating carefully. As those who
allies. The rejection starts with the recognition of guilt.
have been privileged and felt safe enough to vocalize this
Recognizing one’s guilt and shame in a productive way
right, have come to know all too well, that this conversa-
can lead to allyship, to potential movement. Recognizing
tion often turns into a legitimization of our reality.
this is a process is the first step. I will formally acknowledge here that this is and can be a difficult process. Now
Unfortunately, the most painful of these experiences
that I have acknowledged this, I will say move forward
have been with White Womyn. Womyn who have told
still. You cannot continue to allow the guilt and shame
me not to “presume motives”, Womyn who have acknowl-
of those within your identity group and/or possibly your-
edged sexism, but rejected racism, Womyn who have
self at some point, who may have caused others pain
taken credit for my work, silenced me, and treated me as
(intended or not), to prevent you from movement. We
if I were invisible. These first-hand encounters have been
know there are people within “dominant” identity groups
refusals to acknowledge the difference between us and
who have created and perpetuated the system of privi-
rather remain in the similarity of gendered dynamics. As
lege and power we exist in. We know there are people
many Womyn of Colour have come to know; our experi-
within these identity groups who have been blatant per-
ences are never merely gendered or racialized; they in-
petuators of sexist, racist, homophobic, and so on, ide-
tersect to create a unique lived truth for us all. And in
ologies. We know there are individuals whose only inter-
order for authentic movement to occur, these differences
est is spewing mal-intent wherever they go for a range
needed to be validated from those outside of the margin-
of reasons and rationale. We also know, that this is not
alized group.
everyone’s intention. My vocalization of these oppressive behaviors and vioTherefore when you respond to someone claiming their
lations of my humanity have made experiences with
own agency and voice by overcompensating, by deny-
“dominant” identity groups difficult. I will continue my
ing, “explaining” or “clarifying” your intentions or motives,
commitment towards understanding that all of our lived
becoming frustrated, or victimizing yourself; the process
experiences are different. In return, I need others to
towards movement is halted. We cannot be willing to ad-
understand that I cannot be the vessel for your guilt or
dress systemic privilege and the individual privilege of
shame. Nor can I be the caretaker of your self-induced
others and refuse to address our own. We cannot claim
victimization. I need you to work past the phase of guilt,
to be without privilege once we have acknowledged that
which encourages you to make the conversation about
the word is valid and the system exists. We all come with
you, rather than about your actions. It’s time to move on
a multiplicity of identity, some of which are privileged
from guilt. It’s time to move. It’s time for movement.
Between two love lovers by two anonymous souls
Meet me in this moment, the unbridled will find its own And I’ll stretch my arms wide and allow bits of my wholesome to leak Silks whisp in their descent Anointed feet, careful calloused by the mournings of thrust winters, does one find solace in the sweet of summer? Now, towards pools astir, a waiting deliverance Shall I wade in the water with youAthena laid down her armor sharing herself with sunrays carried by the wind wrapped ‘round her belly, fleshy and brown. Come, let us surrender a dance in laughter hum to it our freedom, fill it wet with tears each hand touching hand in our collection, ever the anagram, mounting love.
M I R RO R
RORRIM
In my childhood home, I have a dresser that’s been mine
actual size. I would put my hand on my hip, cock to one
for as long as I can remember. Its wood painted over
side and gaze on those perfect proportions. Amazed at
with tannish paint blended with dark stain, brushstrokes
how good I looked in whatever dress, skirt, jeans I was
strong and slightly uneven, chipping at the edges. The
wearing. Then I would take a step back. The reality of my
mirror is split into three panels. The middle rises up in a
bigger, normal sized waist glared back at me. I would
high arch and the edges are ornate, carved wood. Like
sigh and move back between those two mirror panels,
something a princess would sit at. Brushing her long hair
preferring to delude myself, to dream, for just a moment
at least one hundred strokes every morning and evening.
longer.
The mirror is three panels. Looking in the middle of two
I haven’t thought about that practice of mine for a while
causes whatever you see to be distorted. I used to always
now. Until I went home recently and glanced at my re-
spend too long moving my face back and forth and up
flection. Those memories flooded back. Surfacing all of
and down between those panels, amused by the differ-
my insecurities with them. I stepped back to see my true,
ent humorous altercations it would make to my face.
unaltered reflection. And then back. And then, for the first time, I realized how that movement back and forth
And to my waist.
between those mirrors defined so many moments of my life.
I stood sideways, the split running vertical and splitting my body in half. The distortion made my waist half it’s
Even when I wasn’t standing in front of them.
I Am the Wind by Anonymous I am the wind. Just a gust, I flow and shift, and change or drift. I have no figure, no shape, no size, nor any expectation. I am just the wind. I blow with force or as light as a kiss, I help lift your wings or try to rock the ship. I ignite fire in some and put out others, but what can I say? I am just the wind.
wetkisses excerpt from the reaping by. Naomi S. Daugherty the stars fell into her mouth. and she poured them on my milkyway brown skin and i explodedinto galaxies i have not known.
-wanderlustIt’s a familiar feeling to you travelers, you journeymen, citizens of the world. You nomads living on no man’s land know it well. It haunts you, follows you. You vagrants, you vagabonds, you voyagers. It is waiting for you wayfarers, waiting in the winding trails of foreign lands. You pioneers find it on frontiers untrodden, lurking in the crisp crunch of the dead leaves beneath your feet. It can be found lingering in the lobbies of hotels and the houses of the homeless. One morning it might meet you at the bus stop, co-opting your commute, corroding your coffee cup, confiscating the Spam sandwich sealed in a Ziploc. Interrupting your autopilot. Or it may well crawl under your covers on an idle evening where it will greet you with urgency and insistence. It may be born from boredom, this creeping curiosity of places unknown. Or it may be the unrelenting itch of discontent that’s daring you to roam, to leave home all alone. (Even though your mother would most definitely disapprove). It may be that numbness is seeping into your bones and you seek any sensation to stop it or block it. You’re craving the narcotic newness that only navigating the night can ignite. Maybe it’s an elusive existential thirst that causes you to uncoil your telescope like a bendy straw reaching for the Milky Way, searching for a light. It may be a nudge from the universe. The cosmic powers that be assert that you were meant to explore this earth. They have conspired your desire to put one foot in front of the other. They have planted this seed, a yearning to be free. A longing to know infinity. A need to realize entity. If you believe, it is serendipity. But it could be another, an Other indeed. It could feel, to you, like a divine order. Your God is calling you; this is her line of communication, this intuition. It is shepherding you to that which is holy, blessed, pure. Your craving is for less an uncharted passage than a labyrinth, a meditative stroll on sacred ground.
But it need not be a grand summoning from a capital G. You need not a faith in divinity to saunter the streets. The powerful life force you have at your core, which pines for more, is more than enough. You can be guided by goodness, as bright as the circling light in the tower, leagues above the ocean floor. So could it be that this is not an “other” at all? Is it possible that this resides deep within you, hibernating in the recesses of your soul, floating amongst other unnamable, untapped emotions? Maybe this is an inextricable, inexplicable fiber of your being. A part of you that has long been aching to surface, but is suppressed by machines and daily routines. A primal force clawing your viscera. A tooth once buried in the jawbone now cutting through cushioning gums, invading the intricate intimacies of your mouth, and your tongue keeps coming back to track its progress, in an attempt to acclimate to the addition. They have named this indescribable urge with two words bound together in the holy matrimony of an onomatopoetic union. It only begins to describe this indescribable “it,” but it is all we have. Say it. Feel the awe-inducing expanse of the first syllable. Bask in the abyss that has opened before the second syllable wrangles your tongue, clicking it definitively against the roof of your mouth. After a jaw-drop, the slither of the second half settles, sliding in you like a succubus, consuming you with that which it names. Let it. Let your wheels rove the great craters of Mars. Let your heels heed the way, giving your head a much-needed break. Give in to the whim when wind is whistling your name. Search the streets for familiar strangers. Look for pieces of yourself that strayed, lost their way, on your way into this world. Go onward. Go upward. Go outward. Always homeward bound.
-mary bifulco
MISSED CONNECTIONS Vol. 1 Columbia, Missouri No. 1
Wednesday
That day in winter that felt like summer
9 AM | Walnut Street
High noon | Peace Park
You said you liked my face. Well to be exact you said, “Hey baby, nice face, I’d fuck the shit out of that.” I wish you wouldn’t have whooshed by so quickly. I could barely see you from the half-down window of that beige Pontiac, but I’m pretty sure we could have been something beautiful.
I was trying to read windblown pages under that tree that would have left berry stains had it actually been summer. You walked by to tell me that you liked my style and you wanted me to know. I think you are in high school and I got choked up because you made me feel like the
person I wanted to become when I was in high school too. All I said was, “Thank you, that was so sweet of you.” But I wish I had said, “Thanks! I like your purple hair and nose ring.” And then, “Isn’t this day lovely?” And then, “Want to sit here and read?” And then, “What are you reading?”
What feels like a lifetime ago but only a couple of years Dusk | Big Houses I liked you, and your friends liked me, so things should have gone differently. But I needed more therapy for things to have gone differently. You wrote a lot of poetry in our short time together. Never once did I ask to see it. I’m sorry. I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.
Fall
The formative years
Too Late | Your Car, Mostly
Dead of Nights | Behind Closed Doors
I made a New Year’s resolution to only sleep with people who give me butterflies. You could have helped me keep it for a while. But I didn’t let you know that until you were already leaving. Probably the leaving is part of what produced the stomach drops. I think a harder good-bye might have been worth it, don’t you?
You got strong legs by dancing every day. I got weak ones from diagnoses. You maintained that muscle tone by making them go wherever they fancied, fast. I strengthened mine by standing
in the likes of those that shall not be moved. Let me know next time you are running from something that isn’t me. I’ll let you know next time I’m not too stubborn to follow. Deal?
Missed Connections You Know Who You Are Please email RagMagZine@gmail.com with the subject line: “Let’s Finish What We Started” (Unless you are the one in the
beige Pontiac. That was a joke. Also, don’t harass people anymore. It’s very unbecoming.)
And then, “I think you are the person I wanted to be, that I want to be. I wanted you to know.”
2015 10 PM-12:20 PM | The Mission I went to see your concert in that hip venue that doubled as an antique consignment store. Remember that claw-foot bathtub and loveseat in the single-occupancy restroom? I didn’t have a chance to tell you that your show was beautiful and brave and that every time you looked down and giggled in embarrassment on stage, I couldn’t help but do the same. So I am telling you now.
Wanted RAG Submissions Don’t miss your connection with RAG! Submit by March 18th.. THE BODY is the thing you live in, an intensely personal yet also public space. With the world contanstly commentiing upon and encouraging disconnection with our bodies, Issue 3 is a space to talk back. Bring us your stories of bodily experience, reclemation, and the bodies of people,places, and things that consitute our revolutions.
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