Table of Contents Letter From The Editor
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Do Progressive High Schools Facilitate Queer Joy?
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Getting to Queer Joy in Media
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Roots
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Growing Together
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patchwork
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Queer Joy: A Soundtrack
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Whale Cart
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A Revisit
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Hair: Chronicling My Journey to Queer Joy
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Contributors Editor-in-Chief: Christopher Ikonomou Developmental Editor: Ethan L. Stokes Graphics Editors: Zoë Collins, Jackson Harris Copy Chief: Bella Hou Writers: Judah Castillo, Kaitlyn Germann, Lorely Guzman, Jackson Harris, Shaanth Kodialam, Stephanie Liu, Tavish Mohanti Artists: Zoë Collins, Christopher Ikonomou, Stephanie Liu, Cole Lopez, Chrys Marr Copy Editors: Emma Blakely, Brooke Borders, Jennifer Collier Layout: Christopher Ikonomou, Giulianna Vicente, Jennifer Collier Cover Production Photographer: Zoë Collins Models: Jackson Harris, Christopher Ikonomou Illustration (Front): Stephanie Liu, Cole Lopez Illustration (Back): Kelly Doherty
Letter From The Editor Dear Reader, I would first like to introduce myself. My name is Christopher and I am OutWrite Newsmagazine’s resident trans/(gender)queer Marfanoid and now Editor-in-Chief. I am finishing up my third year as a part of the OutWrite family and UCLA community, having grown from a hopeful, L-G-B-T, physically exhausted pure Mathematics major to the proud queercrip and rejected art student studying Communication and Disability Studies, who led two of the biggest disability rights actions in the University of California’s history. It’s been an interesting few years, and our collective isolation has allowed me plenty of time to reflect. To start at the beginning, I joined OutWrite as an illustrator in 2019, freshly moved from the suffocation of Silicon Valley. I had just started an Etsy shop, fallen for my suitemate while realizing I was aromantic, and attended my first party after not being cool enough in high school. Despite my several coming-outs before this point (finding-outs if you were my mother), university was the first place I truly felt like I could take a deep breath and explore who I was. OutWrite was the first place I could witness the depth of queer experience and learn what loving a community truly meant. To put it plainly, OutWrite showed me the possibility of queer joy, and I took it. I found joy in the way my pronouns feel from my friends’ lips, the authenticity of a trans person’s laughter when they feel truly safe, the pride in seeing my published work in the hands of others, the awe when we receive the recognition we deserve. Just like my own journey, our publication has been through its ups and downs, and I am incredibly proud to be a part of its resurgence. “Reflections of Radiance” is the third installment of our emergence this year. It represents the end of an era, when the butterfly can officially come out of its cocoon and bask in the sun for what feels like the first time. This issue represents queer joy in all its unadulterated forms, pure and warm and rough and wrought. Sincerely, I would love for you to join us and test out your own wings. Christopher Ikonomou (xe/he) Editor-in-Chief
Do Progressive High Schools Facilitate Queer Joy? Written and Illustrated by Stephanie Liu
In the fall, I discussed how internalized homophobia produced complicated feelings about my old middle school’s increasingly progressive attitudes towards queer identities and rising numbers of “out” queer students. I unpacked my slight resentment toward those queer students, who seem to have an easier
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time exploring their queer identities out in the open since they exist in a less oppressive environment. Since writing my fall zine article, I have reexamined my assumptions about how the setting of a progressive school contributes to experiences of queer joy in young students. As a middle and high schooler, my queer joy had little to do with school at first — I didn’t feel like I had any
opportunities to express my queerness at school, so a lot of my queer experience was rooted in the Internet. I met my first girlfriend outside of school at a Shakespeare summer camp, and our relationship mostly lived and died over texts and calls.
assumption allows; the mere existence of a queer-friendly high school does not produce queer joy. I interviewed two seniors from my old high school to get a better sense of how they, as current queer high schoolers, see the intersection between
“[T]he mere existence of a queer-friendly high school does not produce queer joy.” Eventually, as I became more confident that I could express my queer identity at school without facing major repercussions from my peers and teachers, there were moments of queer joy that were inextricably intertwined with the setting of school: building a small but growing community of queer kids as co-president of the Queer Straight Alliance (QSA) club, discussing queer interpretations of books I read in English with other queer friends, and blasting Hayley Kiyoko as I officiated ring-pop marriages in the front quad for my club. My personal experience, as well as my preexisting biases, led me to the conclusion that a more progressive, queerfriendly school environment creates more opportunities for queer joy at school. However, there is more nuance than that
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queer joy and their progressive school. Senior and QSA president Emerson Brown (they/them) characterized the high school as “generally accepting of queer students.” They point to QSA and its yearly educational LGBTQ+ workshops for freshmen English classes as markers of the school’s queerfriendly environment. Beyond school-approved workshops and clubs, queer students have also organized protests about queer issues that the student body has engaged positively with. “Some recent moments where I’ve felt proud to be queer include organizing a walkout to protest the recent ‘Don’t Say Gay’ bill and other discriminatory bills against transgender youth. While what we are protesting is horrible, there was immense turnout
for the protest and productive discussions afterwards, and I felt proud to organize it,” Brown said. Senior Molly Ransdell (they/them) also noted that the students they interact with at school contribute to both an accepting environment and their happiness as a queer person. “When I look around at the community of people I’ve surrounded myself with, I find myself very lucky. Some of my friends are also in the LGBTQ+ community, and some aren’t but are very accepting… [Being] able to share my experiences with them, whether or not they have similar experiences of their own, allows me to feel understood and heard,” Ransdell said. Both students recognized that the relatively queerfriendly environment of the school at least in some part facilitated their openness about their queer identities. “I can definitely imagine that living where I do currently
has left open doors that I would otherwise have to open myself,” Ransdell said. However, an accepting school environment does not negate the need for further improvement, nor does it erase other problems queer youth may face. “Even though queer identities are more visible, that does not necessarily mean they are respected,” Brown said. Brown expressed frustration with people using incorrect pronouns for them when there is “no pressure to respect,” or even purposefully misgendering Brown to anger their boyfriend. “I think there is an expectation that people feel more comfortable to be queer in my community. While I recognize there is rare outright discrimination and I have much more privilege than high schoolers in other areas, the reality is not the expectation,” Brown said. Another detail that complicates the relationship between school environment
“[A]n accepting school environment does not negate the need for further improvement, nor does it erase other problems queer youth may face.” 4
and queer joy is that the school administration did not play an active role in shaping a queer-friendly campus. Rather, students spearhead certain initiatives such as advocating for queer education workshops and gender-neutral bathrooms, and the administration will provide approval as it sees fit. “Generally, the school is accepting, but I have to be a big self-advocate,” Brown said. In other words, the school administration is not actively searching for ways to support queer students, and the current environment is more a reflection of queer students’ efforts and an overall culture shift than the school’s commitment to helping queer students feel comfortable. Still, some support is better than no support at all. With laws like the “Don’t Say Gay” bill in Florida and similar bills starting to circulate in other states, it would be dangerous to dismiss the critical role schools play in affirming the identities of their queer students. “As a student, you spend a lot of your time at school. The people that you meet and hang out with mostly come from school. The majority of the relationships you make are through classes you’re in or the people you hang out with during breaks,” Ransdell said. “It is not
the only place where kids… have the opportunity to be exposed to topics or representation that they wouldn’t get at home, but the [anti-queer] attitude can easily be picked up by students and carried into other areas of their lives.” In the end, I can’t hold up my old high school as being the best place to be queer. Maybe queer kids are more visible, but visibility does not necessarily translate into joy. However, I cannot take my high school’s accepting environment for granted either. The only thing I can definitively say is that there is a continuous need to push forward and create a better place for the queer kids to come.
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Getting to Queer Joy in Media Written by Kaitlyn Germann Graphic by Christopher Ikonomou
Throughout the past century, media that portrays and represents queerness and queer relationships have changed for the better. When looking at earlier 20th-century queer works, the tone is rather drab, with an understanding that queerness isn’t allowed to be something that is happy or something that leads to happy ends. And, for the majority of situations at the time, there wasn’t happiness in life as a queer person either. Consider the novel, “Mrs. Dalloway” by Virginia Woolf, a renowned lesbian writer of the early 20th century. There is an underlying unhappiness present within the protagonist’s life. This unhappiness of Mrs. Dalloway and her inability to reach her desires throughout the nov-
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el is reminiscent of the way in which queer individuals would often live lives that weren’t lived to their fullest. After all, in the United States, queer individuals weren’t granted the ability to be together until 2015, at least not within a legal marriage. Looking at more present-day media, such as the 2017’s Oscars Best Picture winner, “Moonlight,” there is a happier portrayal of the way in which queer relationships and people can exist. Throughout the film, the protagonist is given the opportunity to live and remain happy, albeit not with their lover. The importance of providing this representation of queer happiness can’t be understated, as it shows the ability to achieve happiness, even as a queer
individual. Furthermore, the evolution of queer happiness can be seen with the progression of queer rights in United States politics. With the uprisings at the Stonewall Inn, Cooper Do-nuts, and Compton’s Cafeteria, there were and continue to be voices that uplift the queer community. Although there is still needed progress regarding politics involving the queer community, queer media becoming more positive is a step in the right direction. With the passage of time and the normalization of queerness, we have been allowed to provide more policy that supports queer people. The way that media and policy are intertwined can’t be understated either, as seen with legislation such as the notorious Hays Code which effectively banned homosexuality from film. The lifting of the Hays Code was then followed by uprisings such as those aforementioned, and I can’t help but think there’s a connection there. In order for there to be better representation that shows the ability for queer happiness to exist, it is essential that people who are queer tell their stories. Stories provide a spotlight on the life of queer individuals who have gone through the motions and been in the shoes of somebody who isn’t sure about
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who they are. They provide a gateway into a possible happiness that people might not have previously thought feasible. Queer joy in media is reflective of the possibility to have queer joy in the real world. In order for this to exist, we must also push for policy and culture that stands up for the right of queer people to simply be, to be able to live a life that they desire. To have their “Moonlight” moments and not just their Dalloway ones. Through this representation of happiness, like the relationship between Ruby and Sapphire in “Steven Universe,” it can persist into the world outside of media representations. Tell friends, tell family members, tell everybody! Let the people know about queerness and show them it is something that simply is, that there need not be a moral judgment made regarding it. Through the rising popularity and production of queer media, there is a possibility for normalization of this queerness and thus, a normalization of there being happiness as a queer person. Normalizing the idea of queer happiness within our own lives and in our media is one step toward more possibilities of queer happiness existing without the worry of persecution by other groups.
by Chrys Marr
Growing Together Written by Lorely Guzman Graphic by Zoë Collins
My dad was, at best, very uncomfortable with queerness before I came out to him. For him, this discomfort stemmed from two prominent aspects of Latino culture: Christianity and machismo. Today, 77% of Latinos in the United States identify as Christian, and traditionally, Christianity has rejected queer people (with some exceptions of more progressive Christian denominations; however, these branches are not predominant in Latino culture). “Machismo,” a term that refers to exaggerated masculine pride, adds to the existing stigma against queer people within our community because it emphasizes being masculine in the “right” way, and for machistas, the “right” way to be a man requires a person to be dominant, aggressive, and heterosexual. My dad held both of these values dearly. From a young age, I watched him be visibly disturbed when gay men were around him, flinch when one of my mom’s male Zumba instructors would reference
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his sexuality, and laugh at the homophobic jokes he’d hear from friends, from novelas, and from stand-up comedy specials. I understood that these beliefs and attitudes were all he had ever known. It didn’t make it hurt less. “Familismo” refers to another core value in Latino culture. You are obligated to support and dedicate yourself to your family, simply because they’re your blood. Turning your back on family is a sin, regardless of who they are and what they’ve done. It’s a value that I knew my dad held dear, and before I came out to him, I took comfort in knowing that at least this value would keep him from throwing me out onto the street. Still, I was afraid. What if he was disturbed by me, flinched away from me, or laughed at the jokes that I knew my extended family would make? I had never not been his precious youngest daughter, and now I had to fear that he would never hug me again. My mom can’t keep secrets. I think that was why I told her first, even though at the time I didn’t consciously know that was my reasoning. Maybe I thought that she could frame it
in a way he would understand and tolerate. More importantly, if she told him, I wouldn’t have to, and maybe then I wouldn’t notice when his behavior towards me changed. Maybe I could lie to myself about why he stopped hugging me, why he was distant, why he didn’t call me his princesa anymore. One evening, however, he was standing in the doorway of my room, and I knew that he knew, and I had no idea what to do. “Mi amor,” he began, and
I stared at him. I don’t know what he saw in my eyes at that moment, but it made him walk towards me and brush his hand against my cheek before murmuring, “You know that I love you no matter what.” And that was that, and I was free. These days, you can find my dad loudly yelling, “Shut up!” at the TV when someone makes a homophobic comment,
watching “RuPaul’s Drag Race” over my mom and I’s shoulders and praising their outfits, and making it a point to add “or girls” when my mom starts talking to me about the boys she thinks I should date. My mom tells me about her frequent fights with homophobes in Facebook comment sections, and she does what she can to shield me from the more ignorant members of our extended family. When I brought my gender identity up to them, I gave up after the fourth time they asked me to clarify because I barely had the right words in English, and I definitely didn’t have them in Spanish. A few days later, though, my mom put on a CNN special on gender fluidity and asked me during every commercial break, “Is that how you feel?” They’ve made mistakes. My mom called my first girlfriend my amiga for our entire relationship and my first boyfriend a novio from day one, and we fought over it. My dad initially thought my queerness was a teenage phase because I dated men after my first girlfriend, and we fought too. When I cut my hair, my mom mourned the sudden shift away from femininity, but when
I told her it made me happy, she swallowed the comments I knew she had and told me I was beautiful. As time has passed, the way our family handles our missteps with each other has shifted from letting them become timebombs to learning from them in the moment. Some people hear about these mistakes and become angry or express sympathy for me. They don’t understand how these mistakes have amplified the joy I’ve found from being queer. My parents aren’t perfect allies. When they stumble, though, it reminds me how far they’ve been willing to go for me despite where they come from. It stops the rage or sadness that others tell me I should feel from ever appearing because all I feel is pride for them and for me. How could I not take joy in who I am, when I have people who love me deeply enough to at least try to understand? My queerness and I are inextricably linked; everything about me is queer, it always has been, and you can’t love me if you don’t love my queerness. Seeing the growth that choosing to love this part of me has inspired in my parents, imperfect as they can be in their allyship, has made me happier than I ever thought I could be. 12
patchwork Written by Jackson Harris Illustrated by Cole Lopez
we are building a new life painting a new life writing a new life defining something beyond the stories and the songs I write your name on my wrist like an incantation sitting waiting for the train to come listen I didn’t know that when I came over it would be so late when I’d go in barely sleeping for three days you walked me out I walked you home then stood there for a moment in the darkness 13
all alone under a streetlight by a street sign one moth one glowing phone text me when you get back? and that is when you when know, star matter is alive inside of your hands and I never want to let you go & i like the way my body shakes because that means this is real i think i like you too i do and i say this i reveal that we are together not forever but for a time that is undefined together, not forever, but. you may crawl inside my mind fallen gods forget-me-nots the endless, relentless need to breathe out summer air my feet are bare I feel the palpitations underneath the hands that are pressing into cotton however fleeting the feeling is it’s not designed to be forgotten and it feels strange, being happy and telling you about it I want to be so close to you and I’ve never felt this close to you and I wish every single person who was standing in this room was like you. 14
forgive me, it’s true I was 17 once, then I was 19, leaving skeletons on costume racks in a sun-filled apartment, trying to bring something back we take our dress shoes off to remove the latch we are alone together we blow out the match and you’re holding my hand while you drive, all sun tattoos and crescent moons, details that are not just details but the imagery and the lines we write, like, we’re in the park and in your car here with this feeling that we find I watch the flowers wrap around you, an ache that’s so sublime and it feels strange, being happy and telling you about it your name on my lips like an incantation and I don’t know how I lived without it for so long I want to be close to you and I’ve never felt this close to you and we are building a new life, painting a new life, writing a new life defining something beyond the folklore, beyond the stories and the songs saying i was 17 once, in need of something to talk about, write about, dream about forever chasing rabbits down holes until they implode but in that time you find, there are more than abstractions pulled out of thin air, water pouring from the eyes, what did and did not happen. I know, surprise.
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Queer Joy: A Soundtrack Written by Tavish Mohanti Graphic by Kelly Doherty
Queer yearning and trauma are common themes through many of pop’s greatest hits from “Sofia” by Clairo to “TALK ME DOWN” by Troye Sivan. But, queerness is not just struggle, sacrifice, and heartbreak. Queerness is bold, vibrant, and exciting. And, while it may be cathartic to sob along to songs alone in bed, sometimes we need music to remind us that queer joy exists. Here are ten songs by queer artists about the queer experience that radiate sunshine and serotonin. 16
“Silk Chiffon” by MUNA (ft. Phoebe Bridgers) “Silk Chiffon” is the perfect song to listen to during the sweet Los Angeles summer as you sip iced coffee and soak up the sunshine. This dreamy track was released by pop-rock band MUNA, whose three members all identify as queer, in 2021 and features bisexual singer-songwriter Phoebe Bridgers, whose music has been heavily influenced by queer authors and writers like Carmen Maria Machado. In the song, MUNA’s lead vocalist Katie Gavin and Bridgers sing about the beauty and euphoria that come from queer love. “Bloom” by Troye Sivan With its catchy production and sultry vocals, “Bloom” pulls you into a garden ripe with exhilaration and anticipation. Troye Sivan, known for his heart-breaking ballads and deep-cutting synth tracks, shows another side of queer love (the good side) with his masterful lyricism. His innuendos and lines like, “Hold my hand if I get scared now,” allow you to experience the thrill and passion of queer love alongside him. “Liz” by Remi Wolf In “Liz,” bisexual bedroom-pop musician Remi Wolf twists queer yearning into queer appreciation. With lyrics like, “And it was Liz, Liz / She taught me how to live / It was Liz, Liz / She taught me how to give / It was Liz, Liz / She taught me how to live,” Wolf highlights the joy and love that grows within queer friendships. Wolf’s edgy and colorful songwriting style makes each one of her songs unique and entertaining to listen to. “Honey” by Kehlani In their soulful R&B track “Honey,” lesbian and non-binary singersongwriter Kehlani shows us that there is joy to be found in the messy complexity of queerness. The Grammy-nominated musician sings, “Oh, I’m a beautiful wreck / A colorful mess, but I’m funny,” reminding us to enjoy the complicated nature and blurred lines of the queer identity.
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“Make Me Feel” by Janelle Monáe Written and performed by Janelle Monáe, “Make Me Feel” is a funky Prince-influenced track that makes you want to jump onto the nearest elevated surface and dance like nobody’s watching. Monae has established herself as a queer icon with her message about living freely and joyously; in 2018, Monae came out as pansexual, and in 2022, she came out as non-binary. In an interview with Rolling Stone, they said, “Being a queer Black woman in America, someone who has been in relationships with both men and women — I consider myself to be a free-ass motherfucker.” “Coconuts” by Kim Petras With the release of “Coconuts” in 2021, trans artist Kim Petras invented a whole new genre of music. Her self-proclaimed “slut pop” is a combination of unabashed confidence and total sexual freedom. “Coconuts,” with its intoxicating beat and flirty lyrics, is pure fun and embodies a form of unfiltered, unhindered queer joy. “fan behavior” by Isaac Dunbar Liberian-Italian songwriter Isaac Dunbar marries Billie Eilish’s iconic dark alt-pop sound with Remi Wolf’s “stream of consciousness” lyricism in his 2021 track “fan behavior.” Dunbar’s edgy production, confident lyrics, and cold laugh are sure to make any listener feel like a bad b****. With gems like, “I guess I’ve got myself a fan (Join the club, join the club, join the club),” Dunbar shows us it’s sexy to know your own self-worth. “Comme des Garçons (Like the Boys)” by Rina Sawayama In “Comme des Garçons (Like the Boys),” Japanese-British artist Rina Sawayama sings about the exhilaration and delight that comes with ditching the gender binary and living confidently in a queer reality. There is joy in confidence, and Sawayama’s track makes you feel like a model strutting down the runway no matter what you are wearing.
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“Immaterial” by SOPHIE Being queer is fun. That message sits at the core of trans musician SOPHIE’s song, “Immaterial.” This song, alongside the other tracks of SOPHIE’s album, “OIL OF EVERY PEARL’S UN-INSIDES,” pushed the boundaries of the music industry when the album was released in 2017. Its upbeat, maximalist production was the start of a new genre of hyper-pop, and the song itself describes the joy that comes from living outside the boundaries of society. “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga It is impossible to make a list of joyful queer songs without mentioning “Born This Way” by Lady Gaga. On the track, Lady Gaga urges everyone to find contentedness in their identities, “no matter gay, straight, or bi,” and to have a good time unapologetically. After its release in 2011, “Born This Way” became an anthem for queer pride and joy, and it serves as a reminder that queerness should be a source of celebration, not a source of sadness, “cause you were born this way, baby.”
Listen to the playlist on Spotify!
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by Zoë Collins
A Revisit
Written by Shaanth Kodialam Illustrated by Chrys Marr
In July 2021, I decided to revisit my childhood school, Eisenhower Elementary. I decided to go because I had felt so many emotions from the culmination of so many situations, relationships, experiences, and lessons, and I was left with this feeling like I was losing myself. I had recently discovered I was attending UCLA, and much of what was tying me back to the Bay Area was slowly dissipating. The days felt like a blur, like reading the pages in a book and realizing you’ve made it to the end of a chapter and you remember nothing. The sense of liminality and being in a transition plagued me. I was looking for definition from the abstract, something concrete from the abyss. Something about life up until the end of middle school was always so intense. It was the combination of feeling a queerness under attack, a loneliness fueled by apathy, and a lack of community all at once that created a euphoria of emptiness. I’ve heard that word in its many different flavors: euphoric, orgasmic, enchanting, intense, but all I feel is that
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everyone craves those emotions at their peak. Everyone wants to feel a sense of fulfillment, a: “this is what I’m supposed to be feeling” when they feel great. But what about the importance of lows? What about those of us who have moments, experiences filled with an unavoidable lack of emotions rather than presence? The car slowly inches up to the curb I walked away from on my last day of school, carrying a Trader Joe’s bag of books I thought I never wanted to let go of; knowing that others had read those words and felt those same emotions emanating from a page provided me with a deep comfort. I recall the cheap fabric of these short turquoise pants I was wearing that day, their brightness symbolizing my effervescence. This child deeply resonates with me. They may not have known it, but they could not get enough experiences. It was not that life had yet to place its rough, coarse palms over their gentle, ductile soul — they had been experiencing what it felt like to be under attack for a long time. But in spite of this, they were voracious for knowledge and
their appetite grew daily. Slowly but steadily, my younger, jovial silhouette starts to reappear, frolicking in the playground with my fairy sandals in the tanbark, swinging on the monkeybars. There were so many times that I fell into the sand expecting to be caught but instead forcefully thrust back up. The sand beneath me did not push me away or refuse me in my most vulnerable self. It gently yet firmly reminded me there is another chance. After every bruise and scar, there was another opportunity to get back up. It was time for me to make my way to the actual school. I remember peering over the hill demarcating the boundary of school and park where so many of us rolled ad infinitum, endlessly praying we could feel our stomachs swirling and minds racing. But I wanted to give myself time to look at the school properly. That intensity, that feeling that everything was passing me by so quickly, was creeping back into my psyche again; it’s attached to the memories of school. I had to make sure that intentionality followed my
every move, because if I did not, I knew I would be replicating the harshness of my childhood that made every moment so fleeting. I don’t have the benefit of the naivety that comes with being outside, every detail from the prickliness of the grass to the amalgamated noise of my peers flooding my mind with stimulation. There is a family celebrating their birthday with a jumphouse, colored with royal purples and daring reds. Friends, community, and embrace fill the air of the bubble they’ve created. I remember having a similar one myself. This poetic moment is a reminder to keep going, a reminder of why I came to this park. I see cyclicality surrounding me; there was a reason I was called to come here today. It’s so clear that I get to witness a cycle upon its return, and that this child will have a journey in which they revisit this spot, too. At this moment, I feel all-powerful yet powerless when it comes to my reality. The edges of the portables, pink hues of the swing set, and blues coloring the classrooms intensify, and I’m forced to
“At this moment, I feel all-powerful yet powerless when it comes to my reality.” 24
face the place I once called my school. I recall a memory as I witnessed another group of kids out with their daycare supervisor. Walking back home from a day of seventh grade, I walked through my elementary school on the way. An old supervisor noticed me and recognized me, asking me how I was doing. “So how have you been? Have you changed the world yet?” they said. I replied, “What? What do you mean? I’m in seventh grade.” “I just remember the younger you being so eager to make things different and wanting to change the world. I just thought that you’d continue that in middle school.” It’s so tempting to shove this particular memory away. It goes beyond hurting, it burns. I want to say I’m sorry to this supervisor, but that’s not the person whom I must apologize to, and I know it. I must say sorry to myself. I must mourn the child who had yet to become jaded, tired, and afraid of what life would bring and for me, the younger me who had yet to see the negotiation of my identities all in one and how those could be my superpower and vice simultaneously. But I continue to cross the fields. I fall and lay on the
ground, touching the grass, absorbing the flashbacks and memories. It’s all important to me. Feeling the overcast project its own, symbolic shadow over my body, the little brown, gay child and their silhoutte reappears. They’re laughing, but scared. They know there’s something in the future that is special for them.
“I must say sorry to myself.”
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I chose to come here not just to reminisce. For so many queer folks, who we were as children, when we were untouched by the confines of reality and its harsh preconceptions of who we should be, is who we strive to recreate. The freedom, the unabashed embrace of our deepest selves is something that we have learned to fear over time. The pain that I was looking to heal from will never stop this child. This child pushed and fought at every corner of society that rejected them. They remodeled these corners and built soft edges that caressed them when those hiding in the margins rejected them. I realized again that this child knew, unlike me, that although other people were going to seem stronger and
bigger, they “Peace is not a status that were not going to be stopped exists in solitude or a vacuum; by anyone. They knew that their it’s an everlasting pursuit of next experience getting back up.” was just another hill to usurp. I had changed by forgetting that. They challenged This elementary campus is every interaction with a burning no longer mine. There are new passion so bright that their adults, new children playing on future reflected onto everyone, the playground and a zipline demanding to be noticed. This that I could never manage to child impacts everyone they actually cross. They have new come into contact with. This strengths, challenges, and ideas child is me. about the world just as intricate My name, Shaanth, means and enthralling as mine, if not peace in Hindi. I often joke more, but their experiences will around with my close friends never be mine and mine never that this is ironic to anyone theirs. I must end this revisit who knows me. I’ve grown and make my way back to where up to become intense, all this child’s world has taken over the place at times, and them, one experience at a time, unapologetic. But I’ve noticed onwards toward a peace I’m that this child has lost their searching to define. name’s meaning over time because of the contortion, pain, and confusion that thrived in their mind. I came to this school to remind myself not why but who and what I am fighting and waking up for. Peace is not a status that exists in solitude or a vacuum; it’s an everlasting pursuit of getting back up, falling through an abyss and clawing your way back to the top. I will find peace; I will find what Shaanth means for myself. I will see this child’s journey through. 26
HAIR:
Chronicling My JourNey to Queer Joy
Written by Judah Castillo Illustrated by Christopher Ikonomou
The hardest part about being a Brown person who was socialized as a girl was enduring the constant jabs about my hair. I hit puberty at 9, which meant that there were years and years of constant insecurity about my hair. It was too much, too messy, and there was always hair in all the wrong places. The hair on my head was beautiful, thick, and long, but the hair on my body was ugly, thick, and wrong. As a Brown person, my facial and body hair were always under scrutiny, especially because my hair grew at faster rates (and was much thicker) than my other peers. I was tormented for my Frida Kahlolike brows, for my arms that looked like a werewolf’s, for my body not being up to par with white, cishet beauty standards. One time, my aunt cruelly joked that she was going to gift me money for laser hair removal because the hair on my arms was too much for her. My mom was always reluctant to let me cut my hair. She wanted me to keep it long when I was younger, mostly to symbolize empty promises of quinceañeras to other family
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members and to possibly help me find un novio. I despised the hair on my head. Although my hair was straight, I could never control it. It was thick, messy, unruly, and always tangled. Even when I brushed it out, I would come back home with some pretty gnarly knots in my hair. My long hair was inconvenient, and my mom’s claims that keeping my hair long would make me look more feminine did not sway my opinion. She’d make sure that the hair on my head grew out, but the hair on my face and on my arms were problems that needed to be fixed. In the winter of my senior year of high school, my relationship with femininity was becoming muddled by my blossoming inquiries into androgyny. My mom finally let me cut my hair after years of it torturing me. I remember looking into the mirror and noticing that the haircut made my face just a little bit sharper. My facial hair had grown out a little by then, and I looked the most masculine I had in a while. I remember thinking to myself, “I like the way this looks… A lot,
actually.” For the first time in a while, I felt confident in the way I looked, and I felt secure in who I was. That was the first time I experienced queer joy, but even then I was reluctant to allow myself to feel that joy. The nagging thoughts of my hair, and what other people thought, scared me. I had been conditioned to feel that the hair on my head had to be long and that my body had to be as smooth as a baby’s.
I was flourishing in my newly found queer identity. Queer joy is not something you find right away What got to me the most was expression. I was always viewed as a little more masculine by default because my body had always been out of fashion in the cishet, white world. I struggled at first with getting used to the hair on my body; for months I was conflicted, torn between the joy from how androgynous it made me feel and the misery
“That was the first time I experienced queer joy, but even then I was reluctant to allow myself to feel that joy.” I stuck to a schedule of monthly waxing and weekly shaving. I spent $75 every few months to get rid of my facial hair. My Frida Kahlo unibrow and my mustache were removed from my face, and my legs were shaved (although my arms stayed the same). Then the pandemic happened, and for better or for worse, it sent me through an identity crisis. That was my reason for allowing myself to grow my hair out, mostly because the world was hiding away from a deadly virus and there were no places I could have gone to be waxed (understandably so). By 2020,
that societal expectations had placed upon me since I hit puberty. I didn’t exactly fall in love with the way I looked now overnight; my appearance had to grow on me. But when it finally did, it was the best feeling in the world. When I look in the mirror now, I feel queer joy. I feel content with who I am, and secure in my identity. Queer joy isn’t like fireworks; it’s more like taking a sip of warm coffee in a cold morning. It is a soft type of content, a feeling that washes over you as you finally realize that this is who you always were. 29
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