Because we have the right to create and distribute work that critically considers the world around us and our place in it as young women and as women of color. Because we have the right to let others know what we think, connect with those who feel the same way, and educate those who disagree. Because we have the right to acknowledge that we have been oppressed as women and as women of color and to encourage other women to identify and fight against oppression in their lives. Because we have the right to help cultivate a strong female community at K College, in Kalamazoo, in this country, and in the world. Because we fucking hate patriarchal, hierarchical, bourgeoisie, white supremacist society that tells us we're weak. Because we have the right to not speak, and listen, and shout at the top of our lungs, and be acknowledged and respected. Because we have the right to wear our hair naturally, cut short, legs hairy, short dresses, or low cut shirts without being ogled. Because we have the right to flaunt our sexuality and visions without consequences, threats, or fear. Because we love our fat, bony, curved, muscular, soft, pale, dark, golden, beautiful selves. Because we remember that what we do to the earth and each other, we do to ourselves. Because our anger and sadness and empathy and love is valid, and we won't apologize for it, or let it be burned out or turned against us. Because we believe the change will not be televised, tweeted, posted, tagged, blogged about, painted, sung, scrawled, or published. Because we believe the change starts from within. Because we believe in the inherent dignity of each and every person. Because we believe in a better world with our whole spirits, minds, and bodies, and imagining and working toward one is what we do.
Study Miranda Hoegberg hysteria, from the Latin pathological hyster, uterus; fist-sized organ babies or nothing in there, not fists and also—pathological perversion of the moral and intellectual faculties uterus—you tear us, trust us ONE: What is wrong with me?
You always wonder whether people are going through the same thing as you. the vagina is tilted brainwards and the uterus may wander wander through you till you wonder oh my, what is wrong with me? no matter who you are or what you do TWO: I feel like I’m not normal and if takeing out my overies would help I would do it. What
can I do to stop this. overies, over meaning how they are situated just over your brain, in the part of your head where you don’t think, you know you are made for and from babies and that’s a pretty hard thing to hear ies, being the multiplicity of I created by the overies being so much over the thinking Does this help? THREE: my questions are the basic questions i spose does it hurt will i bleed how big of a chance
do i have of getting pregnet with a condom if my partners penis is to big can that really hurt me? Oh you really don’t wanna know what I think. the vagina tilts upstairs
and the uterus may wander but not far; one always finds it through the hymen, the hymen is flesh Oh you don’t want me to go there the hymen is flesh, it tears hymen, from hymn (sounds a lot like him), the hymn of two bodies connected at the crux FOUR: Does anyone have any advice at all as to how I can ignore the negative feelings?
clitoris, from the Greek perhaps to shut shut like a cut that sews itself together again shut like an eye like a mouth like a tiny door at the back of the mind shut the door and it can’t see you and you can’t see it— you forget it’s there FIVE: Do you feel the urge to have sex with a male? Only females?
Sex would have to be half the pie. Maybe even three-quarters. sticking things into other things being stuck; it’s like eating half or most of a pie; the pieces that are left determine the perversity and the pathology All I had to do was to open—and then we would—she would be there.
SIX: Is it possible to have sex and have it mean something?
The vaginal opening is is a way of like making an emotional connection with people around you and that’s super-important and really good and it carries an erotic power in fact. vagina, from the Latin sheath, scabbard to protect the sword, to protect people from the sword put it in the sheath and that’s sex one and one Who would have thought men would start acting like us. Like u-ter-us. What has gotten into the air. pathology and private parts SEVEN: Is this normal?
normal, normalis, from the Latin regular typical heterosexual perpendicular conventional physically and mentally sound; free from any disorder any dis-order any dis-organ
Works Cited Annie. Interview by Ira Glass. “Middle School.” This American Life. National Public Radio, Oct. 28, 2011. Podcast. “Clitoris.” Oxford English Dictionary. OED Online, 2012. Web. 20 February, 2012. http://www.oed.com. Fontana, Marian. Interview by Ira Glass. “Ten Years In.” This American Life. National Public Radio, Sept. 9, 2011. Podcast. “Hysteria.” Oxford English Dictionary. OED Online, 2012. Web. 20 February, 2012. http://www.oed.com. Koenig, Sara. “Gossip.” This American Life. National Public Radio, Aug. 26, 2011. Podcast. “Normal.” Oxford English Dictionary. OED Online, 2012. Web. 29 February, 2012. http://www.oed.com. Rebecca. Interview by David Segal. “Parent Trap.” This American Life. National Public Radio, Feb. 18, 2011. Podcast. Snyder, Julie. Interview by Sara Koenig. “Gossip.” This American Life. National Public Radio, Aug. 26, 2011. Podcast. “Vagina.” Oxford English Dictionary. OED Online, 2012. Web. 20 February, 2012. http://www.oed.com. Various contributors. Female Sexual Health Forum. Discovery Fit and Health. Web. 16 February, 2012. http://community.discovery.com.
A Title About Entitlement
i’m fifteen. you’re eighteen. but you’re telling me you like me. this is good. i think about you a lot. you say that we should hang out. but i don’t tell you how much i agree. this is good. i come over. you ask me to lay in bed. but i’m nervous; i talk about your DVDs. this could be good. i shut up. you kiss me hard. but i’ve only kissed one person before. this could be good. i have to go. you say you want more soon. but i guess i’m not sure what that means. this might be good. i’m back now. you say you think we should fuck. but i’m scared, that’s not what i want. this might not be good.
i say no. you say it “wasn’t a suggestion.” but it’s getting late & i need a ride home. this might still be good. i ask for one. you say no, you won’t do it. but you say there’s one way you would. this is not good. i laugh. you say you aren’t kidding. but i can’t believe this is really happening. this is not good. i say it’s not fair. you call it “a ride for a ride.” but you think this is funnier than i do. this will not be good. i can’t breathe. you reach for a condom. but i’ve never felt so unsafe. this will not be good. i lay down. you get on top. but i stare at the ceiling. it wasn’t good.
That Boy Fucked Prostitutes Before He Met Me That boy fucked prostitutes before he met me. I didn’t realize for many months, until one day I was drawing on the kitchen floor I dropped my crayon and I realized. The gag reflex I had loved to prove I didn’t have came back. I threw up skittles and fresca on the white tiles and my leg. The hot red inside me that used to pound at the sound of his voice Was suddenly the cold, incandescent pulse of the red light district which left me feeling empty (as it does to so many), and all the sweet nothings and tears he kissed off my face swished and clanged to the floor like currency. Be responsible, act your age, and be a lady. Such high standards for that boy who fucked prostitutes before he met me. Maybe I reminded him too much of those women who weren’t women. When we made love, he called me bitch. I cried then when I wondered if he meant it.
Naked&Pleasure& & N&othing&matters&but&the&feel&of&our&two&bodies&intertwined& a&s&we&slither&between&the&sheets&on&those&humid&July&nights.& K&eeping&our&voices&low&is&not&an&option&when&we&both&reach& e&cstasy,&not&wanting&the&surge&of&feeling&to&fade&away&into&the&& d&aylight&as&the&serene&darkness&is&cast&away&and&those&moments& & p&ass&by&and&are&gone.&Laying&atop&each&others&chest&our&& l&onging&for&one&another&is&soothed&by&our&heartbeats,& e&ven&and&synchronized,&as&if&we&were&one.&Nothing&in&the&world&is& a&nything&like&the&way&we&look&at&each&other,&unable&to&& s&earch&and&find&any&emotions&that&haven’t&already&been&expressed,& u&nwavering,&afraid&to&look&away&just&in&case&we&won’t&be&able&to& r&ecreate&the&desire&we&had&for&each&other&seconds&before.&We&won’t& e&ver&be&able&to&recreate&the&exact&feeling&we&have&in&this&moment.& & & DUndisClosed& & &
In the springtime everything unbuckles. The bindings ravel out, that is, unravel; the sun awakes the ancient urge for travel which I appease by cracking all my knuckles and taking spirit-flights from out my navel. (We tell ourselves that life's in sharper focus with all the pushings-up of purple crocus.) - Fiona Carey ---------
Why I am a feminist (Tell Them) By Hales Laughing, Playing, Enjoying, Are all the little girls on the playground. Why are they happy? Someone should tell them! Tell Them! Tell them they got the short end of the stick in life. Tell them life would have been easier if they had been boys. Tell Them The Truth Moms! Tell them that because of their gender, the men in their lives will war for control. Tell them about their sexuality and how it will never truly be theirs. Tell them how they do not get a say about what happens to their bodies. How their uterus will always be a pawn for some political or religious debate on what is right and wrong in the eyes of God and his men on earth. Tell the how all men are free, Yet still women have to fight for a tiny bit of freedom. Tell them that their bodies will be seen as the sexual objects of some man. That some men will think okay to take what is not freely given, because girls are just objects after all, and objects cant have feelings. Tell them they will be called a bitch if they say what they think. They must always remember that objects don’t think. Tell them the ‘aww that’s so adorable ‘ look they get now when they have an idea, You know the one that annoys them to no end? That condescending look will continue to be given through the rest of their lives. Oh, and how when a man will take the same idea and present it, It will be deemed ingenious. Tell them their own sisters want to fight to keep them down, Because submitting is safe, Because submitting is what he wants. We wouldn’t want our Master uncomfortable would we? Tell them about aspirations, and how they shouldn’t have them. Tell them the terms ‘slut’ and ‘whore’ will go a flyin’ if they choose to see sex as males do. Don’t forget about how they are frigid prudes if they abstain.
Tell them that they can’t educate themselves about their own bodies, And how to protect themselves from harm Because the vagina freaks out the men in power Tell them “Heres Barbie, she’s what you must strive to be” An object, a puppet A plastic toy that doesn’t speak And doesn’t think. In other words, a misogynist’s wet dream Tell them that if they don’t doll up like Barbie each day They will be deemed lazy, a lesbian, or other so called insults created to make them comply Tell them they’ll be taught to police each other and destroy any girl with emotional torment if said girl breaks free from the pack Tell them they cannot be smart, And if they are unfortunate enough to be intelligent, They need to learn to dumb it down Too soothe the male egos around them. Tell them they will always get paid less then their male counterparts For the same job, and effort Tell them that to most men they date they will be property until HE is through. Oh, and how when there is a man around, They must always follow his lead Even when he may be wrong. And how when their boyfriend or husband strays They have to stand by their man Because they must not have been satisfying him But when the roles are reversed, He dumps her And she is labeled a filthy whore. Tell them they might as well get used to hearing the insults: BITCH SLUT WHORE And CUNT Because they will be used by men and women frequently to keep the little girls in their place. On second thought, Don’t tell them, Tell them its not you place And that you are sorry
Just like were conditioned to respond to anything controversial since the beginning. I mean there is no need to worry her pretty little head over such silly things. Just let the little boy push your little girl, Just let him hurt your baby, make her cry and feel weak and ashamed to be Tell her “he only hurts you because he likes you sweetie” so she lets it continue I mean it only gets worse as she gets older, When her innocence is ripped away one night while she screams no When she tries to save her own life in a dark alley way When a knife is plunged into her own womb, ensuring another little girl never comes into this world. When she crys herself to sleep at night because the bruises hurt to much and they are to dark to hide with make up. When she realizes her hair is long because every thing that is owned needs a leash. She will stop crying out for you, her mother, Because it was her mother who didn’t prepare her Yet she dosen’t understand that you never knew how That you were never prepared yourself Then one day she’ll come to realize that there is no such thing as a safe place And she prays to her Goddess, (because God has been so cruel to her) That in the future other little girls never know this pain, “Oh Goddess, take me someplace better where I could be someone, not someone’s something” she will say He, one of the ones that harms her grants her wish He gives her death And she’s at peace, one of the lucky ones. Maybe if her mother would of warned her, She would have been more wary, Or at least had someone to talk to. But its no matter now, It’s not your fault as her mother, It isn’t any womyns fault, So don’t worry about your baby girl, Soon there will be no more worry in her pretty little head.
Emerson Invert and Femmedymion would like to thank the Arcus Center for Social Justice Leadership and Student Commission for their generous grant(s), without which RPD would not be here. Thank you for allowing us a space (and reason!) for creativity through art and writing to critically question and make sense of our world.
I love full circles. This time last year, Clara and i were putting together the prototypical issue of RPD for our intro to women's studies final. This year, we're putting together the eighth issue, and the final one for the 2011-12 school year. It's weird, because completing a project like this isn't that out of the realm of possibility—yet, at the same time, when we talked about making RPD a fullblown, campus-wide publication at this time last year, it felt pretty much like a pipe dream. Yet, here we are, and it's been nothing short of exhilarating. Tho Clara and i "edit" the zine, nearly all of the content comes from readers. And that's what's so exciting. This rawness is not self-generated. We were able to extend beyond ourselves to find authentic voices and feelings and expression and art, and we are so grateful for everyone who has submitted, read, supported, talked about, and/or thought about the zine. We hope that everyone who has read it has been able to connect with it on some level, has felt that at least some piece of their experience was reflected—and, if it wasn't, we hope everyone felt the space and always open invitation to submit a piece of their experience themselves. The zine is an act of resistance, resistance of patriarchy, racism, homophobia, sexism, and all other forms of institutionalized hate and oppression. We want to keep resisting. We hope you do, too. — Chelsey
to my long evening shadow Miranda Hoegberg screw you that’s what i’d like to do lay down on the ground breathe grit and fuck you like i know you well till your slope breasts and your narrow hips and your slow loping grace are mine all mine to feel within me then i’d stand silhouette tinted ready to stilt walk and i’d never again darken the ground beneath me ----------------------
I can think of nothing bolder than walking right up to the idea of Sappho and looking her in the eye. She's been a mask, or a starting place, or a firmament, or an illustration, just like all the other greats, I guess. But especially her. People wrap themselves up in her words just 'cause they're hers, or unravel them, strangle and tangle in both directions on something that's already frayed to begin with. Damn if I don't wish just like every other squawling monkey of the centuries-later world that I could know, just once, just see fifteen minutes of her creating something, so I could know, so I could know more of what her story was. Anne Carson says “It seemed that she knew and loved women as deeply as she did music. Can we leave the matter there?” Of course I don't want to. I think I will just have to trust the cosmos on this one. (I read that in 23,000 years, the sky will be aligned the same way as it was when the Babylonians were doing their thing. The ancients are just the ancients. We are not so different.) And I have got to say. I have been falling in love with the spaces she left. All those papyri, they were torn, or crumbled, literally. The matter of them was damaged. There are words that come down to us, and clauses — but the blanks between them make me hotter than an August noon! I want to curl up in those voids and [ ]. Maybe it's because I can never stop from writing the next sentence. I find it refreshing, silence which is neither entirely tranquil nor raped and ragged at the edges. Its buzzing is attractive to me. We have enough of her to feel stings of her. Part of me starts hammering, and saying that it's doubtless, doubtless, that I felt something she did, if ever she called out to Aphrodite, and if she said, among other things, that love was “percussion, salt, and honey.” --FDC
The Road to freedom The Road to freedom is not paved in ties The Road to freedom is not paved in weights
The Road to freedom is not paved in subordination The Road to freedom is not paved in cooptation
The Road to freedom is not lined with cubicles The Road to freedom is not lined with offices
The Road to freedom has no exit ramps The Road to freedom has no express lane
The Road to freedom has many tolls The Road to freedom does not accept money
The Road to freedom is not found on a map The Road to freedom is not found in a classroom
The Road to freedom is not paved The Road to freedom is not walled
The Road to freedom cannot be navigated with a GPS The Road to freedom cannot be circumvented with their acceptance
The Road to freedom does not end with you being the same as them The Road to freedom is an experience you must engage.
by Arik Mendelevitz
Dear Granddad, Subbaraman There's a pang of sadness that swells in my chest with the tears in my eyes when I see your decrepit figure. The tears roll away from my cheeks, falling to the ground along with my gaze upon you. My head hangs low, I stare, and the patchy beige hues of the carpet mock the dotage of your skin. The absorbance of a tear into the carpet makes another mark in the midst of the others. My chest stays tight. I clutch the cast iron stair railing with the same tightness, and I feel the coarse metal edges press against my palm. There is a twinge of pain. I wonder if it hurts, what is happening to you. Your wispy cough pulls my gaze up from the carpet and back to you. Hunched over, back arched, vertebrae peaking through old cloth so loose on your body now. You're wearing the same tartan plaid pajamas you wore when it was Christmas and I was young; Younger than now. Your skin had healthy wrinkles, like all the other Granddads. You smelled of burnt toast and dapper cologne and your slippers made a sound on the hardwood floor I could never quite emulate with my bare feet. Now you don't move much and your slippers sit by the foot of the bed. Those hard soles that knocked on the wood and made my favorite sound have long been worn away. You sniffle lightly, and my gaze follows your feeble hands wrapped loosely in transparent skin as they reach into your breast pocket. The knuckles whiten as a handkerchief is grasped, heavy eyelids drag closed in a persistent wince, and I wonder which kind of pain you feel. There is no way to know, but I wince with you and a familiar pang of sadness grasps me once again.
There is little time left for you to gaze, this I know, but there is a silence so heavy it weighs down this time and I become convinced it will not progress. A series of notes crackle from your small radio and shatter the quiet created by the decrescendo of a long life lived. I watch you and I wonder if you feel the beat of your old heart reaching a steady ritardando. I wonder again if it hurts, and if you fear the silence that follows the gradual end of the beats thumping life through you. The cast iron railing, hot from my persistent grasp, itches uncomfortably in my palm as I recall all of the times you phoned us, asking after me because I refused to talk; All the other times you heard silence, because I would not play my sonatas for you. I know I deserve the pain I feel because it's not like yours. I grasp a little harder and I cringe— I have lived a fraction of the years you have, and there has been a fraction of your life in my years.
Angel, Baby by anonymous i am not a woman (yet) not completely evil three quarters there more than half way there i am such a despicable creature such a wretched ugly beast who would wanna date me? i'd marry death in a heart beat i wouldn't go to church if you tied me i'd kill you if you backstabbed me and i respect little to nothing already such a damned little one "...and so young" i can hear the interviewees on the tv screen and with "so much potential" almost "angelical" oh, what a load of crap if you could see through me you would vomit at the sight of black crystal lungs that breathe ominously the green intestines convulsing and the crime-scene of a missing heart queen of darkness they call me that one witch that one demon who is evil who is damned so no don't slide your hands up my skirt don't caress my thighs don't kiss me but if you must you better gently peck and keep your tongue between your
cheeks i'm already fucked so don't spread me open don't play with my breasts don't picture my nakedness i am trying to save me! i'm three quarters into hell another step and i'm stuck there for all eternity and my virgnity is the only key to semi-purity i'm still un-opened i'm still white -a little bit i'm still virginal celestial and a little cynical but i'm no lucifer unless i let you in