The Safe Spaces Issue

Self.

“What do you do on days like today?”

An excellent question. I prepare

A cup of tea, (for pleasure) And look In the mirror (for contradictions) And sit By myself

(for provocation of thought)

That is it, in full. I think.

My mind is something to be Unbothered, undisturbed, untouched (as in to say, It is bothered and disturbed and touched by everything)

On days like today, I ponder.

It feels right to ponder, Though that is not why I do it. It is my right to ponder

And also a passion It solves nothing besides My desires for privacy

For who will know Myself

Like I do?

(no one, no one)

This is comfort

Either, Or dismay. The sanctuary of independence, And the inherent loneliness of Existing.

My thought is for me,

And I like this, My thought is for me, And I hate this

O, loveliness!

(is appalling)

O, solitude! (is beautiful)

Endless, endless, Is my philosophy. Thank goodness

It is!

Endless is my search for divulgence.

Ambition! What would I do

Without you?

by rosemary cole

close to whole again

by katherine bracy

I have always loved beauty. And while, almost subliminally, I got the idea that beauty was shallow, I also was educated from a young age on the power of dress-up. Ritualistically every weekend my mom would take me to Blockbuster to exchange DVDs, and every week I chose a new Barbie movie. I watched, transfixed, through movie after movie as Barbie would magically transform into her box-cover ensemble. The luscious pink gowns and sparkling wings changed something in her as she exited the cloud of glitter dust; Barbie had metamorphosed, and I knew that she had accessed something powerful.

But I got too old for Barbie, and too old for dress-up. And between classes and friends, I started to notice a creeping, insidious change in me. I had

not been aware, previously, that I saw myself as one whole being, until I didn’t anymore. When puberty hit, I started to get this sense that my body was a separate part of me; it was something that I wore, and it didn’t always do what I wanted it to. A thing unnameable beyond just age seemed to steal the pink from my bedroom walls, tear the glitter off my shirts, and dump Barbie in the trash. Something important was being taken from me- my powers had been zapped.

There is something that happens to girls when their minds still feel like children. At my Catholic School, the female staff instructed my friends and I how to sit with our ankles crossed and knees together, held tight in wooden church pews while the boys played outside. With the dress code, we could not wear makeup or paint our nails or wear more than one piece of jewelry, but still, another girl would point out that I didn’t shave my legs, or that the pimples appearing on my

face were made me gross- and the school’s rules weren’t all I had to consider.

That thing unnameable, lurking around us all in general society, became a code. And the code was our true Bible. None of us had written it as far as we knew, but it seemed to plop down out of the sky and be strictly held to all of womankind by its devoted disciples. Faces were to be clear and with natural makeup. Any frizz was to be straightened out of hair unless on special occasions- therein if you had straight hair you would curl it, and vice versa. Your skin should be smooth and hairless, and nails must always be painted (toenails only required in the summer). We even had our own subset of the code to account for our restricting uniform policy. A special brand of button up, tailored to make you look curvier, was to be worn exclusively. And morning after morning we silently rolled up our skirts in bathroom mirrors.

natural how intensely the sight of others ingrained itself into my mind. As I sat in class or lunch or church my body burned from my own ever-critical gaze: “What is wrong with you? You are not what you’re supposed to be.” Eventually I bought a pocket-sized blue hairbrush that I would obsessively scrape through my hair in the bathroom between class, and under my desk if no one was looking.

These were the perimeters under which I lived, albeit poorly. My hair was my biggest flaw, and in the mornings I made myself late struggling terribly to lay it flat. It was strange, but too

The older I grew the worse it got. Getting out of bed I looked at my body with disgust as I frantically dressed it to cover up anything undesirable. The wounds of fear and shame that had solely motivated my daily transfiguration festered into red hot anger as I failed time and time again to make myself perfect. The terrible watcher in my head, that thing unnameable that had tormented me for years stripped away any innocence or magic from what would be dressing up. I realized that Barbie was a doll like I was, shoved into the right clothes and slapped with a pink smile just to be told that it was beauty- that it was power.

It was here, at the pinnacle of resentment, that I was locked

away from the world for a year. The shock of quarantine and the supernatural speed at which I adapted to it had me feeling like I was living in another dimension, both simpler and more complicated. The delusion that I was always being watched, always being held to perfection, couldn’t be sustained anymore- it literally could not be true. All outside forces had been taken away, the thing unnameable stayed at bay behind a computer screen, and all that was left was my body and the judgment of my own mind, fierce on its own.

There was some relief to be found in a lack of social interactions, but it also left me with a lot of spare energy. Most of my days were spent playing video games, failing to learn to paint, or searching online for little projects I could do, itching for a sense of productivity and completion. And one day, I stumbled across a several hours long rabbit hole of people making Hastune Miku costumes. I quickly learned that Miku is more of a “what” than a “who:” Firstly, she is an electronic voice program that can be downloaded and tuned to sing any song. And from

that technology, came her fame and eventually her image. She is depicted as a teenage girl with long turquoise pigtails, a hot pink headset and mic, futuristic clothes, and megahigh boots. She is a tool, she is a hologram, she is a character, and she is the Internet’s popstar. She captivated me. She felt like I did, a disjointed body and a voice. She was Barbie for the new age.

I became instantly obsessed, and now had a project on deck to throw all my creative energy into. There was something so… magical about the idea of dressing up as her, I was giddy with the idea of making a beautiful costume that no one would see. I couldn’t leave my house if I wanted to, so why not abandon the conceptions I held around my appearance for a bit. For about two weeks, I spent every day on her. I braved my local Goodwill digging for blue-green clothes I could repurpose. I studied wig styling videos, while almost melting the plastic hair strands with the force of my crimping iron. I hand painted and hand sewed and meticulously hot glued every nook and cranny, but I was eventually done.

I remember the day I first wore it. I had just finished sewing the last stitch in the skirt, and had nothing but time left in the day to really do it justice. I put on my favorite record and dragged my giant makeup bin by my mirror where I sat. I sang as I painted my face with bright blues and pinks in outrageous style. My eyeshadow was big, bold, and certainly not the face of natural beauty. My eyes were made huge and fluttering by my false lashes, and I swiped glitter across my blue lips as the finishing touch. Next, I carefully but quickly got into the body piece, trying to fight between excitement and an uncertainty that my stitching would hold. As I put on the arm warmers and then the boots, I felt more and more a surge of confidence. It was a silly notion, but with every piece I felt like I left my insecurities behind to step into Miku’s persona. I couldn’t help giggling as I tried to fit the wig on my head without a mirror, not wanting to spoil the surprise, but finally I was ready. I walked over to the mirror with my hands over my eyes, basically vibrating in anticipation, and slowly spread my fingers to get a look at myself. Like emerging from

a cloud of glitter dust, there I was. By all accounts I was wearing a costume, covering up everything authentic about my appearance, but that day my room was devoid of shame or anger or fear. I beamed, I looked at myself, and kept looking.

I realized that the record was silent, and after dashing to flip it over I exploded into dance around my room, unable to stop looking in the mirror. My cheeks sore from smiling, I realized that in the quiet when I first saw myself, I heard no criticizing whispers, felt no disgust at the exaggerated appearance in front of me. I was looking at me, the whole, complete thing. In fact, I felt just then, that I wasn’t looking at anything at all. Through the mirror I looked in, and saw a little girl inches from a TV, transfixed by the magic of dress-up. She had always loved beauty, and knows well the power in defining it for yourself.

living art

by alana cole

this morning when i woke up i found a thread loose at the base of my head that was frayed and tangled about my legs and lost in the white sheets of my bed. i wrapped it round my pinkie, and much to my surprise, felt myself fall into two right before my glassy eyes. the patches of my person came unglued, came unstuck and i saw words i had forgotten; words like love and words like fuck. i threaded new string with shaking hands and made me into something new using a few staples, yards of string, and a mason jar of glue. i knotted myself together after i had fallen apart but i am not yet finished, for i am living art.

they’re all inside

by paige le paigelaurenle.com instagram.com/laigepauren

every part of me, dead or alive, resides in a tiny part of my body called the brain. 2% of my body stores every person i’ve ever been, and never will be by rule of exclusion. my guess is that about every two years i put another one of me to rest, and i birth a new one. this isn’t based on anything i’ve ever heard, just something i assume to be true.

i imagine it goes something like this:

1. i die. for a moment, there’s no one home and i live without any sign of life

2. my body, all but the 2% where my brain is, finds my empty brain like a corpse in a decrepit house

3. i know the routine

4. i wrap her up, i prepare the body, and we lay her to rest

5. in around 3-4 business days, a new me might appear in the mail, maybe longer if i haven’t got much going on

every habit i’ve ever had stays, to my detriment or not, i don’t get to decide. those voices live forever, and whether or not they’re good or bad, i know that they’re me, and i know all they want to do is keep me safe. my new parts are safest with themselves and the ones that came before her. she learns the ways of her predecessors, and she keeps herself safe until her time comes. repeat steps 1-5.

(romanticized)

by rosemary cole

I wake up to the light of my neighbor’s front porch light. It’s a warm light; amber, soft, still. It lulls me to sleep, welcomes me into consciousness. The first and last thing I see every day.

My Tree welcomes me, too—it crowds the frame of My Window, branches crookedly winding upwards, blocking bits of the sky and shaking in the wind. I watch carefully in the evening and at dawn, looking for hints of what the day will bring. I collect clues from the space outside—sunshine or moonlight streaming through to hit my eyes where I lie, heavy rain lashing on the glass, snow falling thickly on the tree branches and making the world white. I can see seasons pass through My Window. I sit back and observe as the years go by, all in the comfort of my bed. I’m untouchable when the porch light illuminates only My Tree and I. And the patterns— My Tree tells stories, shows me faces, different in the dark of night and the light of day. I’m never bored, always occupied. My mind loves to wander here. My Window is my favorite sanctuary.

The curtain is always down, the window itself left open as often as I can manage without freezing to death. My bed is pushed up directly against its sill, so that when my head rests against my pillow, all I see is this haunting light, an eerie, quiet sort of beauty.

My hair has dried in braids since my shower last night. I spent too long under the water. My fingers pruned up and my feet turned red and, even then, it was hard to move. I often wonder what it is about showers that make us want to stay.

I’m sure there’s a reason—but I’m no scientist. All I know is my joy. That doesn’t mean I know why it is my joy.

I put on too much blush. But that’s okay—in fact, it’s one of those days where I’m happy as I watch myself in the mirror, a kind of morning that is becoming more and more frequent.

I put on too much blush.

I think about the film I watched last night as I put on mascara, watching my lashes pull upwards. I think about train rides as I put on my perfume, Cleopatra. I think about music as I pull my hair up and away from my face, and I think about myself as I admire my imperfect side profile, my soft jawline, the slightly crooked bridge of my nose. I wonder what it really looks like to other people, especially when I smile. Are they paying close enough attention to even have a notable thought?

I fill my bag to the brim with notebooks and novels and pens, just in case, and a small bit of chocolate, just because.

Coffee shops are some of my favorite places to People Watch. Plenty of people like coffee in the morning, and this plentiful crowd is as fascinating as they come. One might have come for a wake-up call, desperate to get some buzzing caffeine in their bloodstream. Or they might have come to collect their second coffee, already in the middle of their busy day, off to get work done. They may have come to catch up with an old friend, or a friend that they meet up with every other Tuesday. They might want something sweet on their tongue as they sit by themselves and ponder (what, I wish I knew). Everyone comes for a different reason, in search of a different delicacy, in hopes of a different experience.

Like that college student there—hair buzzed short, headphones clasped over their ears, a look of serious concentration held over their features. A long skirt and chunky shoes to make them a few inches taller, their jacket made from corduroy fabric. They sit by the window with their computer open in front of them. I wonder what it is that they’re working on as they sip their foamy drink.

And there: An elderly fellow, his thinning white hair hidden beneath a fabricked hat. He sits in silence with a small, aging woman, bent, each attentively reading their book. His is paperback and folded over in his grip, the spine crinkled and worn—hers a thick hardcover, resting on the tabletop because of its immense weight. They both wear a pair of glasses (her spectacles are round, his are square).

Two young mothers catch up in the corner. A tall, professional-looking businessman dashes in and out as quickly as he can, to-go cup now in hand. A high schooler stands looking nervous in line, bundled in a thick, woolen scarf. It looks as though it had been handmade. They pay with a stack of small bills.

I find a seat for myself and my hot drink and my journal. I write for as long as I want, or am able, or both. I keep the volume of my music low. I think about Emma Thompson and Kenneth Branagh in Much Ado About Nothing.

When I leave, the morning air is still fresh and lively, and I make sure to breathe deeply. Nobody breathes deeply enough anymore; at least, not many people I know. It’s all rush, and it’s all busy, one thing to the next in the blink of an eye. Efficiency is the passive idol of all. But what about the art of meandering? What about appreciating the beauty, what about stopping and savoring the feel of breath in your lungs, bright and cold and startling? I wonder if the air felt different all those hundreds of years ago.

Who am I kidding? Of course it felt different. But I wonder how it felt different.

I would live in an art museum if I could. Museums are places that feel holy to me—dedicated solely to the fragility, pain, loveliness, and emotion of humankind. I am not an artist in this manner, but I am a human. That much I can lay claim to.

And another thing about museums; they’re very quiet. An intentional sort of quiet, a deep-souled sort of quiet, a quiet that begs to remain unbroken in its appreciation. I respect this about them, as the atmosphere respects the art. And I respect

art. Maybe more than anything—I respect creation.

So when I come to an art museum, I try to come alone. I am not alone to avoid others. I am alone to be able to hear myself, and the best place to listen is in a museum, surrounded by strangers who have also come to be quiet. Though… who knows what kind of silence spurs their solitude? We have all come with similar, ethereal goals; to drink in what other hands have made, to look upon the face and motives of humans with no further barriers, no lies, no shame. People in museums are sincere, as a generalization. People in museums seem to… understand, at least to a further degree than people who do not visit museums.

Museums are meant to mother thoughts—their job is provocation, and they do it well. Grand marble hallways and high-arched ceilings, open walls leading from one gallery to the next, like some sort of endless maze of careful brushstrokes and molded clay. I’ve always loved intention and follow-through, and museums are the epitome of authenticity. Artists show passion in their work—they lay themselves bare so that they might be able to reach us, they are sincere with their depictions and abstractions. They put their mind to some ungraspable notion and they make it… graspable, in beauty and wonderment, and only through time and effort. I think it’s one of the most important things to have in life—dedication, I mean. Patience to go with it. It’s important.

A museum is a library for art, and a library is a museum for books. Books! Thank Goodness that they exist, in all of their complexities and controversies! When I step foot in a library, I feel as though all the collected words are smothering me, taking up space, pressing against my skin and seeping into my bones, my blood, invigorating me with their many marvels.

Shelves upon shelves, books upon books, pages upon pages, words upon words—what could be better? Libraries hold works that were born of minds long since lost, works born from rising stars of prose who are probably alone at this very moment, hard at work on producing a new collection

of sentences and paragraphs and truths. Museums are something to be observed yet not touched, but libraries are for your perusing, your selection, your very own hands. You hold a book and devour it, the thin, printed paper resting gingerly over fingertips and the scent of dried ink rising to stimulate you. The whole place reeks of that heavy smell, so wonderful and sought after. And so I say with confidence: Libraries are the ultimate comfort.

Every book is a portal—into opinions, into the future, into the past, into entirely different realities. Who could resist? I often wish that I could get lost in the aisles, and that no one would be able to find me, alone in the dark, the palm of my hand dragging over countless spines, over the binds of each literary effort. In every way, I feel seen in a library. Seen by fellow book-lovers and enthusiasts, seen by the books themselves and all that they contain. Seen by myself, and all that I’m able to learn from these letters.

It’s always an effort to drag myself back home, laden with a days worth of new experiences, fresh ideas and material goods, with the knowledge that the world had been born anew this morning and is to be cast off into the unseen night once more, when the light outside My Window will shine through this invisibility to illuminate an entirely different existence. So many little things that puzzle together during the day to make up a little life, grand in its exploration and adoration—and it all leads me back to that light outside My Window, tucked behind the branches of My Tree, watching over me as I sleep and waiting for me to return while the sun shines.

We Are Picked Flowers

by Amaru

I can’t believe you picked us

We were flourishing in the fields

The sun touched our skin as we grew new buds and grew long green wings…

We were vivid with life

And now that I’ve been put into this academia... I’m starting to wilt.

As time went on I became still with silence

The seemingly endless printed lines almost remind me of my knowingly endless roots.

My beauty remained, just… crisper… paler

At least I’m not the only one

Although we don’t have the fields to further blossom…

Maybe we can evolve into a different beauty

One that lasts much longer than a flower in the field ever could

...this space is yours

in shiprelationin inshiprelationrelationship in relationship

Space

Wil Tayco

You keep messaging me one two six messages three missed calls

I asked for space you didn't even give me a day

What I wanted was to know that you could grow but it doesn't look like you can

I know I need space

I think I need you but space comes first

So please excuse me if I don't open your six messages or answer your three calls because I owe you nothing

But you owe me space.

by Teegan Isabelle

All The Seasons Of My Mind & Every Moment Of My Day

“I feel in my bones this term is going to be different and great things are afoot,” words I found myself frequently uttering in the summer of 2022 before my life went in an absolute tail spin. When the safety of a locked front door was no longer enough to keep me home.

But, before I get too pessimistic, let me preface that I grew up privileged. A middle-class family with East Coast transplant parents who are almost 30 years strong in their marriage and an older brother who is one of my favorite people alive. I always had a dog, food in the fridge, after school activities, hot water, my own room, and friends. When I say friends, I mean real friends, none of that fair weather bullshit. Everything wasn’t easy all the time- in fact, a lot of my upbringing I felt like I was fighting with my own brain and society to just exist and be understood. With time and a lot of mistakes, I have had to come to the conclusion time and time again that the world is not a place where any human can be fully understood.

No one is ever really gonna get you for exactly who you are. Every single person you come into contact with only knows you in the context of the time and space you are in with them. Just how you only know them to that very extent. It’s in those fleeting or prolonged interactions an opinion is born, whether you intend to form one or not. Through each shared experience, your perception of the person involved is developed and changes.

It is incredibly easy to explain times in my life that have made me feel deeply traumatized. Physically, mentally, and spiritually. I have spent most of my life feeling like a very big fish, in a very small puddle, in the middle of the desert. That sounds phenomenally dramatic... Granted it is. For lack of any better way of putting it, that’s just how it felt. I wanna emphasize that I did not say ALL of my life, because that would be a lie.

I am loud, I am boisterous, I am incredibly upfront, I misspell words all of the time (an unfortunate trait of a former English major). I’ve been told that I talk too much and that I over explain and that it’s off-putting and disruptive. I have been told a million different contradicting statements about myself- these are times when I feel vulnerable, where I feel unsafe, unheard, and violated by the world, by words, by hate, and by my own creeping thoughts.

All I find myself remembering are the bad things. I am working on not doing this, I am working on remembering the good things before the bad and taking each day moment-by-moment. As so many mental health professionals and put together adults have told me to do; to take life one day at a time. I have been told to get selfish and to prioritize myself before I go and start worrying about anyone else.

It is phenomenally easy to hear advice. It is phenomenally hard to listen to it. At least for me. Then moments come along of complete softness, kindness and care without meter. That makes it so easy to take in.

I have companions who I sit on the floor of their room in smiles or tears and they are there. Always met with a hug and a cup of tea. Provided with kindness no matter the state I may be in.

I have partners in crime who I can always call up to run errands with, to go skate, to do art, and to just spend time with. I have one in particular who will always meet me with paper and pen to draw anywhere we go.

Sometimes it just takes sitting on the kitchen floor of my childhood pal’s house with my dearest homies from living in a Co-Op while they make dinner and we all see who can do the best Jennifer Coolidge impression.

Or making popcorn for my dear grubs on christmas eve while music and laughter overflow to every crevice of the house as if to hold me and say that it will be alright.

Life really can be a roundhouse kick to the face sometimes—I won’t pretend that it isn’t. When I take those moments to just breathe. To know that my best friends from when I was ten years old are still my best friends even if we don’t see each other every day: that is the ultimate gift. Because when I see them I do not have to explain myself. I don’t have to go into the spiel of why I am the way I am. They just know. Taking me as I am without question. That’s what makes those kicks to the face a little less bad.

In the company of my friends, I find it very easy to find safety and comfort by getting lost in the wonder of the people I am around. It has been pointed out to me by a dear friend recently that I have a tendency to talk about my people and how wonderful they are before I even think about myself.

Most of my life has been spent living for the people around me; often forgetting the importance of who I am and my needs along the way and focusing on how wonderful my pals are—obviously with great amounts of unconditional reciprocity on both sides. Though sweet and blissful It’s not always a safe space to be in. It’s just familiar. Familiarity doesn’t always mean safety. I often use it as avoidance of my own self and needs; it can often be a complacency with misery within myself.

I’ve found that creating a safe space for the people around me is all I have ever hoped for, often dismissing my need for peace from within because I want so badly for everyone to find theirs. It is a funny way to be, truly. To be in a space where I care with such absurd passion for my chosen family, my community, and the things they love. So often leaving myself with no energy to even care for myself and my dreams.

Safety and safe spaces aren’t something that are guaranteed in life—that’s why creating them for myself and finding the people that will help cultivate the growth of both my external and internal safety has been so life altering.

To credit myself is important as well—I am the person who has written journal entry after journal entry to soothe my brain. I am the person who has gone on walks to help myself breathe. I am the person who takes myself on dates to my favorite places because sometimes it’s just more fun that way. I am the one who enjoys my funny hobbies. I am the person who decorates my room as if it were a reflection of my mind. I am the one who puts in the work every day to keep my head on straight. I am the person who at the end of the day is able to choose to change where I am, who I am around, and what I wanna be.

Regardless of my efforts, regardless of myself. I would not be able to be here if I didn’t have my chosen family. If I didn’t have my friends. They have been there through it all. My dear gremlin pals have created a safe space for me when I couldn’t for myself— opening their arms, hearts, doors, kitchen floors, and eyes to who I am at every season of my mind.

I remember you, I remember you

Your red, Your melancholy. Do you remember me?

(remember me)

I walked your path

And sang to your trees, Shed my tears on your gravel And smiled at the moon

Remember?

It has been many mornings

Now spent apart

And we have changed. Your breeze is now Biting

Your branches are now Barren

I’ve even brought a scarf

Do you remember What we had?

Before the turn to winter, Cold and unforgiving?

Tell me you remember, I cannot bare it

If you don’t.

Tell me you remember, And I’ll allow myself

To hope.

I’ll see you again!

Whenever it may be I’ll wait for you

If only you’ll wait For me. remember?

by rosemary cole

ta ke a br eak. br ea the. st re tc h. drink some wa te r.

ea t a snack.

unclen ch y our ja w. seek some sunlight.

i nhale. exhale. b re a the. j ust be.

My safe space…

Full of fabled, sheltering, shallow, spectral hazy light

Swaddled in an airy glow

Only those I want can come in… …never those I don’t. I wonder what it’s like in the dark…

Who’s There?

by Amaru

My safe space…

Rooted in rich, inky, ironclad, infinite gentle shadows

Cloaked in opulent ebony

Here in the dark is where everything starts…

…how everything ends. I wonder what it’s like in the light…

ers), I can’t help but feel frustrated when I see white girls wax on about how “Mitski is for me” or how “I relate to SZA SO MUCH!” This isn’t to say they can’t enjoy these artistsif anything, I think more white people should seek out more diverse artistsbut it can be frustrating to feel pushed out of a space cultivated by and for girls like me by girls who are often the center I think of the music created in the SGOC subspace as a birthday cake. At a party, everyone is allowed to enjoy the cake, everyone gets a slice, but the cake BELONGS to the person whose birthday it is. Sure white girls can listen to and enjoy SGOC music, but the music is FOR actual Sad Girls of Color. In following with this metaphor, if the artist themselves decide their music isn’t for everyone, you have to accept it. In the same way that if someone chooses not to invite you to their party for one reason or another, you can’t break in and take their cake.

The Sad Girl (of Color) Paradox

by Amira Turner

Within indie pop music, female artists have begun to carve out a space to speak openly about heartbreak, insecurity, and the other melancholy norms of the female experience. This specific subgenre has been affectionately coined ‘Sad Girl Music.’ The pop -

ularity of ‘Sad Girl Music’ can be attributed to its raw honesty hidden within polished production, allowing feminine angst to still appeal to mainstream audiences. Like most spaces in popular culture, this genre is predominantly white, but there are a handful of Women of Color prominent in the space. For the sake of clarity, let’s call them Sad Girls of Color.

Artists like NoName have come out and spoken about their discomfort with their white fan bases on the basis of their music, which is understandable. It’s THEIR cake. It belongs to them. They pick the flavor and the frosting and who gets to eat it. And maybe you like the same flavor of cake as them, and you love the color of the frosting, but that doesn’t make it your cake. Especially when you get a cake every day, and they get one once a yearif they’re lucky.

While the success of these Sad Girls of Color is inarguably a good thing, their popularity among white artists raises some issues. Sad Girls of Color (or SGOC) like Mitski and Sza write Sad Girl music that’s directly informed by their experiences as women of color. When Mitski sings about “trying to be your best American girl” she’s not singing about the broad female experience of wanting to be loved. She’s specifically referencing the struggle of not being seen as a viable romantic option because she, as a Japanese woman, does not fit Euro-centric beauty standards. When SZA references “the type of girl you take home to momma” in Normal Girl, she’s explicitly talking about white women. ‘Normal’, in this context, is a code word for white. As a fellow SGOC, who often struggles to relate to the abundance of stereotypically white Sad Girl music (like Taylor Swift, Lana Del Rey, and Phoebe Bridg

there is an altar that sits at the center of my dresser.

La Virgen watches as i lull myself to sleep. in return for her watchful gaze, i make my bedroom smell like rose scented incense.

“Mother, Tonantzin, Nantli,” i pray. i make my bed and i pray. i apply my skincare and i pray.

i pray that the sun will not burn me. i pray that the coffee will be good. i pray that my mother finds happiness.

at the end of the day, after all my praying, i return to my bedroom. it smells of incense and palo santo. i make music flow through the room. rose scented incense smoke blows in my direction. i know Lupita is there, with me. She watches me, She keeps me safe.

my space is sacred.

by karla ochoa terrones

by Savannah Zerbel

The Women’s Center is a safe and affirming environment for people of all genders at the University of Oregon. As the visual design coordinator for the Women’s Center, I wanted to create an illustration that represented its warm, supportive, and accepting community. Within the illustration creatures from all different families come together to support one another. Each creature has symbolic meaning, the most important being the 22 bees for our 22 staff members. Bees are essential to the health of the planet and its people. The 22 bees fly around the illustration, interacting with animals, pollinating and collecting flowers to bring back to their house, the feminist hive. The creatures live on a fairy-tale-like island, representing the safety and security the Women’s Center provides. Deer, bunnies, and squirrels all have unique characteristics that make them special and essential for the environment. Each helps to control plant populations and maintain our ecosystem. Hummingbirds are depicted as being tiny, fragile creatures yet in reality are aggressive, speedy, and carry a large appetite. They play a crucial role in pollination and like the feminist hive, are not to be messed with! Blackberries wrap around the tree’s branches. Being a resilient, invasive weed, blackberries are symbolic of strength and protection. Throughout the illustration purple is used to spread Domestic Violence Awareness and red is used to show support for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and Girls.

how is the Women’s Center a safe space to you?

DANAYA (she/her)

The moment I walk into the DubC, I take a breath and relax. The WC is a home. To some people a second; but to many a first. It is an affirming place/ enviornment. A place to feel uplifted by even the smallest pieces of joy. More than anything, the WC is where I can relax and allow myself to cry. It’s a family.

LOLA (she/her)

ELTON (he/him)

ALEJANDRA (she/her)

The Women’s Center is a safe space for me because I can accept that I am still learning, be supported, and encouraged to grow all in one space. I never thought I would be surrounded by so many knowledgeable, powerful and uplifting people until I joined this space. It’s truly amazing seeing how much better I feel when I leave the space after being surrounded by people who never ever judge me and always want the best for me!

The Women’s Center provides a community that is willing to continue to learn everyday to better support their community and learn everyday about how to best show compassion to those who need it

HEATHER (they/them)

The Women’s Center is a place where I can verbally acknowledge my vulnerabilities and feel understood and supported.

The Women’s Center goes far beyond being a safe space where you can regulate and find community. It’s a space filled with tears and rightful rage but laughter and unconditional love too. It is the reason I am who I am and, more importantly, the reason I love who I am.

AUDREY (she/her)

Working at The Women’s Center has not only given me a safe space and opportunity to meet and connect with new people through all the other amazing staff members, but to also help offer a safe space to the rest of my community!

ADRA (he/him)

SAVANNAH (she/her)

KYRA MARCELA (she/her)

LISA (she/her)

JULI (she/her)

The WC is a safe space because: there’s room to be ALONE on campus. I can’t think of anywhere else I can be in a private room with the door shut outside of my own home. And, outside of that, having a community I don’t have to explain or justify myself in.

The Women’s Center is a safe place for me because of its warm, supportive, and accepting environment. I feel my voice is heard and my opinions are

TYLER (she/her)

SABRINA (she/her)

El centro de mujeres me apoya. Era uno de las primeras organizaciones en nuestro campus donde verdaderamente sentí como que tengo un lugar donde pertenezco y donde soy aceptada por quien soy. Gracias.

The WC is a place that allows me to be me, no masking required. On good days and bad, I am accepted for my true self. No apologies or explanations required.

The Women’s Center allows me to use my voice without fearing it will quiver. Here, my work and my whole matter and I can simply be. This is a safe space, where I am not only tolerated or accepted, but I am honored and respected. We all seek to spread that love.

The Women’s Center is a safe space for me because it gives me ears to listen, the validation to accept, the space to create, the inspiration to get up, and the people to smile.

The women’s center is a safe space for me because I feel like I am able to come in for either my shift or on my day off and the WC is a welcoming and affirming enviornment. It’s inclusive to people of all genders, races, etc. which makes the space even safer to be at. I love being at the WC. I love my coworkers, Karyn, and Fatima. I’m truly grateful to be a part of the Feminist Hive <3.

FOX (he/him)

ERIESHELL (she/her)

LAURYN (she/her)

The Women’s Center is a safe space for me because I know that the people who love the space will be kind and supportive.

The Women’s Center is the first community that I established at the UO. Even before walking on campus for the 1st time. Quickly becoming comfortable with my supervisors and coworkers. The WC is now where me and my closest friends chill, hangout, discuss, and do homework.

The WC is a safe space because it prioritizes compassion, arms you with information, connects you with resources, and supports the unapologetic use of your voice.

MEGHNA (she/her)

The Women’s Center offered me the diversity I was looking for. It offered me reverence and serenity and mental peace to be more sane.

TARINI (they/them)

There’s a peaceful energy that exudes from the WC. Whether it was being able to use the computer lab when my personal one hadn’t come in at the beginning of the term, or just being able to eat a good meal without worrying about spending money or meal points, the Women’s Center has always been a providing resource. The WC is one of the few spaces in my life where I feel accepted for all aspects of who I am. I don’t have to pretend to be someone else. Through the WC, I am reminded that I am more than just a test score or what I can contribute in class. The WC is a community of people who truly care about your happiness as a human being. Everyone is committed to be thier most authentic self. As a member of the staff, our team meetings and training are a reminder that there are much larger problems going on in the world and I’m reinvigorated in my desire to do something about it. I hope we continue to grow and spread the love and work endlessly towards our mission.

The WC is a safe space for me to regulate myself and has helped me build a stronger voice to advocate for others. Being in such an inclusive community and working with amazing, accepting peers that I can be vulnerable with, I have been able to slowly blossom into the person I want to be. This community has always welcomed others in their arms regardless of their sexual orientation, gender, status, etc. Coming to a white-majority school for the first time, it was hard to find a community where I felt like I belonged– however being at the WC has become my safe space to openly express my fears and concerns.

The Women’s Center is a safe space for me because I know that the people who love the space will be kind and supportive.

The WC is where we can put down all the burdens we carry (visible and invisible!) and REST.

the wc is a safe place to me because for 7.5 years i have intentionally cultivated an environment that welcomes, celebrates and affirms people of all genders, inter secting identities and lived experiencesdistancing us from common exclusionary ideologies of traditional women’s centers. i unapologetically operate my wc with a trauma-informed, student and survi vor-centered intersectional feminist lens to hold collective space for our radical joy and our rightful rage, because as bell hooks taught us: “one of the most vital ways we sustain ourselves is by building communities of resistance, places where we are not alone.”

MARY (she/her)

MAGGIE (she/her)

KARYN (she/her)

FATIMA (she/her)