| POETRY | MUSIC | ESSAYS |
THE SIREN FEMINIST MAGAZINE OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OREGON
The Anti-Violence Issue
EDITOR’S NOTE The Siren has a long tradition of putting out a fall magazine that looks at issues of sexual violence, particularly issues of sexual violence in our community. This year, we are expanding our examination to think, write, and create about violence and the ways it affects the intersections of our identities. The pieces in this issue are profound, powerful, brave, and amazing. I am so proud to share with you The Anti-Violence Issue, a magazine that would not have been possible without the help of many incredible contributors, editors, and Women’s Center employees. This issue of The Siren would not have been possible without this incredible and supportive team.
Creating this issue has been a particularly strange and emotional experience for me. It has been amazing to work with so many passionate contributors, to put together a magazine whose mission I believe in so strongly and to tell these important stories that other media outlets so often overlook. It has also been sad to work on the magazine I know will be my last as Editor-In-Chief of The Siren. The incredible readers and contributors of this magazine have made this past year a ridiculously rewarding one, and I wish an experience this wonderful to our new editor. I know she is going to do great things with this magazine. In the meantime, keep reading, keep writing and keep smashing the patriarchy. --hannah lewman
THE SIRENS EDITOR-IN-CHIEF Hannah Lewman
MANAGING EDITOR
CONTENT EDITOR
Sophie Albanis
Zach Lusby
CONTRIBUTORS Sarah Blakely
Mia Vicino
McKenna O’Dougherty
Chris Scofield
Maya Corral
PUBLISHER ASUO Women’s Center
PRINTER Oregon Web Press
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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EMBRACING ANGER IT IS WELL THIS IS FOR MY GIRLS NOV 29, THE YEARS WHEN LEARNING HURT ANOTHER ANOTHER SURVIVOR POEM HOUSE CHRIS SCOFIELD PLAYLIST THE WAR AGAINST PERIODS CLAIRE MILBRATH
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EMBRACING ANGER AS A SURVIVOR Yesterday in therapy, I discussed with my therapist a dream I had the night before. I woke up sweating, shaken, and upset. In this dream, I remembered so vividly feeling intense anger. A slightly older, professionallooking woman was holding me back, trying to control me, and I remember her coldly telling me not to yell, because “women don’t do that.” I aggressively snapped back and screamed in her face, “Well I’m a woman and I’m yelling, god dammit!!” as I tried to escape.
I began crying while describing the dream to my therapist. I’d never felt such a burning anger in my chest, like I would burst at any moment. Growing up, if I was angry or disagreed with my parents, I was taught to be silent. My father went to an all-boys boarding school growing up in New Zealand, and related angry outbursts to disrespect. My mother, unpredictable and irrational at times, and from a somewhat conservative family, reacted with a victimblaming perspective to my
repeated sexual assaults, so I learned to keep all my interactions with her to a minimum, to avoid her judgment and emotional abuse. It never occurred to me that I was allowed to be angry at them. My therapist asked me what I do to channel my anger, and I drew a complete blank. I had never fully recognized this natural emotion, and therefore rarely allowed myself to be angry rather than pushing it aside. I thought back to my adolescence, when I would aggressively bike circles around my neighborhood to work out my anger at my parents, at my abuser, and at the many people who have made me feel victimized and small throughout my life. Unfortunately, at the moment, I have no bike, so she suggested I look into kickboxing or self-defense classes. After getting home from therapy I simply allowed myself to cry, and then moved on to aggressively cleaning the house, admitting to myself that god dammit, I was angry. And rightfully so. We should all be angry, and this isn’t a bad thing! Anger
is a driving and powerful force, and by channeling it in a productive way, we gain strength ourselves. Instead of giving in to the shame and guilt that is pushed on survivors constantly, it’s time we start getting angry and do something about it. I realized that I was angry at my offenders, my parents, the school, people that could’ve helped me but didn’t, and every guy that told me I was beyond repair. I’m using my anger as the fire that keeps me going, and it doesn’t matter what others think, because that flame will burn away their words. As survivors, we are made into fighters. But in order to fight back, we must be aware of what we feel, what we are fighting against, and why. Whatever your talents be – writing, music, art, sports – anger is a burning flame that will drive you forward in your goals, if you choose to let it. Use your talents as a way to express your anger, or whatever emotions you are feeling, and unleash them to the world without apologizing. words by sarah blakely
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IT IS WELL
It is well with my soul and you cannot change that. You cannot oppress me‌ by yelling at me or trying to make me small. I know my worth and it is not determined by your words. by hitting me, by holding me down. I have survived that, I stood up, I got stronger. by physically hurting me. I will use it as a platform and use my words and my pain to expose you. by raping or assaulting me. Those scars are deep yet I have survived and have learned to protect others. I will go forward and live well, even with scars. by hurting my loved ones. Yes, that will bring me to my knees yet I will fight you from there. by killing me. That won’t hurt me, just those that love me, and there are many, many that love me. Their pain will make my words louder. I will‌ humanize you to show the world the darkest side of humans. To show what oppression and evil looks like, that it has a face, and it must be dealt with openly in society. not stay quiet, you cannot make me quiet. not allow excuses for your behavior, you will own it and you will choose to change or live as an evil, oppressive, angry
human. Whatever has been done to you by others, or has been by your own hands, it is YOUR life purpose to correct, heal, and make better. You are responsible for you. fight the hate in my own heart toward you so to have strength to fight the evil and oppression you represent. I am… only one woman, mother, wife, daughter, friend. fearfully and wonderfully made, created by a good Father. strong, so strong, even when I don’t want to be…I am strong. loud, proud, joyful, loving, kind and you can take none of those things, they are a state of being, human being. I want… peace, but staying quiet will bring no peace. Your undoing will bring no peace. Speaking, teaching, and protecting others WILL bring peace. justice, for all, for me, for you. To be judged with equitableness and rightfulness. grace by giving and receiving love and justice even when our actions do not deserve it. mercy and forgiveness when it is not deserved but given because we have hearts for goodness and change. wellness, a society that fosters wellness, that recognizes hurt and takes steps to heal pain, that is concerned for all humans and their wellness. It is well with my soul and you cannot change that. published anonymously 9
THIS IS FOR MY GIRLS
After three years of wanting this tattoo, I finally got it on International Women’s Day this year. I thought of this idea in high school when I first started studying feminist theory. Once I started becoming more outspoken about my opinions, I became the school’s “cr*zy feminist.” The boy who sat in front of me in my human anatomy class told me that a woman would never be president because they’re weak. A group of boys in my theory of knowledge class would yell at me whenever I tried to discuss social issues. They even formed a group called the “masculinists” in response to my feminist ideas (this was before meninism was a thing). I faced so much opposition that I sometimes felt like giving up on the cause. Being an active feminist is exhausting and requires constant critical thinking about societal issues and analyses of your own actions. This is part of the reason why I decided to get a tattoo: to inspire me to never stop fighting for women’s rights. More importantly, however, this tattoo is for all my girls. Especially my girls of color, my queer girls, my trans girls, my disabled girls. I love you all. words by mia vicino
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NOV 29, THE YEARS WHEN LEARNING HURT
I am surviving when I shout before the door to Being-Gonefrom-the-Body creaks open. I am victim when my body snaps “Protect” under his arm and the warm, holy sheets. No one gets to tell me when victim stops and surviving begins. No one else has hands strong enough to hold open that door. I am laying in the yellow light. The hurt-light was blue. I am lying next to the man who holds me, his chest the room I will walk home to forever. After three years of cold and pocket and brass commitment, I finally tell him about the face down, the stillness, the blue light. I stopped saying no because the blue man had puzzle ears that wouldn’t hear it. Hear me when I say this. He never stopped when I asked.
Do you know about the body in pain, my love. Inhale, the length of the year. Do you know how to leave the body, I mean. Have you been to the shuttered room in yourself, the one with the bear skins and the silver plates, the place to go when the throne of the body is stood upon, boots on. The body not my body. Stood upon. Boots left on. The body not my body. Stood upon. Boots. On. The veil skill is not a blessing when I lie down now. I leave my body while it is loved. The man with me in the yellow room has bear paw hands, he turns the rocks in me over – careful, curious, bowed (we can trust him, my body and i) but she does not always know how to read his love letter tongue. She still runs to turn the knob sometimes. I curl and crisp and ask him to go as I dig to re-bury the memory. Eulogy. The corpse of it stinks, love, the ground is frozen. I don’t want you to see. words by mckenna o’dougherty
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ANOTHER ANOTHER SURVIVOR POEM
The same way a mechanical pencil lies where it was tossed in with the mulch of the “garden” “bed” like a salad that didn’t want to happen, I sit and scrape moss off the bench like I am told to. There is sunshine happening around me but not inside me. I am adorned. I am trying not to write about my uterus and fear again. And how last night I felt like a mole being kicked so I lay in bed asking questions of affirmation about the utility of my body. Being awake is a holly branch dragged too hard across surrender’s forehead. I am sitting in a fort of shine: my actual body and mind are made of shine but my eyes keep rusting out. Maybe the metaphor is too thick. I am talking about being a woman who thinks she might still be underground and strewn because the broom isn’t doing its job and she cannot sign a line saying she will catch and release. She has let people in her and near her and not in any extraordinary way
who took more than she offered. It still feels like her fault and apparently no number of “I’ll save you”s and temple prayers can get her slick in her heart again. I know my way around this city. I know how to catch myself alone. I write this story and drive over it until it has potholes I hold onto the fear of it like a prayer. words by mckenna o’dougherty
HOUSE
Holding the small of her back like a hand in public Sneaking glances when she yawns The blink-on garden-light in my heart when she talks with “we” and memory in her mouth like a cough drop, changing the way her tongue moves. The forest-fire lookout of my attention when I feel the warmth in the bowl of my hips as I observe us, pressed against her with my neck craned back so I can see the whole of her, the home of her face. Never has loving felt so much like weaving like French braiding (gathering strands, nodding, like water) like we are definitely birds Pulling strips of somethings out from under the somewheres in ourselves Flying towards each other with our first contributions, Nesting, resting between but creating and breathing in the daylight and the dark.
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Who holds the door. Who Kisses First, the I love you Whose hand on top when we hold them Who cries, who comforts, Who pays, who protects, who punches (who wins) Who rolls over with a glass of water for the sleepy other, her turning wine-belly, her shuffling feet. Who kisses the forehead, bundles the arms. Who carries the wood in, locks the windows - makes a world inside. Here, in our room, I am multiple. What is happening in me is a roll-call of all my parts. Fighter? Here. Weaver? Here. Worrier? Here. Lover of the Deep Blue just walked in. Use both of your hands, she whispers as she sits. Remember to use all of your hands. And in a body like a house that didn’t always feel safe, My mouth is a door that stayed locked even as my heart twisted and pounded In a body in pain that liked to make other bodies feel good, despite the irony, Love, and holding, did not always feel like love and holding. Even in other arms. No matter how tightly they clasp. Which is why her loose grip feels so radical.
Which is why the re-queering of my bedroom is healing my heart. The fumble and the smile and her hair, drawn like a curtain, falling onto my face With her, the room is yellow. Her hands are renovating. I am learning more than all the “stop hating yourself for the mistake that isn’t your fault” self-help books I read And the point is, its out of order. Her only expectation is my honesty, the jagged stone in my chest. We never see ourselves in movies, and girl-porn doesn’t kiss the walls like we do Our physiology doesn’t push us towards procreation Our motivation, then is just to feel lovely together, in the low light. And so my yes is the only map she reads, folds up between her sweating palms, tucks me between the blankets. In the pillow fort of her kiss, not once has the door broken down from the whispers, the swirling is quiet, the dust glitters and is still. Not once has the iron apron stopped up my mouth. The open-armedness, the unassuming is my feet in the fresh earth of the planter boxes behind the shame-house. And no one can find us here, not even the shadows. words by mckenna o’dougherty
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FROM AUTHOR CHRIS SCOFIELD Chris Scofield is a local novelist and short story writer. She has published a number of works, including “The Shark Curtain,� which tells the story of a girl coming of age in the suburbia of the 1960s as she tries to reconcile the active visions in her head with the constricting world around her. The following excerpt is from Chapter 22: God Bless the Midway.
. . . I dream that Mom’s the fat lady at the circus. She sits on a throne in the Midway, surrounded by trash, with tufts of angry grass pushing through the straw. Emmett Kelley and the weird clown with white leggings sit on bales of hay on either side of her. I’m there too, crouching behind her Eva Gabor wig and thick dimpled arms. Manners, the miniature TV butler, stands on her knee, lifting her skirt for anyone who’ll pay. Her legs lead to something too dark to see, but the men still want to look, and passing by slowly they stop to check their pockets for change. Actor David Niven pays. So does Santa Claus. I run to the man with the waxed mustache who keeps the ponies for the kiddy rides. I help him brush them, and braid their tails. He pats their flanks and smells their ears. “Sweet,” he says. When the pony man’s wife goes to bed, I sit between his legs facing the campfire, and we talk. I tell him stories about Captain Nemo, Tarzan, Robinson Crusoe, and Sherlock Holmes. The pony man tells me about the love affair between the
Bearded Lady and Cleo the Pygmy Contortionist, how one of the Flying Dutchmen has three nipples and all the clowns are drunks. With his arm around my waist, the pony man holds me against his pinstriped vest. I don’t mind. He presses his nose in my hair and whispers, “Sweet.” His breath quivers. His mustache twitches. He prays in a language I don’t understand, but then says in English, “God bless the Midway.” Sparks from the fire snap and fly, landing in the soft duff around us. “Watch over my ponies,” he adds, then moves his warm hand between my legs. “And the fat lady’s beautiful daughter.” I know the dream is about sex, but Mom calls sex “hormones.” She calls everything hormones. Now that I’m fifteen, she’s even more afraid that I’ll embarrass her. She blushes when I ask for more information, even though Dad and Lauren are out of the house and I’m only writing it down on my clipboard. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “Nobody will want to have sex with me anyway.”
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“Yes, they will. You’re going to knock them dead,” Mom says, which doesn’t make me feel better. Since Jamie died, nothing about death makes me feel better. I don’t sit on the end of my bed anymore either, petting an imaginary Mrs. Wiggins, howling at the moon. Instead I sleep with my head under the pillow, and bite my tongue until it bleeds. Sometimes my tail throws back the covers, slips over the edge, and thuds to the floor—fleshy, thick, and heavy—taking me with it. The school nurse told us that teenagers need at least eight hours of sleep every night, but my body doesn’t listen to anyone. The car accident makes me sleepy at the craziest times. Like falling asleep during dinner. Other times I can’t sleep at all. I’m standing on the narrow outside ledge of a skyscraper, pressing myself against its massive façade. Next to me, written on a steamy window, are the words: I’M NOT HERE. A seagull lands beside me, and begins to preen. “God bless the Midway,” it squawks, spitting truckloads of feathers that float to the
garbage-strewn boulevard below.
sawdust
*
The Midway. At one end are the carnival rides. At the other, the circus Big Top stretches into the sky. Inside, the clown with white leggings towers over the crowded bleachers, a huge leg in each ring. Below him, twin white horses— with purple plumes on their bridles—trot around the inside of each ring with ballerinas on their backs. The horses’ tails brush the giant’s ankles, making him smile. They feel like butterfly kisses, the kind you make with your eyelashes. His shoulders support the tent’s highest riggings; his head bursts through the top. He describes cloud formations (a bunny, a train engine, George Washington), and bellows changes in the weather that echo throughout the fair. I sit on a throne under a banner that reads, Circus Fat Lady. Mom crouches behind me
shaking a can of loose coins, then looks away when the Three Stooges lift my skirt for anyone who’ll pay. My legs lead somewhere too dark to see, but men check their pockets for change anyway. Emmett Kelly sits down in front of me. David Niven looks over his shoulder. Another man joins him, and soon every man on the Midway stands behind them. Cleo, the Pygmy Contortionist, and the Flying Dutchmen are there, Abbott and Costello, and all of Elizabeth Taylor’s husbands. Stop looking at me! I try screaming, but the words don’t come out. Only the words of the pony man, who pushes through the crowd holding out a bit and halter and, kneeling between my legs, mumbles, “God bless the Midway,” as he runs his thick calloused hands along my thighs. I sit up with a start. I’m trembling all over. “Good,” Mom says, inching into my bedroom. “You’re awake.” My bed’s center stage in a pool of morning sunshine; I squint to see her
“BUT MY BODY DOESN’T LISTEN TO ANYONE.” through the glare. “I’ve been calling you for ten minutes. Thought maybe the bed ate you up.” I blush. I’m wet between my legs, but it’s not my period. The pony man’s hand rests on the place between them. His fingers twitch. “Must have been quite a dream; your bed’s a mess.” She gives my room a quick glance before sitting beside me. “I had crazy dreams when I was growing up too. Hormones, I suppose.” She kisses the top of my head and leaves, stopping at my door first to say, “Breakfast?” I nod.
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The Mamas and the Papas sing “California Dreamin’” on Lauren’s radio. Dad’s electric shaver groans as it fights his thick black beard. Under my bed, Manners shines his shoes, polishes his pocket watch, and practices rolling his bowler hat up and down his arm like Red Skelton does on TV. He wants to look nice for our date tonight. The sun slips behind a cloud, erasing everything but the smell of burnt sugar, popcorn, straw, and hot grease. Everything but the abandoned trapeze ropes that hang from the ceiling, like spider webs on TV’s Dark Shadows. And—in the Midway dirt beside my bed— my mother’s footprints, that glow when I slip my feet inside them. words from “the shark curtain” by chris scofield from chapter 22. god bless the midway
GIRL GERMS A PLAYLIST FOR ANYONE WHO IDENTIFIES AS A RIOT GRRRL TACOCAT HEY GIRL LEGGY GRRRLS LIKE US DADDY ISSUES VERONICA CHERRY GLAZERR TEENAGE GIRL ADULT MOM TOLD YA SO BRATMOBILE GIRL GERMS LUSH LADYKILLERS GIRLPOOL JANE BLEEDING KNEES CLUB GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING THE AQUADOLLS GIRL RIOT KITTEN FOREVER RAT QUEEN BIKINI KILL REBEL GIRL playlist by mia vicino
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THE WAR AGAINST PERIODS Menstrual hygiene is incredibly important for education, the economy, health, environment and human rights. Yet in our very own town, students are being denied menstrual services and resources vitally important to their health, and are made to feel embarrassed because of the lack of information given about this bodily function. I have the privilege of attending South Eugene High School, which is an overall amazing school. Our school is incredibly welcoming and inclusive, and our community is compassionate and knowledgable. Our faculty doesn’t enforce a sexist dress code, and students are encouraged to express their opinions freely and have their voices be heard. However, our school has deemed menstrual product dispensers unnecessary for the health and well-being of our school community.
This leaves the 683 students with periods with very few convenient options for finding menstruation products, as they must make the choice of calling a parent, asking a friend, or going to the health center or main office. These options are not necessarily always available to students since both the health center and front office have proven to not always be reliable. The health center is open a mere four hours on Monday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday, and only two and a half on Tuesday. The front office, meanwhile is open beyond school hours, however has been known to not always carry the products they claim to have. Lots of students are also staying way beyond school hours, for sports or academics, and if they needed a product then, it would be impossible to receive. Even if these options are available, they are not ideal
HALF THE WORLD MENSTRUATES, SO WHERE’S THE CONVERSATION AND RESOURCES? because of the social stigma involving periods. People are shamed for getting their periods, and are sometimes forced to miss class if they are not “prepared” with products. This problem could be easily resolved with the installation of tampon/pad dispensers in each bathroom at South Eugene High School. Most community members at South Eugene High School believe that the needs of the student body outweigh the outdated concerns about installing menstruation products in all school bathrooms. Toxic Shock Syndrome is, for the most part, a complication of the past, and I cannot be the
only one who believes that menstrual products are a right, not a privilege. It is absolutely ridiculous that, in 2016, South Eugene High School doesn’t have tampon or pad dispenser anywhere in the school. Menstruation is a biological occurrence, and it is time our school officials, medical professionals, and many other members of the community began to treat it as just that. words by maya corral
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A CONVERSATION WITH CLAIRE MILBRATH
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How did the Editorial Magazine come to be? Would you call the Editorial a feminist publication? Why or why not?
female presence points to a lazy curator.
I started the magazine a couple years ago when I was still in university. It happened very naturally and slowly. Although the magazine is edited by all women who are feminists, I wouldn’t brand the Editorial as a Feminist publication. I resist labels/ themes/mantras. I want the content to speak for itself all of which I carefully choose with feminist themes in mind. As a rule each issue must have more female-generated content than males.
I’m very visual, which maybe is simple-minded. I know at first sight if I like it.
What are your priorities as a feminist? Which issues concern you the most? I’m most interested in feminist issues in media and art. Beauty standards for women in fashion and media must be challenged. I’m interested in using male bodies to satire or challenge the way we objectify female bodies. I think my main priority is showcasing women artists, mainly painters, as that’s such a male dominated scene. There’s so many great women artists; a publication or exhibition that lacks a
What do you look for in a piece that makes it “good” art?
A lot of your art centers on this character, “Poor Gray.” Who is Poor Gray? If we’re correct in calling Poor Gray a “he,” what does he stand for? Poor Gray is a character trapped within the confines of what I’m able to paint (which is not that much.) He’s an anxious man, with nothing to do but act out the banalities of his world: waiting, resting, reading, or talking on the phone. I’m always painting Gray. Even when I paint a still life I imagine that scene is present in Gray’s home. Which moments are your favorite to capture in art? I like lounging scenes. Men doing nothing, men laying down, men anxiously stuck in thought. What’s your take on the modern cultural ideal of each individual cultivating their own “aesthetic?” Describe your own aesthetic in less than
seven words. I think it’s interesting, and fun. I’ll describe my aesthetic as “softly kidding.” As a female occupying space in the worlds of both art and journalism, how do you assert yourself amongst bigger names? Do you have any advice for young women looking to make it big in publishing? I think just hard work. Work all the time and put yourself out there. If no one can help you then do it yourself - make
your own blog and promote your own work. It’s beneficial to explore journalism as an artist - being active in the art community and making contacts. What’s your favorite song right now? I’ve been listening to the Chinatown soundtrack on repeat for the past couple weeks. I love romantic, melodramatic music. If you could be the best in any medium of art (be it photography, dance,
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cuisine, etc.) what would it be? Painting. In a recent interview with i-D, you said that you art “often borders on pornography,” and that you’ve got a soft spot for “crass art, especially when it’s curated by females.” Where does that preference come from? What appeals to you about low-key pornographic art? I think it’s fun to create it, it’s fun to see how explicit you can get. I think pornography is a perfect venue to challenge gender codes. Mainstream porn kinda pisses me off. Do you know Erving Goffman? He talks about how femininity/ masculinity is coded in advertising and media. Like how men and women are posed in photoshoots reinforces a power structure where the woman is vulnerable and the man is in control. My first slightly
pornographic shoot was Groin Gazing, for Vice. That felt important to me. What’s something that there isn’t enough of in contemporary fashion? Most fashion I don’t like. I’d like to see more homoeroticism. More “gender-bending,” which fortunately seems to be a trend right now. More cock too! What makes important?
you
feel
Productivity. interview by sophie albanis pictured on pages 26-27: Poor Gray’s Dream, 2015 pictured on page 29: Luncheon, 2014 pictured on page 30: Class Portraits, 2014
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