The Feminist Magazine of the University of Oregon
THE SIREN
THE
Liberation Issue
“We have to liberating m as liberating
talk about minds as well g society.�
- bell hooks
from the editor
It’s so hard to define what liberation means, as for some of us, the path to liberation is an ongoing journey. What does it mean to be free, and when is it achieved? That was the question on my mind as I set forth with The Liberation Issue. It was originally inspired by a contributor who brought to my attention that much of the furniture that the University of Oregon purchases and places in our campus buildings are bought from the exploitation of prison labor. As anyone who has watched the documentary 13th, which outlines many of the problems about the prison industrial system, prison labor is possible due to a loophole of the 13th amendment which states that involuntary servitude is allowed in the circumstances of punishment for crimes. In this issue, our contributors touched on various subjects and types of personal and societal liberation. The articles, poems, and art beautifully explore the topic through several lenses, and guide us through the journey towards liberation. My goal with The Liberation Issue is to give a voice to those who have traveled on the journey and create an outlet to finally say to the world, “I am free.” Or at least, we’re working on it. Love, Amy Garay-Azucena
The Siren is published by the UO Women’s Center. We are the only student-led feminist publication on campus. It is our mission to cover contemporary feminist issues and act as an outlet for the creative and intellectual development of people of all genders.
contributors
Ashley Lindstedt Fatima Roohi Pervaiz Ambivalently Yours Kaya Noteboom Yessenia Villalobos Jess Thompson Allison Barr Cynthia Siete Gabby Fahim Brenna Fox Carson Scott Melale Hailu Anna Lau
Editor-in-Chief Amy Garay-Azucena Art Director Brooke Harman Web writer Carson Scott Web illustrator Brenna Fox UO Women’s Center Oregon Web Press
cover art By ashley lindstedt
art By Kaya Noteboom
Table of Contents pakistani riot grrrl art by ambivalently
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yours
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Solace In Solitude
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Tu esposa, no tu amada
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the rain
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art by allison barr
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art by cynthia siete
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the last time
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femme icons
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sexual liberation in learning to love yourself
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revise, reshape, reform
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sounds of designation
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a night with hana shafi
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My name is Fatima Roohi Pervaiz and I am the Director of the Women’s Center.
I am a Pakistani riot grrrl.
However, due to personal safety and cultural sensitivity reasons, I often cannot speak about my own intersecting identities, and although they fundamentally inform the way that I interact with the world and the way that the world interacts with me, these core components of myself have become hidden identities. However, as I am not one to let the man get me down, I have instead established for myself a career built on a rebellious foundation of fierce feminism, social justice and empowerment for myself and others using the vessel that is my big mouth and anti-oppression and comprehensive sexuality education. Because activism does not require a megaphone. Although we have one in the Women’s Center if you need one. Activism truly is any movement beyond labeling oneself a part of the revolution and actually MODELING the revolution. Whether you identify as a member of the marginalized group or you are an awesome ally, activism is a verb. It’s not about performance and it’s not about earning a trophy. It is not about cannibalizing others
in the activist sphere to make it to the top. It is about bringing some portion of misery to an end in this world. Because systemic racism and other isms are so pervasive that they exist in the air that we breathe and the water we drink, we must be radical. When we acknowledge that our emotional and intellectual labor is already frequently exploited in this hostile sociopolitical climate and that it is not our duty to educate our oppressor – that is radical. When we recognize that not everyone has the luxury of public resistance – that is radical. When we work to ensure that our social justice activism is accessible and not elitist – that is radical. And in that combination of accessible and radical we find intersectional feminism. Because if our feminism and and our activism is not for all races, classes, gender identities, sexual orientations, religions, disabilities and life experiences, who is it for?
Wearing a #FEMINIST tee As a rad Woman of Color shirt in public is a form of every- in a predominantly white social day activism. climate, the undertones of racism, sexism and Islamophobia Playing with children at seek to silence my voice and disa domestic violence shelter so continue my actions daily. From their parent can have a moment a sociological perspective I find of peace is a form of social activ- it fascinating. From a humanistic ism. perspective I find it disheartening. But from the perspective of a Speaking up and shutting rad woman of color whose short down oppressive language and skirt, career mission and very exhate speech is a form of allyship istence puts my personal safety at activism. risk daily – I find it revolutionary. So in the midst of new attacks on Dispatching or driving for every element of our identities the Safe Ride Assault Prevention each time we turn around, I ask Shuttle is providing direct-ser- that for another day we keep an vice, street level activism. open mind and an open heart, my tribe. Because as we themed Canvassing for Planned Take Back the Night’s Rally March Parenthood, American Civil Lib- and Speak Out Against Sexual Vierties Union or Oregon Student olence last year: Association is a form of political activism. But also – taking time to care for and repair ourselves after radical activism has beaten us like a drum – is ALSO activism. Because in the words of my feminist godmother Audre Lorde, “Caring for myself is not self-indulgence, it is self-preservation – and that is act of political warfare.”
Your heart is a muscle the size of your fist. Keep loving, keep fighting. That’s activism – and ultimately our liberation. 8
by Ambivalently Yours ambivalentlyyours.com
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Solace In Solitude Kaya Noteboom
A hearse-ish looking car skidded to a stop outside my door with a screech. “Mummle, he’s here!” I chirped, squeezing my mom with one arm and fixing my bangs with the other. Bounding down my steps, I attempted to collect myself as I approached his daring, sexy, clanking death vehicle. “Kaya! Here, hold on a sec.” A mirage of my Freshman year fantasies leaned over the passenger seat to pop open the heavy car door. A token of true chivalry. “Hop on in.” I thanked him with a bashful smile. Across from me, sat a physically tangible boy, but I found it nearly impossible to shake the feeling that this was a dream. I recalled the one where I was trapped in a candy-cane striped, undressing tent, like the ones in old pictures of french beaches. By fate alone, he was the only one around and, just my luck, knew how to get me out. With a grunt and a few shakes, the tent unlatched and I gushed with gratitude. In Freshman biology,
he would sit, perched on the counter in the back with his legs crossed and a nearly completed Moleskin in hand, seeming to be one with all the junk toy-stuff of forgotten experiments. Me, the dutiful student; he, the aloof teacher’s aid; a Diet Coke version of whatever perverse professor themed fantasies befall me now. Maybe it was due to the unforgivable condition of my youth or his rumored gay-ness, but back then, I never would have thought a date with him was possible. In my good fortune (so I thought), he turned out to be Bi and the fleeting number of weeks before my collegiate departure made my time and attention seem like a hot commodity, like a soon-to-be discontinued brand of shampoo. His interest was prompted by an accidental incident of the male-gaze when he saw me waiting at the bus stop in a body hugging dress and, from the clanking death vehicle that I would soon enter, texted to see if I wanted to h a n g. Cooly, like I wasn’t but wanted to be, I responded “ya. next saturday.”
We lugged down Capitol Highway, making insubstantial small-talk. Conversation caught on the film project he was doing on the side (the recording studio in his basement was his main thing). Apparently, the goal was to play home videos found rummaging around Goodwill over the walls of abandoned buildings. It sounded sorta cliche but he was ecstatic to tell me all about it. I pretended to be engaged and looked upon him fondly. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. His style was noticeably more refined than the last I saw him; replacing the primary colored button-up and clear plastic backpack that I remembered, with a fitted crimson v-neck and a charcoal-grey beanie. His face was freshly shaven and I smirked at the thought that he did so just for me. I surveyed him happily, but I was less happy, definitely disquieted, with how often and how long he would look back. Cute as I might’ve been, the slick pavement should’ve garnered more of his attention. “Hold on, I’m gonna do a burnout.” “Wait-- what?” I stammered as I abruptly broke out of my daydream. Before I could ar-
gue, we were careening around a sharp corner and swerving recklessly into an intersection. The force of unequal weight on unbalanced tires turned the rain on the road to mist. The right side of my body slammed into the car door; the peeling leopard print lining mocked my rage. In the absence of seatbelts, I was whipped back around so hard I almost hit him in the driver’s seat. “What the fuck was that?” Breathless, I clung to the bottom of my seat as the car rocked back to stability. There were no other cars around and there was just enough room to come to a complete stop at the red light. “Holy shit! That was a close one. I’m glad we didn’t die. That really woulda made this a sucky first date.” Damnit. My life was just about to be cancelled mid-season like an NBC sitcom. I just wanted to be home with my dogs and my mom and the kobe beef she started grilling up before I left. The last thing I wanted to do was be on a date where, seconds after a neardeath experience, I was expected to be socially proficient and still look hot to top it off. I especially didn’t want to be on a 15
date with him, this fucking fool; this once enchanting parrot with technicolor feathers who turned out to be yet another pretentious, blabbering goon; this grossly romanticized pretty piece of flesh, grabbed the dice that decided the continuation of my life like a pushy preschooler on the playground, and rolled them for me. I wanted to go home and be done with this doomed date, but even then, I bargained with myself about how long I should wait before agreeing to a second one. That’s what being desperate for companionship is like. I could be on the worst date ever, a date that almost results in the end of dates and existence, and I’d still be willing to make it work. I would give up mutually engaging conversations. I would set aside my own interests to help his flourish. I would sacrifice my physical and emotional comfort, and in some cases, my safety. For years and years I could go on adjusting my needs to fit the person I’m with because I’m fatigued from looking for something genuine. I crossed my heart and hoped to die that this person was “The One,” when in reality, they’re just who’s emo-
tionally available, and more often than I’d like, not even that. So, I’d fake it. The first suitor to come tumbling out of the woodwork, I would have sworn was a knight in shining armor, and when they inevitably fall apart, I wait for the next to come tumbling. This delusion continues until the falsehood becomes unbearable. At that point, the preposition of many lone nights-in becomes more alluring than faking love with another stranger. That longing for solitude; that yearning for my own company like a guy checking out my ass at a bus stop from his car window, is freedom calling. I sat criss-cross-applesauce on a red bench under a maple tree in front of Chapman Elementary, the place where I used to feel the most estranged. Pearly tiles were tidily arranged to form two mosaic statues: one, a hand holding the world like it was the weight of a wall-ball and the other, a child reading. Concrete steps unfurled stoically from the building’s mouth, pursed as if it was about to start a lecture. Windows looked directly at the auditorium doors. These weren’t the mere wooden slabs on hinges of normal doors, they
served equally as a work of art and a theater entry, depicting an arboreal fantasy. I never saw another elementary school that looked quite so decadent. As a child, the elegance of Chapman Elementary felt like an elaborate ruse. Down the glossy hallways I tripped over my own Converse and thought that if this place was so rich and beautiful, then why did it feel so ugly and uninviting to me? The cheery faces of white children mocked me from a mural on the wall by my 3rd grade classroom. They knew I wasn’t pale and pristine like them and they knew my parents couldn’t afford the new iPod nano I saw clipped to all of their waistbands. The only escape from those faces was the library where I slumped against the towering shelves of Warriors, The Mysterious Benedict Society and Guardians of Ga’Hoole, taking deep, calming breaths like my mother instructed. It was a good library. The horror section was extensive and I spent every Wednesday in it for a month. I flipped through pages, hoping Devontae (one of the more goth individuals in my portfolio of crushes) would catch a glimpse. Seeking validation from cis-boys, and even-
tually men, started so young. But there I was, alone again at Chapman Elementary. Stagnant beads of rain embellished the empty space next to me. I took root and planted myself on that sodden bench. Knowing that when I finally decided to get up, a noticeably dark circle would encompass my bum, I didn’t care at all. I wanted to be there; it was my choice to sit. Smiling to myself, I thought of the people I was so relieved to not be talking to. The lack of conversation was revitalizing. In the silence, I conversed with myself with a level of intimacy I could only imagine exchanging with a soulmate, whispering into the crooks of necks, laughing through pressed lips. When I think of this, my face gets flushed. Not for embarrassment or lust, but the joy of a child that flickers so hot and bright it singes your cheeks. It was the joy I missed out on years ago, when I was just a kid that went to school and resented the empty seat next to me at the lunch table. But there on that red bench, alone, cold and damp, I couldn’t have been more content.
Art by Kaya Noteboom
Tu esposa, no tu amada Yessenia Villalobos
A tu esposa la tenías bien esposada. You shackled her inside the home Cuando le prometiste felicidad eterna, When you promised you would provide a roof over her head, Y cuando le prometiste que nunca tendría que trabajar Because you worked hard enough for the both of you. You promised que su única preocupación sería cuidarte y amarte, But how could she care and love when she was confined to the facade of a loving home Struggling to get away from your hands that were hard at work. Hard at work, destroying her body and deteriorating what was left of her soul ¿Como te iba cuidar y amar, si todo su ser estaba esposado al terror que te tenía? Sí, fue tu esposa, pero nunca fue tu amada.
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the rain jess thompson
I don’t know why I remember the rain. The droplets stuck to the living room window, occasionally sliding down the glass pane, racing to see who would reach the bottom first. It was your birthday. You wanted to go find this hidden waterfall you had been rambling on about for days. You showed me the old fashioned paper map with traces of red Sharpie all over it. I watched the rain. You heard it was jumpable, you told me. I wonder what it would feel like to be a raindrop falling from the sky, I thought. You wanted to swim, you said. Would colliding into a puddle and ceasing to be an individual raindrop hurt? I thought. Will you go? you asked. Of course I would. I could never say no to you. Even to your terrible ideas of wanting to jump off a waterfall and swim on a rainy day in March. I remember you talking as we hiked. There was so much passion in your voice as you explained to me whatever it
was you were talking about. I can’t seem to recall the topic. But I can remember the rain. It had lightened up by now, and the soft droplets created a halo of water on your soft auburn hair. You turned to look at me in search of a reply, to which I only nodded, having not paid attention to your words but rather the way the darkness of the rain created such a lightness in your eyes. The sweet, innocent grin you gave me feels like a blow to the gut when I think about it now. So instead, I will only remember the rain. We continued on the trail. The rain clung to me the same way dew sticks to a blade of glass in the early morning. We reached the waterfall and you were ecstatic. You whooped and hollered and barreled down the last muddy bit of the path to reach the base of the pool. I crouched down and felt the mud. It was watery. Too much rain. You were already halfway changed into your wetsuit by the time I finally made it to the base. I helped you zip up
the back and you turned to look at me, your eyes drowning out the dreary gray of our surroundings. I wrapped my arms around you and you kissed the top of my head, the same place that probably a hundred rain drops had kissed as well that day. Be careful, I told you. I knew you always were. Of course, you reassured me. I always am. You plunged into the water without hesitation, slowly making your way to the base of the falls in order to make sure it was deep enough to safely land. I watched as the rain droplets collided with the water of the pool and wondered if it hurt. I recognized that it would be a lot easier to be a raindrop who happened to combine with a waterfall droplet before hitting the pool. It’s always easier to have someone else to take on a journey with you, someone who is like minded and yet different. Someone who teaches you to embrace the chaos that is a waterfall. I watched as you resurfaced from your depth check, giving me a thumbs up and that gut wrenching grin that hurts to
remember. It was good to go. You were going to jump. I watched as you climbed the cliff side to reach your takeoff location. And I remember the rain.
Artist’s note Allison Barr
Bailey (model and art director) and I have known each other since we were 15 and 16 years old. It’s so neat to have watched each other grow and to grow together creatively throughout the years. Within the last year, both Bailey and I have been crushed by a boy. Broken, miserable, heartbroken. So we decided to turn that into art. Bailey art directed this series, based on poetry she had written all throughout her breakup. She created
another world for us. Bailey adds, “It’s so raw and vulnerable and I feel like a lot of people will relate to the way heartache can consume you, and want to know that there’s hope in becoming your own again.” That’s what our project is about. Together, we remind each other and our audience, there is love and value in all of us. And if someone breaks your heart, well, you should make art out of it.
Art by cynthia siete
The LAst Time gabby fahim
TW: VIOLENCE The First time Our hands interlocked My cheeks burned from blushing My face ached from smiling The Second time You held me My lips throbbed from kissing My muscles panged from confinement The Third time You gripped my arm My wrist twinged from the grip My head pounded with anguish The Fourth time You hit me My face cramped from the strike My mouth silenced in submission The Fifth time You shoved me against your bathroom wall My shoulders bruised My body melted into the floor The Sixth time you apologized My eyes dried the tears My palms grew sweaty The Last time you touched me I never came back That was the First time I felt free
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Art by Brenna Fox Words by carson scott check out more women of the week articles at thesirenmag.com
Yoko Ono Yoko Ono Yoko Ono Yoko Ono Yoko Ono Yoko Ono is an iconic Japanese artist and activist who largely worked in the field of experimental art, whether that be in paintings, film, exhibitions, music, or performances. One piece she was famous for was entitled, “Cut Piece.” In this performance Ono wore her favorite suit and allowed viewers to cut off the suit with a pair of scissors. Another work Ono is famous for is a video called “Four,” which was a five minute long video that consisted of close up shots of people’s butts as they walked on a treadmill. Ono’s work often challenged what was conventional in whatever medium she was working in; she did not like to stick to any bounds or formulas. She also was active in anti-war and feminist activism and would use her art to sometimes reflect these values. To this day, Ono is still producing art and music and is an active member of the contemporary art scene.
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Kathleen hanna
Kathleen hanna
Kathleen hanna
Kathleen hanna
is a singer/songwriter who is known for starting the 90’s feminist movement riot grrrl. In the late 80s, Hanna started a band with some friends called Bikini Kill. This band of theirs broke into the male-dominated Washington punk scene with an exceptionally strong force and they quickly made a name for themselves. Hanna was known for allowing all of the girls to come to the front of her shows to create a safe space for women and to reduce the amount of male hecklers that would come to her shows. Hanna was also known for her rebellious, “I don’t care” demeanor and would go up on stage wearing almost no clothing with slogans such as, “I’m a slut” written on her stomach. Hanna then went on to create two more bands called Le Tigre and The Julie Ruin.
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Sexual Liberation in Learning to Love Yourself A Personal essay sophie bange
tw: assault, bullying
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n the night of my senior prom, I stepped outside with a new student, who I was beginning to get to know as a friend. I went to a small international school in Manila, Philippines, and we didn’t get new students often. I myself had been the new kid two years earlier, and we were talking about it before he said to me, “I don’t believe the things that everyone says about you.” When I first started out at that school I thought it would be a melting pot of open minds, an environment which welcomed new perspectives. That assumption was quickly proven wrong after a single date with someone. Because I had sex and I talked about it, I was immediately labeled the school slut. For the next two years rumors were spread, I was completely isolated, and the one person I was hooking up with
wouldn’t look at me in public. Eventually it all seemed to die down, as my peers began to include me more and they seemed to be getting to know me. Until that night. He told me, “People said if I hooked up with you, I’d get an STD. But I don’t believe that. I don’t think you’re a slut.” I was crushed the gossip was still happening, but grateful he told me. I tried to tell him my side of the story, and he seemed to understand. But when I was done, all he had to say was, “I really want to kiss you right now.” I was shocked, and said I just didn’t think it was a good idea. He said please. I said I only wanted to be friends. He said please. I stood up to leave. He said please. I said no. He said please. I said no.
I felt myself pushed up against something. A tree. I felt his hands on me, his lips on mine. It was just a kiss, something I’d done a hundred times before. But this time was different. My desires and my body had been violated. That moment felt like a painful culmination to everything I’d dealt with before. I was reduced to nothing, after being slut shamed for years, trying to teach myself to demand pleasure as a woman, fighting to come to terms with being Bisexual, and struggling to move past sexual shame brought by a Catholic upbringing. As much as I had tried to be proud of myself and my decisions, I had fought for my sexual autonomy since the first day I felt something between my legs. And I felt like I’d lost.
I handled my assault the same way I did everything else - I acted like I didn’t care and it didn’t affect me. But like everything else it did affect me and it still does. The more you are told that you don’t deserve to be treated well, the more you start to believe it. And after that, my approach to sex was that as long as I’m getting laid, that’s all that mattered. My partners didn’t have to show me one bit of respect. And I told myself I was okay with it. It wasn’t until about a year ago that I decided to demand more. Something in me just snapped when one guy answered the phone in the middle of sex without saying so much as “excuse me” or “sorry I have to take this” or even pulling out.
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I realized that having the freedom to be a sexual person is about more than the act itself; it also means taking care of yourself and making sure your physical and emotional needs are met. That is not to say that you should only have sex with people who can support you emotionally, but to only give your body, your effort, your time to people who deserve it. I’ve been told so many times to “respect yourself enough not to sleep around.” I don’t believe in that for a second. What I do believe is to respect myself enough to demand respect in return. Screw the people that show you basic human decency; the people that don’t can go screw themselves. A year ago I genuinely felt I was undeserving of love. Today, I have learned to love and more importantly, to love myself. I’ve learned from the choices I’ve made, I’m not afraid to talk about them, and I’m finally beginning to feel truly free to express my sexuality. It’s a significant part of who I am.
It’s an injustice that sexual liberation is something we have to fight for, both personally and socially, because I believe the capacity to have a safe, healthy sex life is a basic human right. In our continually sex-negative, heteronormative culture, that’s unattainable unless we create an open, accepting dialogue to tear down those ideologies. I will continue to try to do that in every aspect of my life, and I refuse to be punished for it ever again.
Art by kaya Noteboom
Revise, Reshape, Reform: Our Most Neglected Population Needs Our Help Melale Hailu
TW: death, sexual assault
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ocked in a jail cell, Nicole Guerrero gave birth on a blood-covered mattress in the early hours of what looked like a beautiful summer day. The nurse on duty told Guerrero that she had no reason to be concerned until she bled through many sanitary napkins; this still was not enough for her to receive adequate medical attention. Instead, she was again taken to a one-person holding cell with no toilet, sink, or emergency call button, where her water broke and gave birth to her daughter. As Guerrero remained in the cell, her unresponsive baby was taken to the hospital where she was later pronounced dead. This is not merely the story of Nicole Guerrero. This same mistreatment of incarcerated women
within the current prison system resonates with the stories of many across the nation. Since the 1970s, the number of women held at correctional facilities has grown exponentially, outpacing rates of growth for men. Despite this, women are often the afterthoughts in policy discussion about ways to fix the broken system. However, it is imperative that women’s prisons within the United States be reformed to include higher quality health care, a legislation that criminalizes sexual contact between male guards and prisoners, and are able to accommodate to the specific needs of female prisoners in order to improve the conditions and treatment of incarcerated women.
In spite of the exponential increase in the number of female inmates, little regard has been given to their unique health concerns. Incarcerated women often come from economically, educationally, socially, and emotionally disadvantaged environments, hence it is no surprise that the health of incarcerated women is considerably worse than that of incarcerated men. In a study conducted by the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, it was found that 27% of incarcerated women have chlamydia and 8% have gonorrhea, compared with rates of 0.46% and 0.13% in the general population. This demonstrates that many women within the prison system lacked adequate health care prior to their imprisonment, and after being imprisoned, they become subject to tremendous neglect in what has become a male-dominated system. Health hazards in prison are even more concerning in regards to mental health. According to the Corston Report, “women represent only 6% of the prison population, but account for 15% of suicides...”. While the prevalence of mental health disorders among people in prison is
a well-known problem, a dramatic gender disparity exists. The Bureau of Justice Statistics found that the differences when broken down by gender are stark: 66% of women in prison reported to have had a history of mental disorder, almost twice the percentage of men in prison. This highlights how critical it is that care for incarcerated women be provided using the same guidelines as those for women who are not incarcerated, with attention to the increased risk of infectious diseases and mental health problems. Secondly, in the United States, sexual abuse by guards in women’s prisons is so omnipresent that it is so often described as “an institutionalized component of punishment behind prison walls”. Research affirms that being a prisoner in the United States can be a terrifying experience because when incarcerated women are sexually abused, harassed, and/ or extorted, they are incapable of escaping their abuser. Moreover, grievance or investigatory procedures are often ineffectual, and correctional employees continue to engage in abuse because they they will rarely be held accountable. 39
These women are subject to diverse and systematic forms of sexual abuse: rape, coercion of sex for drugs or protection, abusive pat searches, etc. Many of these cases result in unwanted pregnancies by male guards, however the prisoners are often the ones punished and sent to solitary confinement for “engaging in sexual conduct with workers”. This compelled Human Rights Watch to investigate the issue and obtain research on the prevalence of sexual victimization within state prisons. Their findings suggest that sexual victimization rates in the female facility were significantly higher than those for male facilities. Such evidence suggests that sexual misconduct is an ongoing problem within the current prison system which is too often overlooked and unseen, therefore contributing to an environment in prisons for women which is often highly sexualized and excessively hostile. This clearly illustrates the extensive need for the federal government to implement stricter and serious institution and employment policies that effectively punish male employees engaging in such derogatory offenses.
Some of the most neglected, misunderstood, and invisible women in our society are those in the United States prisons, jails, and correctional facilities. While women’s imprisonment rates have increased drastically, the criminal justice system has not been redesigned to meet the specific needs of women offenders. Prisons are single sex, coercive institutions designed to hold incarcerated men in a secure environment. Women’s prisons are a poor adaptation of this model. Previous research has shed light on this problem, citing disparities in the areas of medical needs, family contact, pregnancy and childbearing responsibilities, sentencing and drug-related convictions. According to Rani Shankardass, a social historian and global expert on prison reform, “When a woman is menstruating it becomes a public event: there is no privacy when she needs to ‘change’... no privacy should she is suffering from cramps and doubling up in pain...”. This report goes as far as suggesting that prison authorities fail to cope with women’s menstruation and thus cannot ensure
that female offenders “enjoy� the highest attainable standard of mental and physical health. Consequently, a number of correctional facilities are inadequately staffed and/or lack the diagnostic tools needed to address the fixed gynecological needs of women. Additionally, a major issue for women in prison involves the effects of incarceration on kids. The National Institute of Justice expresses that more than two-thirds of all women in prison had children under the age of 18, however among them only 25% (90% for the men) stated their children were living with the other parent. This shows that many women prisoners are mothers and usually the sole or primary caretakers. As noted, women are a minority of the prison population, therefore they are held at a greater distance from their communities and families, a significant hardship for both the female offender and their kids. The ties of female offenders to their children are increasingly being compromised by criminal justice policy, and the U.S must implement provisions and programs that support connections between incarcerated women and their kids.
Gender differences in prison are revealed with extraordinary clarity. Everywhere, women are the minority in national prison populations but their numbers are increasing in many countries. We must address the direct consequence of this phenomenon, one of which is the disproportionate suffering of incarcerated women from the impact of ill-informed public policies. If the criminal justice system continues to disregard the realities, and does not propose an equitable system that is gender-responsive, our country is headed for an even larger ethical crisis. The absence of adequate health/medical care, sexual abuse by correctional facilities, and the lack of gender-specific accommodations not only harms female offenders, but the American society at large.
Melale Hailu is a high school student contributing from Arlington, Virginia.
Sounds of Designation Anna Lau
at birth, my parents assigned me a four letter word, designed to roll off the tongues of my ma and those who do not know the glory of a chinese name it’s funny, because my parents still have trouble pronouncing my name, and my oppressors still ignore the way my four letters sound because tomato isn’t as pretty as tomahto when time came in school to tell the story of my four letters, i had told my name was made for me, because it was easy, it was a name where no one could ruin the integrity, because it was strong. before birth, my parents and ancestors placed a name onto me, comprised of three sonorous tones, ringing higher and brighter than any bell could ever dream. but i broke off the small branches that once grew off my feet, nourished by the blood and tears of my ma, and swallowed what i used to called my roots.
rather than have both of my names be sounded, i swallowed the three sounds given to me, hiding the name i wanted to be called by, in fear it was too difficult i swallowed the three sounds that represented me, the sounds which told the prophecy i was to fulfill, and the sounds of the virtues i was meant to embody i kept swallowing, until out through my ass, came a second coming. i no longer held onto the roots i once broke off and swallowed, instead, it digested, and became a hot, steaming pile of shit. i named that shit repression, i named it “too difficult to pronounce,” i named it to being an american, i named it something that was to be examined by my friends, by their parents – something familiar to the tongues that have taken too much,
i named it so that i didn’t have to be reminded that my names, too, are
glorious.
43
a night with hana sha amy garay-Azucena
The Women’s Center had the great pleasure to host Hana Shafi as the annual keynote speaker for the Lyllye B. Parker Womxn of Color Speaker Series on February 26, in honor of Ms. Lyllye B. Parker, a longtime local Eugene advocate for Students of Color.
H
ana Shafi, aka the Frizz Kid Art, is an Indo-Persian artist who’s recent works are rooted in affirmations and positivity rhetoric.
“I wanted my art to be this radical force of hope and resistance. So I started creating more uplifting stuff as a
way to uplift myself from the dark place that I was in, but also to uplift others,” she said about why she first began her art project. Shafi’s work touches on several aspects of society, including trauma and the healing process, what burnout looks like for a Person of Color who is constantly bombarded with images and stories of injustices, and critiques the highly European beauty standards and behaviors in mass media that dictate how people try to lead their lives. Her most recognizable work is “Healing Is Not Linear,” a phrase Shafi says many therapists tell their patients during the process of healing through trauma. “It gave me a huge sense of peace, it was healing creating this work of art. It made me feel like it was okay that after a seemingly successful start to my career that things had gone downward.”
afi, @frizzkidart Trauma comes in many shapes and forms. It can be a singular event, or a culmination of many small micro-aggressions a Person of Color faces day to day. It can be the burden of the racism, Islamophobia, Homophobia, Transphobia, sexism, ableism, etc. that a marginalized person or group endures. And it can be difficult for a person who has to face these injustices alone, with no positive images of themselves represented. And that’s why Shafi’s work has such an impact on her many followers. Healing is not linear. It’s okay to feel well for a while, but come back down. It’s part of a process towards growth and change, and the experiences and emotions one feels during the healing process are all val-
id. “I learned that even though I couldn’t just bypass these problems, I could surround myself with people who understood that these problems existed, and that we could protect each other, we could help each other bloom, even if it took a while. ” At the same time, Shafi recognizes that the endurance and stamina one needs to process, assess and deal with trauma can also cause burnout. “It can feel like you are eroding,” she said during her keynote speech. The bloom of growth can wilt, as she poetically says, and burnout can come crashing down on marginalized Communities of Color, who face racism and brutality. Burnout can affect sexual assault survivors, domestic abuse survivors, Trans folks who 44
are denied rights, exclusions that affect several identities from a happy life that everyone deserves. How do we fight against the burnout? To Shafi, she calls her friends to vent, she desaturates and disconnects from social media. “You’re allowed to be gentle to yourself,” she says about the ways to heal and take a break from the constant problems of the world, and the exhaustion that affects people of varying identities that feel like they have to be constantly fighting against an unjust world. Some of Shafi’s childhood and adolescence is also marked by being blasted constantly with beatuy standards that didn’t fit her. In high school, Shafi wished that her favorite show, The OC could just feauture someone like her - brown, hairy women. With her art, Shafi also explores and embraces her body and it’s “imperfections.” It’s hard to digest images that don’t fit a person all the time, which is something that Women of Color confront daily, but through her art she finds self-representation and creates representation for Women of Color who have also felt isolated before. “It’s radical to cre-
ate artwork that center’s people who are not usually centered.” Shafi, brilliantly ecclectic in her style of dress and her short frizzy, curly hair, ends her speech with a reminder: “Nobody is entitled to all the great things that you have to offer. And that you all have the capacity to find your own healing, find the ways to reconcile with pain and trauma that works for you, find the way to raise yourself up and blossom when you feel like you’ve been trampled on by past and current violence. The ways that you
heal are entirely your own.”
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