SheThey
Copyright @ 2020 Sydnney Margova Islam SheThey Magazine Cover art: “Her Majesty” by Emily Renee Koch All rights reserved
SheThey Art and Literary Magazine
Issue 7 - December 2020
Letter from the Editor Happy almost end of 2020! This year has put many of us through some incredibly challenging times: mental, emotional, and physical health struggles; loss and grief; changes in relationships; financial, housing, food and job insecurity; and so much more. While there are few things that can be consolation for these losses and hardships, this has been a year of immense growth. Seeing the personal growth of those around me—and within myself—as well as the community growth and solidarity, has made me very hopeful. In the new year, I hope this growth continues for you and your communities. I hope you are able to take with you the resilience and strength you have gained this year. I hope you find love, self-acceptance, personal, financial, and relationship success. You deserve great things and I hope we all have opportunities for them in 2021.
Love,
Sydnney Margova Islam
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Contents Cover
Her Majesty, Emily Renee Koch
1
Oh, How Cold the Bible Can Be, Ty Martin
2
Below the Surface, Megan Bormann
3
Untitled 2, Shabnam Jannesari
4
Lingering Thoughts, Sydney Hainy
5
Independence Day, Lidia Hadera
6
No. 6, Al Gilmore
7
Stare, MaryKate Stanich Reflection, MaryKate Stanich
8
I Said No And You Didn’t Hear Me, Madelyn Larkin
9
Blue Painting, Hayley Walker
10
Blue Painting Inverted, Hayley Walker
11-12
A Walk Through Fingerprints, Toni Brennan
13
Untouched, Rachel French
14
Through the Magnifying Glass, Taylor Robers
15
Gabe, Rachel Stern
16
Voyeur, Brooke Benson
17
9/12/20, Cassandra Murphy
18
Look Up, Madeline Elli
19
Head, Sara Kenney
20
Holy Trinity, Jérai Wilson
21
I.O.N. My Head, Rose Lederer
22
Third Eye, Sydnney Margova Islam ii
Issue 7 - December 2020
Oh, How Cold The Bible Can Be By Ty Martin
body made up of silver and gold they called me “one of the greats”, yet i felt my teeth turn into copper and suddenly i was fake. there was not yet a word to describe the kind of metals that made up us and while they choke on papyrus and wine, we pray to gods of stardust. we furrow our brows, paint above our lips and exchange the textures of iron press together our fingertips, while staring eye to eye asking what we’re made of. are we silver or gold? iron or copper? or did we get lost on the way or maybe we’re all stardust that within the earth, we lay.
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Below the Surface
Digital art By Megan Bormann
Issue 7 - December 2020
Untitled 2
Oil on canvas By Shabnam Jannesari
SheThey
Lingering Thoughts By Sydney Hainy
reach inside myself with gloved hands careful do not disturb fragile this side up your words written across me hot to the touch lather it on always get burnt i found a letter from my father to my mother it read it seems like just yesterday we kissed for the first time, but then again, i feel as though we’ve always been together i never stand still today i did at a draw with my mind i held my breath searched pleaded words sickly sweet on the tongue the door I so patiently wait behind has nothing beyond it.
yank tension point collapse tumble fuck how do i end up apologizing for what hurt me do i hold the knife does it twist into my skull on its lonesome? i beg for time to stop i take my walks at 4 pm now when i knew you it was 9 pitch black scratchy against the skin i try to remember i always do i wish i didn’t
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Issue 7 - December 2020
Independence Day By Lidia Hadera
Fourth of July. A day that is meant to celebrate independence from the British Yet, with this freedom for some. Came the enslavement of others. I am reminded of this by our flag. Folks chanting ‘Merica. And our national anthem. So when someone asks me what I’m doing this 4th. I say nothing. Because for so many of us This country doesn’t feel like our own And our independence day is Not the Fourth of July. But rather June 19.
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No. 6
Graphite, watercolor, acrylic, gouache By Al Gilmore
Issue 7 - December 2020
Stare (top) Reflection (bottom)
Photography By MaryKate Stanich
SheThey
I said no and you didn’t hear me Madelyn Larkin
“Can I touch you here?” “No.” You touched me anyways “Can I put my lips on yours?” “No.” You kissed me anyways “Can I see you naked?” “No.” You pulled my pants down anyways. Fuck you What was the point of asking If you aren’t going to listen? “Can you do me a favor?” “Sure.” I don’t have time or energy to even hold myself up But I won’t say no to you Because every time I’ve said no It went unheard I am a background character in my own life I can’t remember what my body looks like I am not in control of my thoughts I am not in control of my feelings I am voiceless I will never say no again.
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Issue 7 - December 2020
Blue Painting
Oil on canvas By Hayley Walker
SheThey
Blue Painting Inverted
Oil on canvas with digital augmentation By Hayley Walker
Issue 7 - December 2020
A Walk Through Fingerprints By Toni Brennan
How do I define the seasons as they change... I can’t return these last few months— The receipts are lost to the way I move with this glacier stuck in my personal space and the coins in the pockets of this place seem to only cover eyes of faces that had the range to generalize the death of a World. And I don’t mean the universe, I don’t mean the planet or an ecosystem. I mean the death of an individual; World, as their nervous system is dragged through courtrooms scathed by the idea of simply existing as a figment. The debate over pigment—just go on and tear another ligament from the lineage as if they won’t recall the feel of empty condolences nicking the fingertips of a World... A mother once held. A lover once kissed. A World—to only be missed. I cant return these past few months as parts of me, alive and dead, mindlessly float with the bacteria and degradation that comes with blowing through seasons as if there are an infinite amount of them. Now in collective hiding, yet still trying to find myself in the blur of a time cloud overhead. We ride the grey mass in a multitude of blue skies, honoring the skyline with those who have run out of time. Feeling for that sweet spot of memory in succession where we can glide through the seasons of spring, summer, winter, second winter, third winter until we fall.
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And if I fall onto concrete and not leaves with comrades who look like me and those who don’t— I wonder who will be engraved to the sky graves of foggy exhaust laid by an airplane that still misspells their name. We try to skip summer. Just like several states skip out on the mandate that comes with the possible escape to you claiming you can’t breathe through a piece of fabric thinner than the belief that everyone must go on with their life as if this... is all there is. Why don’t we sit with that. To believe oppression rests right under your uncovered noses where air has the same budget of a funeral covered with roses. Watch how empathy and compassion decompose in the face of what you chose and what is said at the cemetery about your heart existing a mere foot away from your protruding nose. But that’s just how it goes, no? People are dying, believe that. People are dying through seasons and summer was coexisting with sweltering heat and the crippling silence of children once screaming in sprinklers. These Worlds fill communities; where most are dying, the rest outdoor dining but those Worlds will be the ones to lead us into a terrene where fear and politicians are obsolete from whose streets!— I still hear children crying because these big thinkers contemplate a life while nine more show up at their doorstep with the same sentence to say, “go figures— took you long enough.”
SheThey
People are dying in their sleep, believe me. People are dying in their sleep where comfort meets vulnerability at the ever-frayed seams. Here, we will be pulling away from the hands of the oldest definition of morality. Perhaps empathy. People are dead in their home, bleeding out in their good samaritan cloaks that seem to separate the good deed from its host. I hear boasts arrive at the juncture of “change” and yet blue, white and red remain the oldest color combination known to the man who came to a world already known. The fight continues with reddened reparations draining over slight gleams of the same dispute through multiple cycles of life that can not and will not end when the cold arrives or when the sun starts to cry.
People are dying and I'm teaching youth on a black screen to scream their names loud enough to project through any dimension that follows the cyclical pattern of seasons— We are warm, hot, cool and cold, letting change seek out the equilibrium at which everyone has a hand to hold.
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Issue 7 - December 2020
Untouched
By Rachel French The last hands that touched me were unwelcomed. They left a mark on my soul and now when I think about my body it is tarnished. Violated, Vandalized. I can’t remember what yours felt like. As much as I want to hate you, I can’t help but long for the days when missing the way you touched me was the only memory my skin held. When I prayed to not feel My old love’s hands On the inside of my thigh Or his breath on the back of my neck This isn’t what I meant - No longer untouched
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Through the Magnifying Glass (Red Tree Brain Fungus, Hayward, WI) Oil on wood By Taylor Robers
Through the Magnifying Glass (Waxcap mushroom, Hayward, WI) Oil on wood By Taylor Robers
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Issue 7 - December 2020
Gabe
Oil pastels By Rachel Stern
SheThey
Voyeur
Paper collage By Brooke Benson
Issue 7 - December 2020
9/12/20
By Cassandra Murphy I am sitting in my bed with my eyes closed The lights are still on My shirt is only halfway buttoned, and the bare skin pebbles at the surface And I am wondering to myself why I always act as though I am being perceived Even alone in a cold room, curtains drawn I take shallow breaths and forget what it is to fully exhale I wonder if I breathe beautifully If the air that ďŹ lls my lungs makes music upon impact A day comes that I no longer appear I relax my body, my stomach bloats and my face skin folds and I am truly happy I laugh loudly and someone says they’ve never heard me that loud before My voice always a decibel above a whisper
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Look Up
Photography By Madeline Elli
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Issue 7 - December 2020
Head
Styrofoam head, acrylic paint, and small trinkets By Sara Kenney
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Holy Trinity
Digital painting and Photoshop By JĂŠrai Wilson
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Issue 7 - December 2020
I.O.N My Head
By Rose Lederer There’s a halo hanging from her head; But it’s blocking every word you said. She’ll wear her circle like a crown; Be respectable and kind, But she’ll let you down. You’re compassionate, I can see. You’re thoughtful when I ask you to be. Conveniently considerate Of cigarette stains. Be the angel you want to be, Praised for innocence and charity, But you’re not kind. Because my mind Hold the hidden thoughts Yours couldn’t process.
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SheThey
Third Eye
Sharpie and graphite By Sydnney Margova Islam
Issue 7 - December 2020
The mission of SheThey Magazine is to open more dialogues about the experiences of folks who have been marginalized because of their gender identity through impactful art and literature. With an intersectional feminist lens, I want to give this community a resource where they have a voice to share what it is like to live in their skin and showcase their creative work. My goal is to cover any and all subjects relevant to these folks, including but not limited to; sex, race, LGBTQ+ rights, body positivity, reproductive justice, ability, racism, colorism, sexual assault, Indigeneity, trans* rights, white supremacy, age, gender fluidity, domestic violence, patriarchy, sexuality, menstruation, relationships, toxic masculinity, sex positivity, uplifting favorite artists, writers, musicians, activists, etc. This publication is open to submissions and readership from anyone whose gender is systemically marginalized or who exists beyond the gender spectrum. This includes women, non-binary, gender non-conforming, agender, genderqueer, gender fluid, trans feminine, trans masculine, and anyone who feels this magazine is a space for them. Additionally, although the publication is titled ‘SheThey,’ we welcome and encourage submissions and readership from folks of all pronouns and neopronouns. I hope to share perspectives from folks of all races, abilities, ages, religions, nationalities, and sexualities. Any and all forms of art and literature are accepted.
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Thank you to everyone who supported this dream of mine and helped create a community around speaking our truths.
If you are interested in submitting work for the next issue, please contact me by email at syd.mislam13@gmail.com
Until next time.
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SheThey Magazine December 2020
