The Independent Edition 9 Issue 1 by The Independent

Letter from the Editor Dear Readers,

ED. 9 VOL 1

FALL 2021

ROLLINS COLLEGE STUDENT MEDIA ATTEN: THE INDEPENDENT 1000 HOLT AVENUE, WINTER PARK, FL 32789

THEINDEPENDENT@ROLLINS.EDU

STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF EM O’MALLEY RISING EDITOR-IN-CHIEF TAYLOR INGRASSIA CHIEF CREATIVE OFFICER FRANCISCO WANG YU CO-FOUNDERS MARY CATHERINE PFLUG SCOTT NOVAK DESIGNERS/ARTISTS GHINA FAWAZ DASSIKA GILKEY KATIE MONAGHAN KONSTANTIN FREIHERR VON STEIN SENIOR EDITORS ALEKHYA REDDY JULIE BENNIE COPY EDITORS AQSA HASAN CARLIE HENNING JIYA MANCHANDA CONTRIBUTORS ADRIANNA AROSEMENA MONA BELAKBIR DELANEY BENTON GEORGE CARPENTER PAULA ESPINOSA TAYLOR INGRASSIA ARIELLE JUNCA MADISON LINN ROO MORTON EMILY O’MALLEY ALEKHYA REDDY SYDNEY SCHENONE

Cover featuring photography by Madison Goeser

As I look forward to graduation this December and the next chapter of my life, I have also been looking back on my time working for the Indie. In fall of my freshman year, I submitted to the magazine and had my first piece published. From there, I became a copy editor, then a senior editor, and then the Editor-in-Chief. For almost as long as I have been a Rollins student, the Indie has been a part of my life; I wouldn’t change that for the world. In my tenure as Editor-in-Chief, our team had to adapt again and again to the impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic. Faced with budget cuts and a team scattered across the globe, we thought about the future of the Indie and the legacy we hope to leave. That legacy lies in the hands of our community. The Indie’s values are diversity, free expression, creativity, and social justice. But to turn those values into something real, to craft that legacy? We need passionate contributors, talented artists, and thoughtful editors. I characterize my time as Editor-in-Chief not by leadership, but by stewardship. My job has been to care for the magazine and the people who make it possible. Taylor Ingrassia, your new Editor-in-Chief, is a multi-hyphenate talent: editor, storyteller, artist, poet. What truly makes them qualified for this position, though, is their empathy and heart. I can’t imagine a better steward of the Indie. So, I bid you all farewell. When I begin these letters with “dear readers,” I hope you know how truly dear you are to me. I am so grateful to have had the honor and privilege to address you these past three semesters, and I look forward to reading next semester’s issue. Em O’Malley Editor-in-Chief

Hi everyone, As the rising Editor-in-Chief of The Independent, I am grappling with mixed emotions about my new role. While I will miss Em greatly, both as a friend and as one of the most talented writers and editors I know, I am simultaneously ecstatic to steal their position. From the moment I was hired as a freshman and throughout my semester shadowing them as co-Editor-in-Chief, Em has instilled in me a strong resolution to carry on the legacy of this magazine. I am entering my second semester as a sophomore, majoring in English and minoring in creative writing. In addition to working on The Independent, I am also involved in The Sandspur and work as a student assistant in the Olin Archives. As such, I am very interested in both Rollins’ history and current events. As an aspiring professional editor, I also hope to bring my passions for writing personal pieces and helping strengthen others’ works to future editions of the Indie. I hope you enjoy this Fall 2021 edition of The Independent; as usual, I believe Rollins’ student population has provided a collection of incredible works, strengthened further by our dedicated team of editors and artists. I’m very proud and honored to have been a part of this project, and I look forward to working with you all in the years ahead. Taylor Ingrassia Rising Editor-in-Chief

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Photography by Maisie Haney

Did You Know Snails Have No Gender? Taylor Ingrassia

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Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza Adrianna Arosemena

BECOMING

Social Barriers | Silenced Soldiers Alekhya Reddy

6 Mona Belakbir

Amur (n) akush

Dispatches from Dysphoria Em O’Malley

Not Like the Movies Delaney Benton

Ruminations from a Stoa: A Dialogue on Harm George Carpenter Sydney Schenone

Pebbles for Chrysanthemums Madison Linn

Finding Light Arielle Junca

What I Didn’t Know Roo Morton

Celestial birth, thoughts on torn paper Paula Espinosa

Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza By: Gloria Anzaldua

Photography by Adrianna Arosemena Designed by Francisco Wang Yu

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La conciencia de la mestiza Una lucha de fronteras / A Struggle of Borders Because I, a mestiza, continually walk out of one culture and into another, because I am in all cultures at the same time, alma entre dos mundos, tres, cuatro, me zumba la cabeza con lo contradictorio. Estoy norteada por todas las voces que me hablan simultáneamente.

The main subject depicts a young woman: still, silent, observant, as if biding her time to make a weighted decision. Behind her, graffiti on the wall depicts a woman wearing a Lucha Libre Mexican wrestling mask; another surgical mask is pasted onto the wall where her mouth should be. I want the viewer to visualize the struggle women of color have gone through in the past and the generational fight that has brought us to where we are today: more specifically, the intersectionality of genderbased, racial, and cultural discrimination Latin women have to face; the silence we are forced to sit and watch in; the simultaneously active and passive oppression that we continue to live in. My primary education never taught Hispanic culture, much less the history of Hispanic women. I am drawn to the subject of Hispanic women because, as an underrepresented fair-skinned mestiza, I am left to deal with the expectations and judgments of both the advantages of having light skin and the disadvantages of having non-white features. Reading Gloria Anzaldua’s writings in Dr. Dennis’s Intro to SWAG course was the first time I felt wholly understood within a text. Connecting with shared experiences and thoughts subconsciously creates ties to those who do, have, and will endure the same. I hope that some of you will find that within my piece. This photograph was taken using a 50-year-old 35mm manual Pentax film camera amid the COVID-19 pandemic, at Wynwood Walls, Miami. This photograph, like much of my current work, is archaic and traditionally developed in a darkroom with black and white film g

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Social Barriers | Silenced Soldiers Written by Alekhya Reddy Illustrated by Katie Monaghan

Perched upon the trenches of these social barriers A self-conflicting endeavor to conform or reject The truth passing us by, existing as silenced soldiers The dispersal of the message lost amongst the stillness Failed to spread even through the amplifiers An institutional affair, the weakest left to correct Perched upon the trenches of these social barriers The marginalized fight their way past the outliers Only to find their place in a society where they are all a defect The silence is loudest amongst those with no closure Social connections tied with monetary value are the only qualifiers In a world where these groups can never interconnect Perched upon the trenches of these social barriers We run parallel in an alternate universe; no need for frontiers The hypocrisy and ignorance have traveled through time in retrospect All the cries are let loose in the ears of forgotten soldiers The sharpest of knives and the strongest of pliers Are insufficient in this fight against humanity and intellect Perched upon the trenches of these social barriers We meet at midnight and dream of colors that do not exist To drown out the worries in the minds of these silenced soldiers

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Art by Mona Belakbir

, phonetically Amur (n) akush which means “Land of God” examines the indigeneity of North African culture through symbolism and iconography –The Hand of Fatima, The Ogee, and Tazerzit to name a few, as well as how colonialism and imperialism contributed to the gentrification of the Moroccan cultural landscape both from Western and Arab powers. By illustrating ancient heritage sites, I aim to address my grievances with how the West mystifies and exotifies North African culture and offer an authentic look at my heritage excluding colonialist notions and ideals g

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Not Like the

Movies

Written by Delaney Benton Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz Designed by Dassika Gilkey

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Are you feeling overwhelmed, constantly tired, and vaguely lonely? It’s okay, we are too. As a freshman who loves movies, I had this idea in my head when I first walked onto campus that I would find some of my best friends on the first day, feel instantly at home in this new environment, and be more confident than I was in high school. The reality is that it’s five weeks into school and I’m still not sure if I’ve found my group; I’m still learning to be comfortable in these spaces; and I’ve had bouts of insecurity wondering if people truly like me. If you resonate with that, know that those feelings aren’t weird or unusual. You’re not socially inept if you’re spending most of your blocks alone. It’s okay to still feel anxious in new spaces. It’s okay to worry if you’re making a good first impression. It’s okay to still feel homesick. It’s okay if you’re still finding yourself here. The truth is, all of us freshmen are feeling these ways; yes, even the ones that already seem to have it all together. You might see your roommates going out on the weekends, or your friends posting photos on

Instagram of them surrounded by “instant friends,” and wonder if you’re doing something wrong. Am I doing this “college thing” right? Why am I so tired all of the time? Should I transfer? Should I put myself out there more? Should I, should I, should I...the list can go on. The good news is, everyone is feeling the same way you are, even your picture-perfect friends. Everyone still feels uncomfortable while trying to act like this college transition is a piece of cake. I’ve talked with a few upperclassmen, and they’ve all said that their first semester was tough, but they also all said that it gets better. It takes time to grow into a new situation, so talk to someone. Ask a friend how they’re doing, really doing. Talk to a teacher that you trust. Talk to a therapist. Talk to your mom. Just talk to someone. You’d be surprised to see that there are many like you feeling this way. Let’s normalize talking about this college transition awkwardness, because let’s be real, it’s not always going to be like the movies g

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Pebbles for Chrysanthemums Art by Madison Linn

The summer of 2020 marked a transition in my life. I explore these final three days of summer, acknowledging my last moments of childhood intertwining with my first breath of maturity. While things remained the same, they appeared to me as new entities. I entered the final grade of high school, recognizing, in a sense, I was more aware of myself, as well as the people surrounding me. These pieces explore the ending of my childhood and the beginning of adulthood. While this change started subtly and softly, it flourished at the end of my summer break. It seemed my whole perception of the world was being shifted. These pieces are reminiscent of youth, the celebration of the coming of age, and the recognition of the duality of adolescence g

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Ruminations from a Stoa: A Dialogue on Harm Written by Syd Schenone and George Carpenter Illustrated by Konstantin Freiherr von Stein

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Bobby: Peter Stevenson! What’s got you down, man? Look around, dude: the Spanish moss is swaying in the breeze and the light is dancing on the lake—but your eyes are still blind with worry. What gives, man? Peter: Bobby Sena, I am in stitches about this Tom Cook paper. Bobby: Stitches? Peter: Stitches. Bobby: I’m always throwing myself into the service of my troubled peers; I’ll do my best to see your problem resolved. Why don’t you tell me what the matter is with your paper—okay, man? Peter: Doctor Cook wants us to take a stance on whether someone can be harmed after death. I don’t understand the problem here; how can someone who has ceased to exist be harmed? What am I missing, Bobby? Bobby: Listen man, there might be something more to unpack here, beyond what we’re aware of at the moment. Peter: Maybe, but I can’t conceive of anything. Bobby: Look, dude; here’s Doctor Rubarth reading on the French house stoa. Let’s pick his mind on this. Rubarth: Gentlemen, I was just getting in my Epictetus and ruminating on all the things I cannot control; how are things? Bobby: Peter is in stitches. Rubarth: Stitches? Peter: Stitches. Rubarth: What seems to be the problem, Peter? Peter: I have a paper for Dr. Cook’s class about whether someone can be harmed after they die. As it stands now, I don’t see how this is possible. That said, Bobby here believes there may be dimensions to this question we have not yet considered. Rubarth: Okay gentlemen; before we talk about harming the dead, let’s think about how the living can be harmed. Peter: Well, it seems to me that harm is a change of state undergone by a person that is against one of their interests. Bobby: Hold up, dude—change of state? I don’t know what that means. Can you clarify? Peter: I’d say that change of state refers to physiological or psychological changes undergone by a person. Rubarth: Boys—allow me to play advocatus diaboli so that you might further cultivate your souls. I assume you’re both familiar with the classical pantheon of deities? Bobby: I mean, for sure—definitely. Rubarth: Excellent. Then imagine Hermes decides one day to steal the other Olympians’ ambrosia so that he can feed it to his cattle. Knowing the gods will be enraged when they discover his theft, Hermes arranges for Greece’s greatest musician, Orpheus, to perform a lullaby before dinner. That night, in front of all the Olympians, Orpheus plucks his lyre and sings a hymn

so intoxicating that, one by one, the Olympians fall into a deep slumber. They awaken the next day with no memory of having missed a meal and Hermes is successful in his deception. Can the change-of-state model accommodate this? Peter: This is too easy, Doctor Rubarth. The deceived Olympians are harmed when they learn about what has transpired! Like, learning about it causes a negative change of psychological state, you know? Bobby: But isn’t it kinda bad that they have less food now? I’d say they are also harmed in that something was stolen from them that they had an interest in keeping. But I don’t see how that counts as a change of state. Peter: Maybe change of state is too narrow a term. I think it might be best to say that something is harmful if it has experiential consequences which are contrary to at least one of a person’s interests—like having less food or experiencing emotional distress. Bobby: But, going back to our example, a behindthe-back betrayal is, by definition, not learned about. And we can clearly imagine a betrayal that has no experiential consequences, like a one time affair or something. We’d say that’s a harm, right guys? Peter: Yeah, that seems right to me. So what now? Bobby: Well maybe it’s just the fact that it happened, man. Peter: But how can a fact harm someone? Think of the implications, Bobby. Do supernatural waves of harm radiate from your friend the moment they betray you? When are you harmed by the fact? How long are you harmed by the fact? Forever? I don’t know—there’s a lot of unanswered questions. Rubarth: So maybe it’s time you both start to think more carefully about what harm is. Peter: I don’t understand. Isn’t that what we’ve been doing the whole time? Rubarth: Sort of. But you could take a slightly different tact. It seems that you have agreed that harm is not a change of state, but some type of ethical category. You may want to investigate the status of this category. Is it an a priori? Empirically given? Or maybe a description like axiom is more fitting? You may find that the answer has important implications for your discussion. Bobby: Hold on, guys; what does this a priori and empirically given stuff mean? Peter: A priori basically means— Rubarth: Rather than get too into the jargon, it might suffice to say this: if something is known a priori, then it is always true and is accessible via reflection. If something is empirically given, then it is always true and known via interaction with the world. Bobby: I don’t know, Doc. Harm doesn’t really seem like either of those to me. Peter: For sure. There’s definitely something arbitrary about the term harm. Bobby: So then maybe we should say that harm is best understood as an axiom?

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Peter: But what do we mean by axiom in this context? Rubarth: Let’s not go too far down that rabbit hole either. The term axiom has a precise function in logic and mathematics, but what I am suggesting here is a less rigorous use of the term. Consider that the search for a formal definition of harm should be recast as the project of building a reasonable, conventional definition. In this case conventional means that the definition only holds for our purposes. In other words, it is not true outside the domain of our discussion. As such, the question of what harm is will become a matter of deciding which elements should be bound by the category of harm. Bobby: What’s wrong with putting whatever we want in there? Rubarth: What are you looking at me for, Peter? What’s wrong with what Bobby said? Peter: I just don’t understand how this can be philosophy—just putting whatever we want into a category. What’s the point if it’s not real? I mean, the whole spirit of philosophy— Bobby: It’s not that the category isn’t real, man! Think about it like this. You’re at the grocery store looking for cereal. Now obviously there’s no such ‘thing’ as cereal. Like it’s just a term we’ve made up, y’know? But it still helps to know where the cereal aisle is when you’re looking for cereal, and it’s a good thing that grocery stores have a cereal aisle! Otherwise Cinnamon Toast Crunch might be in a completely different aisle than Reese’s Puffs, and nobody would want that. Our task is to figure out which things we want to put in our proverbial cereal aisle! Peter: Yeah. Got it, Bobby. But I still don’t understand how we’re supposed to figure out which things we should put in the category of harm. Bobby: Not to beat a dead horse, but think about how grocery stores organize cereal aisles. How do they decide which things belong in the aisle? Peter: They put cereal in the cereal aisle, Bobby. Rubarth: Ah. I’d say they put what people think counts as cereal on the cereal aisle. Bobby: So we gotta put what people think counts as harm on our harm aisle! I love it! Peter: So harm is a sociological question now? If we figure out what people think about harm then our work will be done? Bringing us back to our initial question, is it true that if enough people think that postmortem harm is real, then we will know that it is so? Is this not sophistry? Bobby: Hey, man. Just take a second with me. Let’s bring it back to cereal one last time. We’ve agreed that there is no such thing as cereal, just as there is no such thing as harm. Since we agree here, it would be silly for us to keep asking what cereal—or harm—is. So we’ve gotta do something different. All that’s been suggested

is that, instead of figuring out which things are cereal, we organize our grocery aisle and make sure it includes all the things we want it to include. To put it in terms of harm, all that’s been suggested is that we make sure we follow our moral intuitions. Peter: But how do we know our moral intuitions are worth following? Rubarth: Let’s leave that for another time, fellas. It now seems that it would be best for us to interrogate our moral intuitions pertaining to harm. You both were doing this earlier. Do you remember? Bobby: Yeah. We know that we think harm is more than a change of state. Peter: And we know that we think that harm has to be more than a fact. It seems like we think that harm has to affect a person in some important way. There’s gotta be a consequence for someone. Rubarth: And do you think that answers your initial question? If death is the annihilation of the person after all— Bobby: But wait! Before we seal the deal, what about a person’s reputation? Rubarth: Well, what about it? Bobby: Well, we said that we think harm has to affect a person somehow. A person’s reputation continues after their death, so maybe harm to the reputation entails harm to the person. That would give us some wiggle room. Peter: But it seems safe to say that a person’s reputation is distinct from the person. In this way, harm to my reputation is a harm to me only if I face some consequence due to my harmed reputation. Bobby: But maybe a person is their reputation? Peter: But that obviously isn’t true! Bobby: Legally speaking corporations are people, so why is it so far out for a person’s reputation to count as the person in ethical discussions? Tying it all back, we could stretch the category of harm so that it defines people as capable of being harmed after death, without knowing, and without experiential consequences. We could do this through defining people as possibilities, legacies, reputations, memories, or even data. This move would let us accommodate all the intuitions we had earlier. Like, it would let us stretch harm to cover what we intuitively suspect are harmful. Peter: I’m just not sure if I buy this . . . Rubarth: Boys—this is my final teaching; I will leave you with this. When we look up at the night sky we observe countless stars. We see these stars; we interact with these stars. It is scientifically possible that one of these stars actually died thousands of years ago, but due to its extraordinary distance from us and light’s finite speed, we still see the star as it is physically manifest in the very light reaching our eyes. That is all g

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Finding Light Photography by Arielle Junca Designed by Dassika Gilkey

In this set, Finding Light, I play with the idea of “warmth.” When I think of these captured moments I’m overwhelmed with a nostalgic remembrance of what once was and what is yet to be. The setting of the afternoon sun; bright lights on a busy city street; sunbeams pouring onto petals and stems. Looking back on the places I traveled to and time spent with people I loved, it’s easy to find myself lost in the way things were. These pictures span across four years and in that time I’ve experienced tremendous growth, but my fondness of memorializing tender moments has stayed the same.

The first photograph was taken on the streets of Copenhagen, Denmark during the Winter season of 2018. A time before restrictions on travel and social distancing were the norm. I recall capturing this scene, getting weird looks as I ran into the road and pointing my camera in these strangers’ directions. The cafe was filled with laughter and conversations flowing, the Christmas lights created a glow I was drawn to. I took multiple frames trying to get the motion and focus the way I pictured in my head. I was able to capture the hurry of passersby juxtaposed to the cafe dwellers enjoying a leisurely moment together.

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The second photograph was shot in my friend’s home in Winter Park, during the Fall season of 2019. Together we would invite our community and cook a couple courses to be eaten with the dim light of the candles placed between us. It was a time of intentional slowed connection, to be seen and heard wherever we found ourselves. I had brought her flowers before the prepping began and as the sun streamed upon the tiny buds and leaves it felt like a moment I wanted to remember. I reached for my camera and after a couple tries I was able to capture what felt like a slow and steady exhale.

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The third photograph was taken in my home during the Spring of this year. I had let my camera collect dust during the height of the pandemic, joy was hard to encounter and my inspiration was at an all time low dealing with waves of personal loss and grief. On this particular Sunday, golden hour became my companion. Illuminating the shelves my father had put up and the jam simmering on the stove. I could feel myself alive again after a long period of going through the motions. I live in an apartment built during the 1940’s, as the sun set and poured onto my kitchen wall I wondered how many others experienced this same moment. I picked my camera up and set to capture the beauty of a mundane evening.

I shoot with an Olympus E-PL1 fitted with an M. Zuiko 14-42MM F3.5-5.6 lens. My camera is by no means professional grade, it’s nearly ten years old. My photographs can often have a graniness similar to film and that alone keeps me coming back time and time again. I edit with VSCO mostly correcting the contrast, sharpness, warmth, and occasionally adding a bit more grain. I don’t believe you need to have the best camera to photograph the moments you find beautiful g

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Did You Know that Snails Have No Gender? Written by Taylor Ingrassia Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz Designed by Jaianne Gilkey

’d start the day, in the past, with a teaspoon of tepid resignation, try jackets to blanket her chest & to circumvent the stares. let herself be tamed, kept quiet & tethered. T takes a trip into town, takes a continuing tally of the [b-t--], [c--t], [f----t]s directed at those who venture to exist there, the ghosts, haunting and untethered; the ghostwriters of this latest generation: tabby cats and tadpoles, distinctly patterned & constantly transforming, the snails (withdrawing from terrestrial shells). T stares at themself now, twink in the reflection, takes in their tits & tries to ideate them neutral, their fists neither too feminine nor too masculine, but unearthly, adept at haunting & transforming.

it’s t°° h°t in here; h°w i °Crave t° shed these layers free / it °Ff / myself l se rip and tear at all that stifles leave it on the earth behind me stop l

king at my shell — i’ll shed that, t , create a new mosaic of untraceable patterns to adorn me there are no right angles. there is nØ single defined sØlutiØn and i’m sick of ts ncessant buzz ng starving and tired of leaping to reach t

T exists these days in a revelation: [there is no T in gender. that is no space for me.]

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i. on the dock

with the sky upside-down and the trees breathing and the air’s humidity hovering like a swarm

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ii. your heart is in so many places. the pit of your stomach, the curve of your wrist, behind your eyelids and your temple.

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iii. there are reeds, overgrown on your limbs — the breeze is rushing through them — and no one can convince you to trim them. no one can convince you such nature isn’t beauty — or that it ever needed to be g

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Dispatches from Dysphoria Written by Em O’Malley Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz Designed by Jaianne Gilkey

I sit on the toilet I wish I could stand before and piss. logos for the video games I played. I always bought them The wad of toilet paper comes back bloody. Pad wrappers two sizes too big to hide my budding breasts. are so often patterned with that symbol of femaleness, a Oh, those breasts. I’d heard a rumor that you had circle atop a cross. I wonder if this means that even now, to sleep on your back, braless, to make sure they grew I have to maintain some allegiance to that cause, the great properly. cult of womanhood. Every night, I tightened my bra straps and sprawled Elbows planted on my knees, I stare at the Title IX on my stomach: a futile effort. poster hanging on the stall door. Statistics on stalking are Then, in my senior year of high school, I wanted divided between men and women. This, too, feels like the opposite, breasts big enough for a man to fondle. a sign that I have to cling to the female in me—of me. There was an alright-looking boy who I thought might Where else do I fit otherwise? be willing to have sex with me; I wanted to make myself I sit on the toilet, ignore the cramping clots of desirable to him. I rolled up the waistbands of my skirts uterine lining inching out of me, and remember. and borrowed my mom’s blouses. More importantly, *** though, I bought a push-up bra. Back when we were only children, my little brother On Friday nights, we would drive to a parking lot turned to me outside of the grocery store. He said he behind some vacant houses and shut off the engine. In didn’t need a new sibling, another chance. Of his three the dark, he slid his hands all over my body; I shivered, sisters, he said, he would turn me frozen. He never took off his into his brother. I wonder now if clothes: baggy jeans, high school he knew something I hadn’t yet wrestling team hoodie, who I spent hours realized. knows what shirt underneath. I, A military brat rite of passage: however, was made bare. I’d tug staring at the the ID photo. When I was in sixth my shirt over my head, slide my reflection that grade, my mom took us to get our underwear down my thighs. The pictures taken. We lived in Alaska first day I let him take off my bra, was mine but then, and I bundled up in toohe was excited. But after cupping not mine, Emily big jeans, a sweatshirt, a jacket. my lackluster B-cups, he moved My hair was cropped short. Next his hands to my butt and never without the to my brother and sisters, I was reached for my breasts again. femininity. the picture of elementary-school I wondered if I was supposed androgyny. to feel offended. In the waiting room, an older I lived in Japan that year. man struck up conversation with To try to get to know people on my mom. He had four kids, all adults now, and we the military base, my parents wanted to go to church. reminded him of them—two daughters, two sons. Across the pews, we introduced ourselves. The family we He apologized profusely when he realized I was a sat closest to had an American GI father and a Japanese girl. mother. She asked for our names, and when I told her In the living room after dinner, my family cozied up mine was Emily, she replied, “It’s nice to meet you, on the couch to watch The Good Place. Night after night, Emory.” Janet insisted to Jason, “I’m not a girl.” It didn’t matter In Japanese, I learned, there was no L sound; how Janet looked—just who Janet was. My parents liked instead, they use an R. Eh-meh-lee becomes Eh-mehJanet, and they liked me. That could be enough. ree. Even now, I swirl Emory around my mouth—the My mom took me back-to-school shopping. We name that is mine but not mine, Emily without the sifted through the clearance rack in the juniors’ section femininity. I hold Emory on my tongue like a piece of at Kohl’s, a kaleidoscope of brightly colored, form-fitting hard candy slowly dissolving into sugar and spit. Mine tops. And, yes, I bought skater skirts and skinny jeans. but not mine, I think, and it makes me wonder. Afterward, though, I told my mom I wanted to go to When I got to college, I met men. Men who raped the men’s section, too. Graphic t-shirts, two for twenty me, men who assaulted me, men who felt entitled to me, dollars, bore the comic book superheroes I liked and the men who wanted to possess me. Each one hurt me in a

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different way, but they shared one common refrain: my hair. How soft it was, how silky, how nice to pull when in a ponytail. Any time I said I was thinking of cutting it, they begged me not to. Even when they hurt me so much I was sure they hated me, they always told me how much they loved my hair. My best friend and I sat in my dorm and watched Call Me by Your Name. Not for the first time, I wondered why this film about gay men resonated more with me than something like Portrait of a Lady on Fire, with its brooding lesbians and poignant gazes. I was a bisexual woman, wasn’t I? Then, Timothée Chalamet pulled off his shirt to swim. What I felt for his bare chest wasn’t mere lust, but envy. How would it feel to unwrap yourself like a present for a potential lover, to unveil a body still smooth and flat over time like a piece of sea glass washed ashore? I stared at his curve-less frame, his nipples not meant for lactation, his short-cropped curls, the masculine hunger in his gaze. “I just… I want to look like him,” I told my friend afterward. A week later, they went with me to the barber shop. For the first time since starting college, I cut off my ponytail. A month later, that same friend bought me a binder. I spent hours staring at the reflection that was mine but not mine, Emily without the femininity. I thought of the ritual Emory tongue-swirling and

decided to try a variation of the practice: sliding my tongue between my front teeth, I whispered to myself they, them, they, them. Like my elementary-school spelling-bee days, I used it in a sentence. They love to read; their writing is nice; that book belongs to them. In true academic fashion, I came out to my family with a PowerPoint. The slides were peppered with photographs of my beloved Janet from The Good Place and references to Animal Crossing—if the raccoon businessmen Timmy and Tommy could be referred to with they/them pronouns, surely so could I. I sought out new ways to reclaim a body that I felt others had taken from me, had tried to mold into something they desired. Bleached hair. New jewelry, a third piercing. First one tattoo, then two, then three. Looser jeans, bigger shirts. And with each change, each experimentation, I looked more like me. *** I watch the bloody clumps and toilet paper spiral down the toilet, out of sight. The red disappears, and I can pretend again that there is not this fundamental, biological femaleness screaming inside of me. I pull on two pairs of underwear, the masculine covering the feminine. Is it all performance and layers, just one scrap of fabric over another? When the curtains close and the show is done, when the smeared-red paper is sucked away, what’s left? The answer, I suspect, is me g

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What I didn’t know Written by Riley Morton Photograph by Maisie Haney

Little 10-year-old me did not realize that as I matured, this body would give me a name in this world: an unwanted and uncomfortable name I wish had ceased to exist. In the girls restroom the other day, I saw a sticker plastered on the back of the stall door. It read, “you are not your body.” Yeah? Then why does the word “no”go unacknowledged ? Why did they look me up and down? Why did they whistle at me my first day on campus? Why does he forcibly pull me closer to his body? Why does he attempt to grab me, touch me, allow his hands to run over my body, before he says a single word to my face? Why do I see a group of guys congratulating, practically praising each other for “getting that p*ssy” or “smacking that ass?” “That.” Why do I constantly hear “sl*t, wh*re, freak” instead of “eyes, smile, intellect?” Why does he stare at me in uncomfortable places when I happen to wear a v-neck top or shorts with an inseam of less than 5 inches? Why does he attempt to justify his horrid, immoral, sickening actions with a “she was asking for it?” So I walk around, covered up, fighting the urge to cross my arms over my chest in an act of protection. Hoping that maybe his eyes will be forced to drift to my eyes, my face, my soft smile. Maybe, this will one day captivate him as much as what was covered by my baggy shirt and loosely fitting pants. Maybe. “You are not your body?” Sure g

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Celestial Birth Written by Paula Espinosa Illustrated by Katie Monaghan

celestial birth sometimes, when the warmth beneath my skin reaches a more present murmur, I feel like a living star, but when that same warmth radiates from every fibre of my being, I know I have become the sun thoughts on torn paper it’s not about being read, it’s about being written; having thoughts expressed and safe elsewhere beyond the chaos of the mind g

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THE INDEPENDENT IS A MAGAZINE THAT SHOWCASES THE VOICES OF WRITERS, ARTISTS, AND INTELLECTUALS AT ROLLINS COLLEGE. THIS MAGAZINE SERVES AS A FORUM FOR STUDENTS, FACULTY, AND MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL COMMUNITY TO SHARE THEIR RESEARCH, ARTWORK, TRAVEL EXPERIENCES, POLITICAL OPINIONS, AND MUCH MORE. WE STRIVE TO PUBLISH ARTICULATE, AUDACIOUS JOURNALISTIC PIECES THAT WILL BOTH EDUCATE OUR READERS AND MOTIVATE THEM TO FORM THEIR OWN INDEPENDENT WORLD VIEWS.