The Rational Creature, Volume 1 by The Rational Creature

INAUGURAL ISSUE

NYU's Feminist Arts Journal

SPRING 2017

Cover Design by Rachel A.G. Gilman Book Design and Layout by Rachel A.G. Gilman and Stasia de Tilly-Blaru Backcover Photography by Mia Jacobs The Rational Creature Logo Design by Rachel A.G. Gilman

Volume 1 Spring 2017

PROSE…

11 You Can Sleep Well Knowing Women Exist Jeannie Morgenstern

21 The Plight of American Feminism Kate Holland

24 Profile: Kim Hoyos and The Light Leaks Alex Hanson

28 Heels Over Head Rachel A.G. Gilman

42 Profile: Bridget Griggs Alexandra Delyanis

55 Profile: Women in Sports Maddie Howard

61 Settled Nicole Stapleton

65 Are People Born Trans or Is Transness Thrust Upon Them? Teagan Rabuano

POETRY…

9 Necessary Precautions Bella Harris

14 Gringa Elise LeMassena

22 Firenze Grace Halvorson

35 Little Slut Bella Harris

36 Dealt A Bad Hand Kate Tell

46 Seabreeze Kate Tell

51 i hope you think about me sometimes Zuzanna Walters

52 Dear Potential Suitor / Thief / Savior Omayeli Arenyeka

53 An Open Letter to All Shakespearean Men Rachael McCune

58 Break Bella Harris

68 I Don’t Want Children Bethany Sattur

PHOTOGRAPHY... 8 untitled Katerina Voegtle

10 及笄之年 (coming of age) Kowloon Baby

13 Four Prayers at the Western Wall Julia Moses

18 Now or Never Amanda Choy

20 Women’s March Julia Moses

27 Ana in the Shower Samantha Jin Soon

33 untitled Katerina Voegtle

34 豆蔻 (girl's teenage years) Kowloon Baby

40 Ukukus bailando durante el festival del Qoyllur Rit'i Iracema Alvarez

41 untitled Katerina Voegtle

45 Princess Mia Jacobs

50 lone-tea Kowloon Baby

54 Lauren in the Flowers Julia Moses

59 untitled Katerina Voegtle

60 Small Assaults Grace Halvorson

64 Post-Election Trump Protests Katerina Voegtle

67 Swagger Xianyue Huang

70 Let the Girls Speak Riana Gideon

72 Haight-Ashbury Amanda Choy

NYU'S FEMINIST ARTS JOURNAL - ESTABLISHED 2016

letter from the editor... Welcome to the inaugural issue of The Rational Creature. Just six months ago, this project was only an idea that I had upon realizing NYU's feminist community had no means through which to express their artistic creations. I wanted to bring these strong, creative, like-minded women and feminists together to work on a collaborative project for the betterment of society. That project is what you are about to embark on. Virginia Woolf is known for musing on the assumption that a lot of written work marked as "anonymous" was likely written by women who could not claim ownership over their creations. Thankfully, many modern societies have matured past this mentality, including the United States. The Rational Creature wants to celebrate the efforts that have been made toward the support of feminist art throughout history and continue to support the creative work of women and feminists going into the future. Upon reviewing submissions, I found many works explored similar themes, such as sexual assault, political distrust, and the ongoing search for equality throughout the world. The works in this issue bring these matters to light while maintaining a sense of hope. We have photographs, poetry, and prose sharing words of optimism on how the actions of third-wave feminists and 21st century women can positively effect the next generation, starting with an intersectional and all-inclusive mindset. I could not be prouder with the content we are presenting, and to know that I am in the company of some extraordinary creators here at NYU. Many thanks to NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study, for without the Student Resource Fund Grant this publication wouldn't have been born. Further gratitude is shared with all editors, contributors, and supporters of this journal. Your reviewing content, spreading the word on social media, and hanging up posters everywhere, among other things, is greatly appreciated. Lastly, to all who look through the publication, I can't thank you enough. I hope the content brings you just as much pleasure as our editorial board has found in our curation of it.

Rachel A.G. Gilman Creator/Editor-in-Chief, The Rational Creature VIEW ALL OF OUR CONTENT ON OUR WEBSITE: WWW.THERATIONALCREATURE.COM

â&#x20AC;&#x153;I hate to hear you talk about all women as if they were fine ladies instead of rational creatures creatures. None of us want to be in calm waters all our lives.â&#x20AC;? -Jane Austen, Persuasion

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untitled KATERINA VOEGTLE

necessary precautions BELLA HARRIS you can make all the right steps make as many pro and con lists as can fit in your notebook watch as many tutorials on youtube you can cut your hair short with the scissors in your drawer you can eat a pint of ben and jerryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fuck someone stupid and you will still feel sick. you will feel a stampede of elephants rumbling in your stomach and every time you put your head down you will get sinus headaches because youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve run out of tissues and you wont stop shaking your body will be weak your mind will be foggy and your heart will hurt I did everything right and i am broken in so many places

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及笄之年 (coming of age) KOWLOON BABY

You Can Sleep Well, Knowing Women Exist JEANNIE MORGENSTERN Her hair flows like the length of a spring day in the middle of winter. Her skin is soft, like the touch of a loved one. Her eyes are like berries. When closed, they are the color of dusk. Her teeth are yellow, like corn. Her voice is loud. Her chest is like the earth, flat and round, going up and down. On her legs she grows grass. On her back she wears no clothes. Her belly is vacant, and she yearns to fill it. The moon will be her first conquest. Mother Nature swallows it, digests it. The moon is so big; it seems that she cannot possibly eat it all. But she does. Her stomach stretches as the moon rolls down the interior of her body, soon landing in her belly. It disintegrates, and is quickly gone, fastening the darkness within Mother Nature with a large pearl. She is slaked. Within her, women can now come out of their hiding spots, free to roam in this white light glow, flocking like fairies to the sanctuary it provides. They thank Mother Nature for this dousing light, and use this opportunity to build both homes and cities. Tired from the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s work, she rests. Mother Nature is beautiful in her bed, with her mountains and hair and valleys. She is everything, and is all that the people within her have. One day, after building up her courage, Mother Nature comes up to the sun. She opens her mouth wide. She shows the sun her teeth and her lungs. She peels it as if it is an orange, and allows the glowing crescent peels to fall to the ground. Some thought this star would be too big for her consumption. However, her heart is bigger. She ate the whole thing. The sun abated her hunger, and shone golden light down her veins. In this new light of the day, everything was bright. Wood shone orange, and the flowers seemed taller. People glowed with hues of the earth, and everything stood healthier. Women grew taller, and opened their legs, welcoming the new warmth. They used this opportunity to build the world. An elderly black woman sat in her bright red coat, with large eyes scanning an old notebook, ignoring the looks of others. There are financial plans in that journal, written in thin shorthand. Dreams of retirement, years of planning, all noted down with whatever pen she could find. Mother Nature is proud of her. A woman with a hijab begins to build her house. In her mouth are nails, naturally suspended between two thin lips that are accustomed to wrapping around a cigarette. In her hand is a hammer eagerly banging against something that will one day be the wall of her office. She will paint it green. She has dreams, despite what people say to her. Mother Nature is proud of her. A woman that has a uterus gives birth to a baby. Mother Nature is proud of her, seeing sweat glisten on her large, square chin. A different woman does not give birth to what is within her. She goes to a clinic, ignoring

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what others barrage her with. When she exits, Mother Nature is proud of her. A woman that does not have a uterus lives with her husband, despite what people say about her. She becomes wrinkly with him, living a long time. Mother Nature is proud of her, as well, happy she swallowed the sun for the women, happy to see that they were doing good things with the visibility light brought them. Tired, Mother Nature rests. Within her is a whole world. She can feel beautiful things inside her, which are working and churning and creating. She sleeps relatively well, despite knowing that there is also ignorance and fear attacking the workers. She hopes that the women will realize that there is still a lot of work to do in this world, and that they are completely capable of handling it.

FOUR PRAYERS AT THE WESTERN WALL

Four Prayers at the Western Wall JULIA MOSES

Gringa ELISE LEMASSENA You look in the mirror. What will they think of the circles? They’re the darkest things on you. You always wanted to be a little darker. Maybe they’d feather out creep over your cheeks and settle between the veins in your neck. Gringa. Blink in the mirror. Remind yourself of how different you are. The way you stick out in all the photos. “Do you ever go outside?” Nod and smile. At least you have your mother’s hair. Gringa. Grow it long. It’s the thickest thing you’ve got. Don’t you dare cut it. Keep it in waves and when all the other girls twirl highlights around their fingers, you make sure yours look like chocolate. Blue-eyed girls have the best songs. No one sings about you. Gringa. When your sister’s tan starts to deepen and her skin sticky like toffee, rub in a little more. Don’t look at her. The only thing worse than a white girl at the family reunion is

GRINGA

a fake one. At least white blends in with the walls. Gringa. You should’ve known better. You can’t be the pretty one too. Hide behind the book where they won’t find you. Chew on your lip until it’s fat and juicy. Plump them up. They’re the darkest thing about you. At least you can speak in curves. Gringa. You look horrible in red. The only thing you can do is try to paint your lips with the triangle and hope that it covers the star. The blue stripes run down your arms and legs. Your hair may wave in the breeze, but that flag is not meant for you. Gringa. The bread is never right here. Too American. Only the island knows what it means to bake their bread. You will never see your abuela slice the loaf for your mother and her plate, filled with pork and mustard. You can’t eat it anyway, you don’t eat meat anymore. Gringa. You’re just like yucca. Tossed to the edge of the plate. Only in second mouthfuls. Cut with the side of a fork. The leftover rice with no beans. The ones stuck to

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the bottom of the pot. If only you’d burn a little. Gringa. You are a Dixie cup without any chocolate. A Mr. Softee after all the sprinkles have been licked away. Vanilla tastes best with something else. It is the only kind of bean you can be. Gringa. Your tongue twists around palabras and gets lost in frases. You will always struggle, the words will never come. “Mira, mira” your mother calls from the bottom of the stairs. If only she knew what you saw when you looked. Gringa. You sleep with your mother’s palm against your cheek. Thin like paper stretched across bones. Even in the coldest months her skin is not as frozen as yours. All the shades are too dark. Even the orange girls see right through you. Gringa. You will pray to Caridad. Pray that your mother does not forget to remind you of your Cuban blood. Pray she does not forget hers. She does not go by that name. But it is tattooed in white ink on the inside of your wrist

GRINGA

so you can never escape it. Gringa. Somehow you always manage to turn a little paler. In sickness and in health. Pink when it is hot. Blue when it is late. Green when the boats are too rough and their saint, your mother, is too far away. You are not mixed enough. Gringa. Even your name is flat and sterile. There is no fire. No double L or squiggled N. The tongue does not roll. You are so washed and white that hiding and seeking were one in the same. The cracks in the bushes let the light through. Only the moon understands how it is to glow. Gringa.

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Now or Never

NOW OR NEVER

AMANDA CHOY, 2017

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Women's March on NYC JULIA MOSES

The Plight of the American Feminist KATE HOLLAND Often misunderstood and rarely fortified in legislation, modern feminism has seemed to take on a life of its own. We are currently in an epoch of feminism known as third-wave feminism. Thought to have begun in the 1990s, third-wave feminism arose in response to the failings of second-wave feminism, expanding to encompass women with a diverse set of identities such as ethnicity, nationality, and sexual orientation. This is known today as intersectional feminism, a concept often misunderstood by my fellow white women. An example of this is the #WomenAgainstFeminism campaign, started in 2013. It is just as misguided and misinformed as it sounds. Women who support this campaign believe that feminism forces women into the roles of victimhood, when in fact, women are victims. Maybe not you, or your sister, or your best friend, but some woman, somewhere, is a victim of the indoctrinated principles of sexism and misogyny. American women can’t keep denying the very real and present truth that women in other countries are victimized disproportionately to men and live in cultures that support such inequalities as female infanticide and legitimized dowry systems. The wage gap, the luxury tax on tampons, and other issues have become center-stage on the platform of American feminism, surpassing severe issues women face abroad. These problems include maternal mortality, genital mutilation, sexual trafficking and exploitation, limited or no access to prenatal care, education, contraception and feminine hygiene products, and more. Living in the developed world, we consider these birthrights rather than privileges. This other reality includes problems we have never had and never will have, but nevertheless problems that are commonplace in other locations. Intersectional feminism highlights our duty as feminists to offer our voices to victims of oppressive societies and archaic healthcare resources. While fighting to expand our rights as Americans, we can’t let our own plight eclipse our duty to fight for the basic human rights of women around the world who are falling behind in this battle. Intersectional feminism is a multifaceted attempt at achieving a feminism the world has never known, a “nowoman-left-behind-feminism,” but we are not there yet. We march on Washington, and we march proudly, to protest a president who radiates misogyny. But our job isn’t finished until tomorrow we march, and we march proudly, for a Bangladeshi woman’s right not to be sold to the highest bidder and a Russian woman’s right to live freely from domestic abuse sanctified by law. We as feminists have gotten feminism wrong, but each day is a new chance to get it right. Hopefully this will come with the shell-shocking realization that America is not an island in a sea of blue, but rather a potentially powerful hand in the fight for equality everywhere.

Firenze GRACE HALVORSON her old creaking body (new to me) promiscuously ensnared me she wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t all bad, in fact, she was constantly beautiful but beauty is not enough on its own our short term love affair ebbed and flowed in and out of passion even when I resisted, even when I hated her, she held her fleshy arms wide awaiting my inevitable fall back into her she let me caress her inner thighs and nip at the wrinkled skin on her neck she let me kiss the palms of her hands and rest my head in her lap but she would tactfully reflect (reject) the words (my words) the soft ones that I whispered to her she was never really mine and although I gave her everything I was never really hers we still speak, soft yearning for how we were (when we were happy) we negotiate our love through a thick fog laden with perspectives of time and warping of memories

FIRENZE

we loved I loved (I love) her

Profile: Kim Hoyos and The Light Leaks ALEX HANSON

Kim Hoyos, by Larry McAllister

Kim Hoyos, founder of The Light Leaks, is a go-getter if there ever was one. The Rutgers undergraduate is graduating this December, a semester early, with a major in Journalism and Media Studies, a minor in Gender and Media, and a Certificate in Digital Filmmaking. In January of 2016, she was a featured filmmaker on Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls. She has interned with Femsplain, fashion designer Rachel Antonoff, Girl Gaze, The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, and currently interns for Late Night With Seth Meyers. She’s also a public contender in the race to be Chance the Rapper’s next intern— when he tweeted on March 27th that he was looking for an intern, Kim replied with an image of her complete resume (at the time of writing, this tweet had received 1,200 likes and 116 retweets and gotten her featured in news articles on BBC and Buzzfeed). She’s smart, well qualified, and bold, and this overflowing ambition has recently manifested itself in a promising new project: The Light Leaks, an inclusive, accessible online community for female and non-binary filmmakers. “In film photography, light leaks were seen as something that was disruptive and destroyed an image and was unwanted,” Kim says about the website’s name. “I thought about how all the marginalized voices in film are something that’s disruptive…We’re all something that is against the status quo, but adding so much to the image and making it so much more beautiful.” Graphic designer Lindsey Meyer’s site design visually alludes to light leaks by incorporating bright pastel lights across the site. The content itself also lives up to its name, with a wide range of voices and stories already shared since its official launch in February. In the interviews section, you’ll find conversations with Breonna Rodriguez, the lead designer for Sesame Street, teenage photographer and filmmaker Lauren Tepfer, VP of the Director’s Guild of America and Independent Spirit Award nominee Rosemary Rodriguez, and more. The media section of the site offers resources to learn how to edit films, a personal essay about being both an immigrant and a film student, and think pieces about the impact of Law & Order: Special Victims Unit on sexual assault survivors and Rogue One’s Jyn Erso as hero that didn’t need to be overly feminized.

PROFILE: KIM HOYOS AND THE LIGHT LEAKS

The Light Leaks tackles serious topics, including representation, the performance of gender, and immigration, in the context of film and television. What sets it apart from larger, more commercialized media sites is its approach to these topics through the lens of specific voices of marginalized filmmakers and writers. The Light Leaks empowers these creators by giving them a platform to share their nuanced stories and perspectives. For Kim, getting featured in Amy Poehler’s Smart Girls and HelloFlo showed her the impact that being featured online can have on the careers of young creators. “I had so many more talking points in interviews, I was getting more interviews, people took me more seriously, I was able to get my foot in the door at more places,” she says. “I thought about the fact that a lot of people don’t have that because so many websites will just cover only one filmmaker every six months or something.…Now I’m growing a database of wonderful diverse creators [where you can] read about their lives. Whether it’s their fiftieth interview or their first, at least they have something else to add to their portfolio.” Kim also saw the gap in spaces to submit think pieces related to film and media: “I wanted to have more of that space where you could talk about what you felt you needed to in identity and recent media…I wanted it to be an influx of art and interviews and knowledge each month.”

Illustration by Elisabeth Graham for The Light Leaks

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The art and knowledge being produced by The Light Leaks each month empowers and encourages more than the creators making content for and being featured on the site. Under the resources section of the site, readers can find a thorough database of academic resources, organizations, and websites about women and minorities in film. Young readers will see themselves in pieces written by college students and interviews with teenagers and young adults. On social media, The Light Leaks shares a refreshing combination of colorful illustrations, filmmakers to know, memes, and inspirational quotes, making for an online presence that is as nuanced and diverse as the readers and creators themselves. Right now, The Light Leaks publishes new content on the site on the first of every month, and posts on social media regularly. While she has a plethora of ideas to expand the ways The Light Leaks utilizes media to connect with its audience, Kim’s ability to implement these ideas is limited only by her lack of time and funding as a college student without any outside investors. Therefore, Kim lists the potential for The Light Leaks as both the most rewarding and most challenging aspect of running the site. For now, she continues to prioritize delivering diverse and well thought out content each month, and is developing ideas for the future. The Light Leaks is an inspiring example of the ways young people and marginalized groups can utilize the Internet to empower themselves and others, and it all stemmed from Kim’s ability to proactively transform her ideas into something tangible and accessible. “When…you see something that you want to do, the biggest thing is to just go for it. There’s no limit to creation,” she says, “I’ve seen photography from sixteen year olds that rivals actual professionals. I don’t think it’s the equipment, I don’t think it’s the time, I don’t think it’s anything but the effort and the passion for it. That’s something that I hope people see in The Light Leaks or in me.”

Illustration by Gigi Ferguson for The Light Leaks

You can find out more about The Light Leaks on their website, http://thelightleaks.com. You can find out more about Kim on her website, http://www.kimhoyos.com/.

ANA IN THE SHOWER

Ana in the Shower SAMANTHA JIN SOON

Heels Head RACHEL A.G. GILMAN “Guys, can you please stop talking for five minutes?” I raise my right arm above my head and wave my hand around before allowing it to fall onto the top of my head, pushing my bangs out of my face. It’s around nine o’clock on a Thursday evening. “We’re almost done.” I am trying to hold a management meeting for WNYU. I stand at one end of the long table in the college radio station’s main space, where the General Manager always tends to stand, while my colleagues fill in the other sides. They make offhand comments to one another, joke about private things, and go through eating the assortment of baked goods I’ve made. They don’t quiet down, not until I ask a general question about a scheduling error. One person was supposed to be DJ-ing a show on one day but another person thought they were on that day, and then confusion ensued. It’s taken ten minutes to figure out what happened. “So you guys had a miscommunication,” I say. “Wow, that’s throwing shade,” one of the directors replies. People laugh. “I’m stating a fact. Someone did not communicate to someone else what was happening.” The side conversations return, a little bit more animated than before. “What about broken equipment?” “I already gave the BD a list of stuff to buy,” the Engineering Director says. “Well, you never gave it to me.” Again, no response from the person I’m speaking to. “I told you guys, we have a limited budget. People have to start being more careful.” The Technology Director starts listing acronyms for things that aren’t working and I take note. The Music Director corrects him on the exact damage to one of the broken pieces. A new side conversation opens up. The Engineering Director tries to get a word in, too, and soon, half the room is talking about one thing while the other half is chatting about others, and three different people are telling me about stuff we need to buy. I don’t know what the exact status of our monetary problem is because the Business Director told me at the last minute that he was not coming to the meeting, and admittedly, half of that conversation ended up being personal. His rough update to me for the numbers is in a text message, but I don’t want to take my phone out just like everyone else has done tonight. I don’t want to give in to the chaos. I’ve lost track of the mental equipment list because the conversation wandered off into an argument. My bullet points in my notes for the meeting feel like such a frivolous attempt. We can’t even get through one and two, let alone the eight that are planned. “You guys, come on!” I say. Nothing happens. The Associate Sports Director clears his throat. “Would you shut up?” he says. “Some of us have other plans, and would like to get this over with.” The room begins to quiet down and the attention turns back to my end of the table. Everyone has big eyes and closed-mouth smiles, as if it has been this calm for the past forty-five minutes. I look to the Associate Sports Director, who’s on his cell phone again, seated and spinning in one of the office chairs. He’s the newest member on the management team and he’s in the year below me. I’ve recently started purchasing a number of pairs of heeled shoes. Two-inch cork sandals with a fashionable brass buckle at each ankle. Three-inch black studded and strappy booties with complicated clasps. Four-inch silver stilettos covered in glitter practically stolen for $9 in a factory clearance sale online.

HEELS OVER HEAD

They’ve all found a new home buried in my closet beneath flannel shirts and quirky graphic tees. I can count the number of times I’ve worn heels on one hand. This includes all formal dances, graduation ceremonies, and a slew of sweet sixteen parties in the early 2010s. I don’t like wearing them. I just like knowing they’re there, should I ever need them, though the word “need,” especially in this context, feels improperly used. The couch in the radio station’s office sinks in when the station’s Publicity Director sits down next to me. She has her shoes off. Mine are off, too. We were sorting CD submissions earlier and decided to measure our height on the wall by making Sharpie marks. I was the shortest in the group, but only by a smidgen. “Do we have a management meeting this weekend?” the Publicity Director asks. “No, next Thursday.” I’m working on notes for the meeting, still vying for organization to conquer all. “Hopefully people don’t talk over me this week.” She sympathetically groans. “Women just aren’t taken seriously,” she says, adding something about how they can be seen as too soft and gentle when they’re in charge. “You know how it goes. You wear pink, bake cookies, and have a Paddington Bear sticker on your laptop and suddenly you’re an airhead. Ugh, stupid boys!” I shut my laptop screen. Like an over protective mother, I am defensive of the happy bear waving a Union Jack flag stuck near the center of my case, right in between a watercolor heart and an animated version of Stephen Colbert. “What, am I too kind? Too sensitive?” I ask. “What’s wrong with me.” “Nothing. Men just suck.” Everybody, sometimes, kind of sucks, I think. It wasn’t only the boys who weren’t listening during that meeting. It’s never just anyone alone. When there is a problem, it is always a group effort, though the group doesn’t always want to try solving it. I open my laptop up again and return to my notes. The Publicity Director leans closer to me. She fingers the lacey sleeves of my billowy blouse as they tumble over my forearms and onto the aluminum of my computer. They’re overtly feminine in the traditional sense of the word, which is the way mostly real adults have often described my aesthetic. The website I purchased the shirt from called it “mauve,” not pink, but it all sort of looks the same now, like the inside of the body. “I like this,” the Publicity Director says before getting up off the couch. I thank her and she smiles. “Bye, mom,” she jokes when she closes the door. Lace from my shirt scratches against my throat while I sit at a table across from a number of NYU administration members, arguing for why WNYU needs our budget to be unfrozen. I’ve put together a thirtypage document outlining the controversies that the administration fears (explaining away messes, chalking it up to cases of bad luck because that isn’t really false), our expenditures thus far with defenses of spending, and our planned projection for the rest of the fiscal year in order to operate at full capacity while not blowing the budget, as work prior to mine suggests we very well could. I flaunt the Intercollegiate Broadcasting System awards we’ve won – well, that I won, but I don’t say that. It’s a team thing. I have hours of work reflected in pages of research regarding possible legal issues with more than four-dozen case scenarios to support my belief that everything is going to be just fine. I don’t truthfully believe that yet, but this is my job. I’m doing most of the talking because I have done the majority of the work for this meeting. I can still tell the administration is looking to the Business Director on my left for validation. They want his input, which really only involves the budget breakdown. I oversaw that last night at 11:30 when he decided to finally do it and called me up for supervision. I know this stuff. I guess all the administration sees in me are little red patches of bumpy skin forming under the collar of my blouse while wondering why I chose to wear lace on an

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unseasonably warm day. They don’t know that the Business Director is in the same sweater he’s already worn for two days straight. “What about fixing your technical problems?” one of the administration members asks. “I see you have a plan laid out for that. How are you going to implement it?” “I need the Operating Engineer to come in and install the equipment,” I respond, taking off my blazer and draping it across the arm of my chair. My neck still itches. “Have you spoken with him about this?” the administrator asks. “He doesn’t always answer his phone,” WNYU’s adviser says. The Operating Engineer left his end of the conference call over this situation today, before it was finished. At least the administration could see my facts are supported. “We are working on implementing a better system.” The Business Director pushes a printed copy of our plan toward the administrators. “It’s all written down. Rachel did a wonderful job of putting the material together.” He smiles. I don’t. “We have the utmost confidence in this plan.” It’s the last words that are said before the meeting is dismissed. I gather my stuff, folding my blazer into my purse. I realize I’m the shortest person in the room, even when sitting. My aching feet in heels feel betrayed. I can’t argue that they’re wrong. It came to my attention that I had inherited my grandmother’s narrow, sloping shoulders not long after puberty. My purse was always falling down my arm. I inherited pieces from her collection of 1980s blazers as compensation. She had the good fortune of living during a time where clothing to exaggerate shoulders was popular, and I live in New York City so anything wild is just assumed to be a statement. I’ve expanded the collection. I wear a blazer at least once a week. In high school, I’d often pair them with floral dresses or bubble skirts, the epitome of what I wanted to find in myself – a balance of masculine and feminine aesthetics that conveyed control and power, and a sense of fashion, too. I don’t think I ever quite got there. The boxy shape still feels a little awkward over my breasts and inward curving waist. I’m usually stuck pulling my hemlines down from under the bulky jackets when I walk. At least if my legs were longer the nuisance of it all would feel earned. I’d somehow be special, or at least different. “Does anyone have anything else they’d like to add?” I say. We’re getting through another management meeting. All of the bullet points are more or less covered. No one much reacted to my announcement about the limited budget agreement. People continue to speak over me and I speak louder, because I’ve decided that’s all I can do. I’m tired and a nagging pain in my left side is making it hard to stand up. It’s a pain I’ve had numerous times before and know is always followed by a manifesting illness. I try my best to ignore it. The Business Director raises his hand from his seated position on a step stool in the corner of the room. I lean against the wall as he steps into my place. “Hi everyone. Just wanted to reiterate what Rachel already said about having some of the budget being approved. She did a really fantastic job speaking to the people in charge and having some money be cleared for everyone here so we can do some great stuff over the course of the semester.” He yammers on about what I have already said, his words more drawn out and effected. “So, if you have any questions about anything at all related to the budget, just let me know and we can talk about it, but I think we’re in a really good place.” A minute after he finishes, the room starts to clap and cheer. People make comments about how well he’s going to do in the real business world. He shrugs them off, returning to the step stool. He’s normally eight inches taller than me but I tower over him on the makeshift seat. It doesn’t feel good. I hold onto my side, my jacket fabric knotted in my fingers. “You all realize I said the same thing twenty minutes ago, right?” I ask. It’s the pain talking. It isn’t lying. No

HEELS OVER HEAD

one makes eye contact with me. “You all clapped for him.” The Publicity Director looks a little embarrassed. No one else reacts, aside from asking if there is anything else we need to talk about before they gather their belongings. The Business Director asks to walk out together but I don’t feel well enough to leave. I don’t tell him this. I sit down on the couch in the back office instead, looking over my notes from the meeting. As people get ready to go, I hear comments on all different crazy ways to spend the money because I guess no one was listening when it was stated that funds were approved for specific things, weekly pizza parties not being one of them. At least there was no sexist angle in the deafness to that fact. The pain in my side eventually eases, just as I get a text message from the Business Director: Very good job today. Went very well. You've really hit your managerial stride, it's very impressive to watch. As if I needed him to reiterate anything else for me in a better way than I would put it myself. It’s colloquial, but there’s a comma splice. I used to be best friends with one of my former colleagues at the station. He told me the problem in my leadership was that I wasn’t vulnerable enough. We were sitting in the office with him forcing me to drink water because the pain in my side is only made worse from dehydration. At the time I was getting better, before the new flare-ups. “Vulnerable?” I asked. I repeated the word like it was dirty. My friend was eating gummy bears when he replied. “People probably think you’re too hard. All you ever talk about is fixing things and doing business.” “That’s my job, to talk about those things.” I knew it was in the description somewhere. The General Manager is supposed to be a problem solver. That was all I had been since the job started. It had consumed my life. I was wearing boyish corduroy pants, a blue flannel button-down, and Samba sneakers because they were the most comfortable things in my wardrobe, and coincidentally also mindlessly complimenting. “You’re like a robot,” my friend said. I wished I had been a robot. His words wouldn’t have hurt so much if I hadn’t been able to feel them. “You act like you don’t have emotions sometimes,” he said. “We all have shit going on in our lives, but you’re the only one who acts like you have to keep it together.” He squished the remaining gummy bears from the bag into his mouth. “You know what I mean? You have to relax, rely on someone.” I was angry. I am still angry thinking about the comment. The very thing often complicating my job is my emotional investment in the position. I have to balance it carefully because it never works in my favor. I always have to prove to someone that my decisions are my own, are rational, are not frivolous despite what my clothes or my hair or my cute phrases might suggest, and are not personal regardless of my relationships. I do it in management team meetings. I did it when speaking with the administration. I do it every time I answer the station phone and someone assumes I can’t possibly have as much power as my title suggests. I have to go beyond my external layer, because if I don’t, then nothing good can happen. And I want good things to happen for WNYU. I care about the station. If I didn’t care, things would be much simpler. I don’t care about make-up. I never have. Like the times I’ve worn heels, the number of products in my make-up bag are minimal. I have concealer to hide blemishes and more frequently dark circles under my eyes. It’s something I purchased when I decided my time was higher valued than an extra hour of sleep. My mother gave me a compact with blush one fall after I lost my tan from the summer. It’s the easiest thing I can apply as well as the most enduringly lasting. Its only competition is the waterproof mascara. I will stroke it across my eyelashes on Monday and hope it wears off by Thursday. I also have a large bottle of clementine-scented

THE RATIONAL CREATURE, VOL 1

perfume. I don’t think that’s make-up. It only is in the fact that it’s entirely made up that I would ever naturally smell like citrus fruit. There’s also a little bit of a red lipstick that I purchased when I started high school. It’s a shade I break out for major events, usually alongside the heels but a bit more frequently because it’s less painful. On days when I’m feeling down, I sometimes rub it across my lips to bring forward the self-assurance that is always a part of me but isn’t necessarily the most vibrant of my characteristics. It sometimes works. My mascara proves to be false advertising when I start crying after a weekly WNYU administrative meeting. The WNYU adviser asks if everything’s okay. She has to help me sit down in a chair because I can’t see through the blackened tears blurring over my contacts. “I was afraid to tell you I was sick,” I say, referencing the medical condition I’ve been battling the entire semester alongside the station battles. I am afraid to tell anyone. The people who know found out because I got sick in front of them. “I didn’t want you to get angry.” “Rachel, I just want you to take care of yourself. You can’t control getting sick.” She has told me over the course of this semester there is a lot I cannot control. She has said it when I got angry about not being listened to. She has said it when I wanted the administration to meet with me and give me a fair chance before they threatened the radio station. She has said it when I admitted to having fallen in love with a colleague. In all of those cases, I found a way to alleviate (or in the last case, ignore) the problem. But I can’t so easily solve being sick. “It feels like a weakness,” I admit. “Would you say that if anyone else in management had this problem?” “I hold myself to higher standards.” “You hold yourself to impossible standards.” I hold myself to the highest standards because I want to validate my opinions. I want to prove the point that I can do this job not just well, but better, than expected. I know I can. I don’t know if anyone else believes it, but that doesn’t matter. I like proving people wrong, and no one else ever had to handle it with so much adversity. No one else practically has to stand on a box to be heard over a crowd of mindless chatter. No one else has done this job with a temperamental kidney, a lawsuit on their hands, and a swollen emotional heart that wants nothing more than to feel some love back. I can handle the challenge, just not today. When I stop crying, the adviser hands me a bottle of water and three strawberry Starburst candies. “No one would blame you if you didn’t do it next year, if you needed the break,” she says. “You don’t have to run again. Only do it if it makes you happy.” I am filling out my reapplication for General Manager, a position I’ll need to be voted into by the sitting management team. It happens in less than a week. I’ll be wearing a new blue blazer, my cork sandal heels, and whatever is left of my candy apple red lipstick. The clothes are strewn across the back of my desk chair, right next to my notes and my homework. The first question on the application asks, “Do you have any early memories in which you served as a leader?” It’s the one I’ve thought about the longest, the one I know has usually been accompanied by some quirky anecdote about childhood memories, at least from past General Managers. My answer tries to stick with tradition: Any early memory I have of being a leader involves standing at the front of a group: guiding my classmates in elementary school in a line to music class, heading the annual Halloween parade in my Little Mermaid costume, being in the first row of a dance my Brownie troop did to Rihanna’s “S.O.S.” for the fourth grade talent show. I’m pretty sure this was only because (believe it or not) I was actually one of the tallest people in my grade. It made it easier to follow me.

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â¾&#x2013; (girl's teenage years) KOWLOON BABY

little slut BELLA HARRIS when you hold my hand and kiss my forehead but wont call me yours i am okay but when the only thing you’ll call me is your little slut i wonder why it turns me into clay that you can mold maybe it’s because at least i’m being called something. because being called something. is better than being nothing at all after all it’s the role i was made to play when i was first called sexy at 13 in my math class when in the same year on crutches and brace faced i was whistled at on a carnival cruise ship standing next to my father (also on crutches) who never said anything when at 8 i first saw a woman take off her clothes in front of a cheap camera (for educational purposes i wanted to know how to do it, so i wouldn’t be caught off guard the day i was expected to) and my mother told me it was because she had a bad life was uneducated was unhappy i just wanted to know how to do it no wonder it turns me on to be owned i’ve been training my whole life

Dealt A Bad Hand KATE TELL the first time I was cat-called I was 12 years old. the first time I was followed home I was 14. groped — 17. assaulted — 18. done by those who see nothing wrong in taking what they don’t deserve, grasping at my innocence like a child and crying when it is not allowed. I speak of it all and I am met with shock and awe. they ask “how could you have let that happen?” and I want to ask the same of them.

but every one who has done unto me what I don’t deserve, who has laughed in the face of pain and forced me to crawl over mountains with it weighing down my spine,

DEALT A BAD HAND

who has kicked my jaw and stepped on my hands while I ran and ate breakfast and laughed and tried to be myself, everyone who has pushed me backwards with their words or their hands has stood up on stages waving mocking and bullying and abusing and terrorizing. He is frankensteinâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s monster, with patches of the worst kinds of people sewn together by distaste and privilege of being selfish and He has smashed all hope I thought I had the day He pressed his face up to the glass and realized He had won.

He is not new.

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I’ve seen his face and smile before. in passing car windows and in alleyways and in the movies and in prison and I’ve seen him forgiven while I have only been forgotten.

after I was followed home, I didn’t leave my house for two days. after he was elected, I wanted to leave. I wanted to scream. I wanted to wake up in another world, another time, sometime in the future where everything was fine and I was safe. but that is not something I am given. this is not guaranteed for me. so I am willing to fight with anyone who has and will tell me to accept, who will tell me that he deserves anything more than

DEALT A BAD HAND

shame and a mediocre place in history. He has put a fire in me that only his failure his downfall will quell.

if he doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t leave, We will make him. if he grabs me, We will bite off his hands.

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Ukukus bailando durante el festival del Qoyllur Rit'iUkukus bailando durante el festival del Qoyllur Rit'i IRACEMA ALVAREZ

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Profile: Bridget Griggs ALEXANDRA DELYANIS

All images courtesy of https://www.saatchiart.com/account/artworks/296153

Toronto-based artist Bridget Griggs, 43, knows all about the path of least resistance—and she does her best to avoid it. So, when she was abruptly confronted with images of David Bowie that she couldn’t seem to shake, Griggs decided to roll with it. The resulting series, “Tribal Love,” has taken Griggs on a journey she never imagined possible. When Griggs first encountered Bowie, she was already in the thick of a series titled “Love is Love.” On a biting December afternoon in 2015, as Griggs waited patiently for her eldest son to finish getting ready, she picked up a book of Helmut Newton photography from the coffee table. As she flipped through the book, Griggs started taking photos of the nude images to use as references for “Love is Love”—a series full of nudes and people making love. Griggs was standing over the coffee table, crouched slightly to angle her iPhone’s camera directly over each page of the book; when she flipped to a page with a photo of Bowie, his gaze met hers directly. “I was hit with this forceful, intuitive feeling,” Griggs said. “I didn’t quite know what it was at the time, but I compulsively took a picture of the image.” Griggs refers to that moment as the unconscious start of her journey with Bowie. In the following weeks, pictures of him popped up on her Facebook and Instagram feeds. His birthday came and went, but Griggs continued to work on “Love is Love.”

PROFILE: BRIDGET GRIGGS

It wasn’t until his death on January 10, 2016 that Griggs understood that working on the nudes was futile. She stopped the series that day and turned her attention to Bowie and the aftermath of his death. “He had been in my consciousness before, and I was hit so hard by his death,” Griggs noted. “I wondered, ‘Why is this happening to me?’ But as I looked around, I saw the same thing happening globally. It was striking.” Griggs dedicated the next few weeks to in-depth research on the recently departed icon. As she looked deeper into Bowie’s life, she realized her search was growing increasingly narcissistic.

The similarities between Griggs and Bowie are striking—early in his life, Bowie painted, like Griggs, and had a short-lived career as a mime. Griggs spent her early career as a model and actress and attended clown school before finally landing on painting. “It was like researching him was digging deeper into my own self,” Griggs mused. The two artists even look alike, sporting blue eyes, matching beauty marks on their lips, and the same androgynous energy. Griggs’s cropped pink hair mirrors the electric red-orange ‘do Bowie rocked during the 1970s. In her early works, Griggs set up a mirror next to her canvases and studied her own reflection as she painted Bowie.

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In May 2016 Griggs debuted her first set of work at a small show in Manhattan. The series Griggs titled “Tribal Love” was well received, but she wasn’t ready to stop working. During a brief stay in Manhattan, Griggs wandered down to Bowie’s former SoHo apartment building on Lafayette. A large civic alter sprang up outside the building immediately after his death and many artists contributed their own murals. When Griggs reached the altar, she wasn’t impressed with the current mural. “It was cartoonish—it didn’t have much to do with David,” she stated. “So I decided to do one myself.” From there, Griggs found herself swept up in a whirlwind of work and art. She painstakingly tracked down the owners of the adjacent building—formerly the Russian vodka bar, Pravda—who gave her permission to work in their open space. The building’s owner provided Griggs with painting supplies while friends put her up in their Brooklyn apartment. Although she wasn’t earning a steady income from the project, Griggs knew that she was doing the right thing by taking the risk to work on the project. “It was never about the finished product,” Griggs said. “It’s all been about the experience.” As she worked late into one August night, Griggs was overwhelmed with the significance of the title she had chosen for her work. “I named the series ‘Tribal Love,’ and suddenly I thought, ‘This is tribal love. I’m meeting my tribe,’” Griggs stated. The outpouring of love and support from friends and strangers was unprecedented for Griggs—she found herself building a tribe in New York. A project she started on intuition alone led Griggs on an artistic journey she never imagined possible. “Sometimes you have to go after what you want, even if there’s a lot of tension even if it doesn’t seem like the right time,” Griggs declared, “Sometimes, you just gotta do it. I knew that this was something I had to do.” Griggs completed the mural in August 2016 and plans to auction it in the Fall of 2017. A portion of the proceeds will go to the Manhattan-based non-profit Housing Works. Check out more of Griggs’s art at http://bridgetgriggsart.com

PRINCESS

Princess MIA JACOBS

Seabreeze KATE TELL I was sitting by my summer window and I saw her. She washed over me, grazing my skin with salt and grass. Her, unapologetic, empathetic, the sweetest, the scariest. I lived by her for twenty days before I went to her. I walked impulsively, daringly, and I got colder as I walked.

She was unfazed by my presence.

I fell in love.

SEABREEZE

When she looked at me, I could breathe again, See again. I wanted to swim to her. I wanted to fly to her, her seabreeze on my face, filling my pores with salt and scales, I had jumped from cliffs into her arm. I had found comfort in her clear eyes for so long. She could swallow me whole until I was as blue as her skin, until my eyes bulged

and she would still be unfazed.

She has seen so much. She had conquered men and women, whole kingdoms have sunk to their knees at the sight of her hands. Her touch was catastrophic. Her hair was a tangled web of truth and lives.

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Every night she called out just to be heard, but no one could understand. Her cries were deep, guttural, primitive, scary. She was feared by all, Loved by many, Embraced by few. She was cold and clear and I loved her.

We only had a moment together.

Before I left, I told her I knew she was dying. And that I missed her.

I hope that she smiled once my back was turned.

Now my chest aches when I think about her.

SEABREEZE

I want to touch her again, I want to say I’m sorry.

But she’s only awake when I’m asleep, and her breeze can only ever keep me out at sea.

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lone-tea KOWLOON BABY

i hope you think about me sometimes ZUZANNA WALTER your white t-shirt makes its rounds between trash can and laundry room it spins ever so harmoniously comes out dry, softened, rebirthed why can’t i go to tamarama beach or downtown los angeles, or the corner of mott and spring anymore? why can’t i lick stale popcorn out of the bag or melt timtams in the microwave or say the words pepita seeds, angel dust, sometimes, i’m scared, i’m not okay, anymore?

dear potential suitor i have a whole lot of dreams and none of them involve serving you breakfast.

thief You came And you stole something That was meant to be given Then you came again.

Savior You, wounded, Want to be you, hero Want to be you, savior Want to be you, healer. Want to be you, the one who can change him. This is how we bruise. We find the broken ones And we try to mend What is comfortable as is

OMAYELI ARENYEKA 52

An Open Letter to All Shakespearean Men RACHAEL MCCUNE When will the lies end, You Shakespearean men, Who paw the Veronan, the Elsinoran ladies? Much more death have you caused, For the sake of applause, Than, I should think, has been given to Hades. With a letter, an ode A dame’s heart you will goad Then turn around and leave her for dead. A knife thrust to its hilt For you no sense of guilt On your hand not a trace of red Thus cried Juliet, cried Ophelia: “A dagger, a river Shall mine deathbed deliver!” So, when will the lies end, All you Shakespearean men? For you’ve left your Fair readers quite bitter.

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Lauren in the Flowers JULIA MOSES

Profile: Women in Sports MADDIE HOWARD Sports have always played an incredibly important role in my life. Being able to find release through athletics has constantly saved me time after time. Whenever I am having a bad day I am always able to go for a run and forget, or to lose myself in a practice. Soccer is my escape and it is probably what I consider one of the most valuable parts of myself. My name is Maddie Howard, and I am a freshman on the NYU women’s soccer team. Since sports have become a vital aspect of my identity, I want to make sure that all girls have the opportunity to find their solace in athletics. Participating in sports can help them find comfort within themselves and find the support of a group of fellow women. With this thought in mind, I decided to have conversations with some of my teammates about the role of athletics in our lives and how it’s helped us become the people we are today. I spoke with Isabelle Turner and Alex Benedict, two other freshmen members of the women’s soccer team here at NYU. “Sports have played a huge part in my life,” said Isabelle. “I have played sports since I was four years old and even since then sports have been my main way of finding friends. I think it’s a great way to find people like you.” It’s true, playing a sport here has helped me to find people that are so much like me. At NYU, many of the members of my team are self-identifying feminists, like myself, who love to fight the good fight for gender parity. One aspect of female equality that is always a topic of conversation among us is the concept of body image in young women. Our society tells us that we must look like thin models in order to be beautiful, to earn attention from males. Soccer girls often develop big legs and muscles from relying so heavily on the strength of our bodies to excel in our sport. While we want to do the absolute best we can to succeed athletically, and despite the fact that we are incredibly healthy individuals, it can sometimes be mentally challenging when the body type that the media publicizes differs so widely from our own. “In high school I definitely had some issues with my body image just because I was working out a lot more and playing at a higher level than my friends who didn’t play sports,” said Alex. “But, having come to college and being surrounded by people who have the same goal as me, which is to do well when we’re on the field, it has really helped me come to terms with the fact that being muscular is how we as a team can win.” If I could tell young girls out there anything in the world, it would be to value your body for what it can do, and not what it looks like. Stop trying to be beautiful, because you already are. Instead, cherish your body, celebrate it, do something extraordinary with the muscles and the brain that you have. “I say just love your body,” said Isabelle. “There have been many times where I have heard people say that me and my friends have thunder thighs because we play soccer and we’re athletic. But, you need to let that

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hate be motivation, you need to let that motivate you to do what they can’t do.” “I agree,” said Alex. “For all you young girls looking to play in college, remember that your thick thighs can play 90 minutes of soccer and squat more than your body weight.” The three of us are people who are still trying to make a difference for other young women in the world of sports, so I thought it would also be of value to talk with an individual who is more experienced in paving the way for girls in athletics. Last year, NYU hired Kim Wyant to serve as the first woman to coach an NCAA men’s soccer team in collegiate history. She agreed to speak with me about her life experience and the role that sports have played in becoming the person she is today. “I can’t emphasize enough how much sports helped me,” said Coach Wyant. “Sports in general were just a huge part of my life because it got me out of the house, it got me physically fit, and ultimately, my talent in soccer got me scholarship to the University of Central Florida.” Coach Wyant has been the definition of a trailblazer for female athletes like myself. Without her efforts and dedication to the game, I don’t think I would be here playing soccer at NYU today. Among other things, she was a member of the very first women’s soccer national team, was named the MVP of the first NCAA championship for women’s soccer, and has been honored by the National Soccer Hall of Fame. I asked her to describe what it was like to step on that field for the first time and play with the very first group of women’s national team players. “I can remember them playing the national anthem from America and how I was so emotional and almost crying on the field before the game. I think at that moment, when the national anthem played, it really fell on me how significant that moment was and this game was. It was very special to me to be in the first game and to play in the first game, and to be such a significant part of this great history for the women’s national team; I’m very proud of it.” We also touched upon a more sensitive topic that is really close to my heart and to the hearts of the players on the women’s team. Incidents have occurred at colleges across the country regarding male athletes using derogatory, sexist language towards the female teams. As a men’s coach, I asked Wyant if she felt any responsibility to monitor the language of her players. “If I find that the players on my team are acting inappropriately, then I’m going to address it immediately. That wouldn’t make a difference whether that was a male I was speaking to or a female I was speaking to. But I do find that we have raised quite a bit of awareness about these issues, about these male teams acting in a way that doesn’t honor and respect their female counterparts. I know from speaking to members of the NYU men's soccer team that they’re horrified by some of these stories that they’re hearing. I’m hopeful that it makes them think about the type of person they are and what they want to be.” This question also came up in my conversation with Isabelle and Alex. As a female athlete, it is really disheartening to hear that men’s teams across the country have been degrading our fellow women players. My two teammates, despite the negativity that surrounds the issue, expressed hope for a better future. “It baffles my mind that so many teams have come out with such horrible talk about their female counterparts.

PROFILE: WOMEN IN SPORTS

and I agree, I do think it will change one day,” said Isabelle. “I think that these male teams are seeing the consequences that other teams are having to go through. If they have used that language before they’re probably rethinking and saying hey, you know what, these guys got caught and obviously what they did was wrong, let’s change this, let’s make a step in the right direction.” Having conversations like these about the nature of female athletics, how far we’ve come, and how much farther we need to go is important. Talking with people about girls and sports helps me remember why I continue to promote females joining athletics, and why athletics has helped me personally. The sense of community and the ability it has to make girls recognize their agency is absolutely invaluable. Thus, it is vital that we hear the stories of those who have paved the way for girls like myself, while also listening to the desires and concerns of those women who currently partake in the competitive arena. I want every young woman to experience the security that athletics can provide, and the confidence to carve their own story both on and off the field.

Break BELLA HARRIS when you are breaking apart when your ribs are only being held in your torso by the feathers in the down pillow reaching around your back like long soft fingers thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when you know this is the feeling they warned you about discovering the truth breaks greater than any glass shattered by bullet realizing that all you thought to be true was not a lie after all but rather more than you could have ever imagined

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Small Assaults

GRACE HALVORSON

Settled NICOLE STAPLETON When I enter CVS I already have my answer. I sit in the bathroom and shake the pregnancy test that I already knew was going to read “Negative.” I shake it because that’s what women in movies, who really want to get pregnant, do with negative pregnancy tests. They shake their negative pregnancy tests and whisper “fuck” to themselves while sitting slumped over dirty, convenience store toilets. They also cry. As I leave CVS I wave to Wanda who works behind the counter and wears seasonally themed headbands and accessories. Next week is Easter. She is wearing two eggs on her scalp that make her vaguely resemble an Alien. I do not cry as I leave the convenience store. I re-enter the parking lot and think about dinner. It is 8:30 am. I also think about the fact that Wanda can probably tell I am trying to get pregnant considering that I’ve come into CVS to take an early morning pregnancy test twice this month. That, or she thinks I have a lot of unprotected sex with strangers. I doubt this, however, because I am a well-dressed, middle aged, white woman. I think about Wanda, and whether or not she has lots of unprotected sex, until I reach my office at a punctual 8:55 am. “A distressed wife devastated after reading ninth negative pregnancy test in five months should probably arrive late to work,” I think to myself. “But here I am,” I resolve, hardly distressed. I continue to think about Wanda’s sex life on my way to my desk before encountering Julie. “Good morning!” she says with a bright, freshly-whitened smile. I focus my attention on her teeth instead of responding. I sit at my desk. My computer screen stares right back at me all day. Challenging me. For part of the day I consider responding to my computer out loud. “What do you want?” I might ask. Or, “I’m trying, okay?” Both responses seem forced, and pointless. I never quite understood the appeal of confiding in inanimate objects. I always thought that the whole point of making a statement was to receive a reaction. My computer can’t give me a satisfying reaction. It can’t say, “Oh, I’m so sorry that this keeps happening to you, I’m sure it will all work out!” with a sympathetic smile. Or, “What’s meant to be will be.” Or, “Everything happens for a reason,” with a biblical inflection that certain people find convincing. I think about dinner through a conversation with my boss, but these thoughts begin to lose their adherence and interest as I walk towards my car to leave for the day. I make full stops at stop signs and slow down at yellow lights. I let the car idle in the driveway with the windows down, and hover before putting my key in the door. When I follow the smell of roasting chicken into our kitchen Mike greets me with a warm, deep kiss. I feel like unzipping myself and stepping out of my own skin as an undetectable shudder travels down my spine, gratitude mixed with profound guilt. “I thought I was making dinner tonight, Hon.” I smile as I absorb the site of half chopped vegetables and what looks like a sauce bubbling on our stove. “I thought I would surprise my wife.” Mike uses “newly coupled” dialogue, as if my title as “his wife” is somehow novel and sexy. As if we

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haven't been coupled for years. I set down my purse on the counter and attempt to decompress. I am unsuccessful, of course, but I am trying. I chatter on about dinner. “You know, it’s a real shame you chose tonight to relieve your wife because she was thinking of making coconut shrimp with mango chutney. In fact, she even thought about it through a series of painfully boring conversations with her boss today.” “Well that’s just a goddamned shame, isn’t it?” Mike smiles as he kisses the back of my neck and places my plate in front of me. He is seriously trying. I smile into my plate and contemplate vomiting everywhere. I think that would be the most satisfying thing to do in that moment, to just let all of my insides out. I picture vomiting my entire abdomen while I move the chicken around on my plate. My liver would come out first, then my gallbladder and stomach, followed by my colon, my small and large intestines, and then eventually my urinary tract and finally my ovaries and uterus. I picture my stupid, fucking, uterus sitting on this plate between me and Mike and I am quietly satisfied by this image. What a tantalizing idea, being able to confront a physical representation of my problems and displeasures. How nice it would be, to have something to blame that was no longer in and of myself. I could always blame him too, I guess, for the infertility. It would be so easy, but what a copout. How convenient, to put all the blame on sweet, apologetic, secretary-screwing Mike. If I could convince myself, even remotely, that Mike’s minor infidelity was related to our problem then blaming him would work, but I don’t. When he first told me about his “mistakes” there were times when I considered the possibility that Mike was somehow kidding. That him having sex with his secretary, Noel, was somehow this little joke we shared, that he had never actually touched her. Behavior like that was too cliche and expected for it to happen to us. We were too in love, and too evolved, to think that stupid shit, like secretary-fucking, could shake the connection we shared. But he wasn’t kidding, and neither were the nine negative pregnancy tests I’d seen over the last five months. The silliest idea I had encountered in attempting to mend us was having a baby. That was the creme de la creme of stupid, overused ideas. Every distressed wife tossing negative pregnancy test across convenience store bathroom knows that babies don’t mend broken relationships. I am well aware that my infertility is my body asking me, “What are you doing?” But rather than face that problem I just keep having sex with Mike. We've had we-might-breakup sex, we've had I-still-love-you sex, and we've had I-forgive-you sex, all with the hopes of creating a life to fill the growing space between us, the space that had started growing before Mike hired Noel. It’s the type of separation that is so subtle at first you could totally dismiss it. The type of irritation that occurs when you’ve loved someone for so long that at times your relationship can resemble a sibling-hood, in which something the other person does pisses you off to an irrational point. At this point in our lives we could just blow it off. We laughed mostly. We were so much happier than most of the people we knew. We could finally say we were truly different from our parents. We had reached the point in each of our respective lives where we were convinced that we had stopped changing, as people, and we could start developing professionally and artistically, now that we were sure who we were. But it kept sneaking up on us. I remember a moment on the beach one summer in which Mike just stood up and walked away. At the time I thought he was going to grab a beer from the cooler or maybe take a walk along the water, but he didn’t come home again until midnight. Young, evolved couples let each other have space when they need it, even if they don’t ask for it. I also distinctly remember waking up early one morning in the heart of winter, well before either of our alarms went off, and thoroughly wishing I was alone in our bed. I don’t know why people that love each other grow apart. Maybe it’s their certainty that they won’t. Maybe it’s sexual fidelity or lack thereof. Maybe it’s because me and Mike each, in our own completely personal, private, and indescribable ways, hate ourselves, and therefore have a need to destroy the things fundamental to our pairing. Maybe it’s because neither of us could really ever come to a decision about loving or hating our

SETTLED

parents. Maybe it’s because one of us settled. Maybe we are still settling. Maybe it’s because we were taught that love was a solid, unmoving and unchanging thing when we were children and could never come to terms with the idea that maybe it was not. If people grew out of love with one another it was because they had never loved at all. However, our problem can’t be traced back to one limitation or flaw. I stare at my plate and my desire to hurl subsides. “I love you,” I say. “And we’re not pregnant.” “I love you,” Mike responds. “And I know.” “How could you know?” “I just knew, I could tell from your demeanor.” “Okay,” I say. “Are we going to keep trying?” he asks. I hesitate. This is what I have been dreading all day. I am suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion and convinced we both know the answer.

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Post-Election Anti-Trump Protests KATERINA VOEGTLE

Are People Born Trans or Is Transness Thrust Upon Them?

TEAGAN RABUANO When I was 19 I stopped loving myself. At first, I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I was going to the school of my dreams, I was happily (well, kind of) in a relationship. I had a family that loved and supported me in all of my endeavors. Yet each day I woke up feeling that something was off. I could never get my hair to go the right way anymore. The clothes that I once loved felt binding and oppressive on my skin. I couldn’t remember the last time I looked in the mirror and felt confident or satisfied with what I saw. True, the first year of college is a difficult and deeply transitional time. I had moved to a new city and gained quite a bit of weight. Still, my self-image had previously been so strong. I had endured bullying for many years growing up due to my natural flamboyance, and eventual coming out as gay, but through it all I maintained a healthy and loving relationship with myself (even during my Hot Topic phase and a long list of questionable fashion choices). As I sank further into depression, feeling myself become more awkward and isolating myself from social situations, I knew I had to do something to feel… beautiful. There was an end-of-the-year dance coming up and I decided it would be fun and comical if I ditched the suit and tie, and showed up in full drag instead. While most of my experience doing drag at this point consisted of dressing up for school projects, there were late-nights during high school that I would throw on lipstick and a wig to lip sync my favorite diva numbers in front of my bathroom mirror. I figured that by dressing up as something beautiful, I could escape my reality of self-loathing — if only for a night. When the date arrived, I went all out. I shaved my arms and legs as well as splurging on as much makeup as I could afford. I gave my best friend and partner at-the-time free reign to transform me into a glamazon worthy of walking down the runway of RuPaul’s Drag Race. After two hours, and lots of concealer, I was shocked and ecstatic to see a foreign creature staring back at me from the mirror. Pink lips, long blonde hair, luscious eyelashes — I barely recognized myself. I danced the night away, feeling more carefree and joyous than I had all year. The next day, when I ran into one of my professors who had been at the dance, she told me, “You looked so beautiful last night — and so happy!” Her words stuck with me as I returned home for the summer. My body hair grew back and I returned to a wardrobe of button-up shirts and boat shoes. I lost the weight I had gained, thinking this was the change I truly needed, but still something felt hollow. I didn’t sleep much that summer, keeping my mind occupied with Youtube videos and pirated movies. One night I stumbled onto a video about being genderqueer — something I was aware of, but was not intimately familiar with. I was passionate about trans advocacy, celebrating and defending the recent coming out of Caitlyn Jenner, but I never felt like that was who I was. When I started to research more and more about being genderqueer, something inside of me clicked: this was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to wear dresses and makeup everyday. I didn’t want to be a boy anymore. With support from close friends and, eventually, my parents, I transitioned. I traded in my polo shirts for mini skirts and became a makeup enthusiast. My pronouns shifted from he to they and, as my understanding of my

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identity continued to grow and evolve, my name followed, from Thomas to Teagan. Currently, I identify as a trans feminine non-binary woman. Lots of labels, I know, but these words aren’t for anyone else — they’re for me. The way I understand my gender identity is a personal experience. I expect people to respect me by recognizing my transness and using the correct pronouns, but I know not everyone I meet will fully understand, and that’s okay. The “born this way” narrative would have us believe that there is no changing who we are, that we must be accepted because we had no choice in the matter. So many things are imposed on us at birth: how can we possibly know how we would turn out otherwise? Are people born trans or is transness thrust upon them? Each person has their own answer and their own story. The homogenization of trans narratives is both lazy and dangerous. I didn’t know I was trans from the time I was 5 years old. I didn’t even know when I was 15. I discovered something amazing about myself that I might not have if I hadn’t gone to college where I did or stumbled upon that Youtube video. The bottom line is that I am who I am, but I did have a choice in the matter. I chose to do what made me happy. I chose to be beautiful. And everyday that I wake up, I choose to slip on my heels, pop on some false lashes and let the world have it. For that, I love myself more than ever.

SWAGGER

Swagger XINYUE HUANG

I Don't Want Children BETHANY SATTUR I don’t want children But if I ever wanted children I would want a daughter. If I had a daughter, I would hope that she would be pretty, Like I am, but improved on And smart, like me, but improved on. Every time I’d go to fix her hair, I’d remind myself that she’s a person, Not a doll. Every time she went out at night, I’d understand why my own mother was afraid. Whenever she’d eat, I’d encourage her to eat more; She is a growing girl after all. If she told me a boy hurt her, He would be dead by morning. If grades weren't her strength, I’d be disappointed, but I’d let it go. A girl should pursue her talents. If she wants to be a scientist, I will tell her to do so. If she wants to be an artist, I’ll send her to Julliard. If she wants to be a social worker, a lawyer, or anything in between, I’ll support her. If she doesn't want to give me grandchildren, I will be sad, But I will tell her that her body was not made to satisfy anyone’s demands Even my own. If she loves boys, I’ll tell her to be careful. If she loves girls, I’ll tell her to be careful. If she loves both, I’ll tell her, “me too.” If she wants to move far away, I’ll be sad, but never let on. If she wants to stay close, I’ll secretly be delighted. When she wants to wear something ugly, I won’t say anything. When she asks me to buy her something, I’ll say no sometimes, Just so she hears the word. I will teach her compassion for others, And hope that she will follow in my footsteps. I’ll be happy when she is happy and sad when she is sad. I’ll call my own mother at 3 a.m., tired and demanding to know What makes a baby sleep. I’ll call her again at 3 p.m. to reminisce and make plans to see each other. If I have a spouse, I’ll try to divide up the work If I leave my spouse, I’ll try to divide up the work When I see my father with her, I’ll remember the old pictures of him holding me. When she grows up and leaves, I’ll have the house to myself again

I DON'T WANT CHILDREN

Or maybe I’ll be sharing it with someone I love, Watching her leave wistfully. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know why I am imagining this. I don’t want children.

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Let the Girls Speak

LET THE GIRLS SPEAK

RIANA GIDEON

THE RATIONAL CREATURE, VOL 1

Ashbury-Haight AMANDA CHOY

CONTRIBUTORS...

ALEX HANSON Alex Hanson is a Gallatin student combining film, media, and physics in her concentration, with a minor in the business of entertainment, media, and technology. She is the founding editor of HERpothesis, a website that features creative work by young women inspired by STEAM. Alex's writing and art have appeared on StarTalk's blog, Rookie Magazine, ILY Mag, and more. She is fascinated by cephalopods and space exploration, and dreams of one day teaching a Gallatin class about Tim Burton's films.

ALEXANDRA DELYANIS Alexandra is a senior at NYU's College of Arts and Sciences with a double major in journalism and French & linguistics. She's an executive producer of WNYU's "The Rundown" and a host of WNYU's "Political Corrections." Alexandra regularly contributes to Festival Peak and has worked for the publications Saveur and Complex. She is from Tacoma, Washington and spends her free time hanging around musicians and playing all kinds of instruments for the band Social Atrophy.

BELLA HARRIS Bella Grace Harris is so honored to be a part of the inaugural issue of TRC! She has performed many of her works at various poetry readings across Los Angeles (Mason's Noise Parlour, Library Girl) but this is her first time being published. She is inspired by Andrea Gibson, Rupi Kaur, and her grandmother Paula Morgan Harris (a self-published poet). This is for her.

BETHANY SATTUR Bethany Sattur is a sophomore at NYU studying English. She was recently accepted to the English Honors Program and continues to write for a number of publications, including RIZZAR and DailyKos, and she does photography as a hobby on the side. Her dream is to be able to write freelance someday or perhaps work as a journalist for The New York Times.

ELISE LEMASSENA Elise is a junior studying Media, Culture, and Communication at NYU's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development with a minor in Creative Writing. She plans to pursue a career in young adult publishing, and believes that books are an incredible source for social impact. Her passions include: The 1975, pug Instagram accounts, and browsing local bookstores.

GRACE HALVORSON Grace was born and raised in sunny San Diego and is currently studying Media, Culture, and Communication at New York University's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development with a minor in Producing through Tisch School of the Arts. She is a writer, traveler, activist, creator, and artist who is passionate about making the world a better place..

IRACEMA ALVAREZ Iracema Alvarez Huiman was born and raised in Lima, Peru before she started her studies at NYU. Currently a junior majoring in Art History and French, she dabbles in poetry and photography. This is the first publication she has contributed to

JEANNIE MORGENSTERN Jeannie Morgenstern is a freshman at NYU, enrolled in the Liberal Studies Program. She wants to pursue writing in the future, but is currently undecided. An avid intersectional feminist and writer, she is thrilled to participate in the birth of The Rational Creature.

JULIA MOSES Julia is a sophomore in Applied Psychology at Steinhardt. She has been taking photos since the 8th grade and was able to take her first formal classes in photography in 10th grade. What drew her to photography was the ability to express herself in a way she felt like she couldn't with drawing and painting. She even won the "Outstanding Achievement in Photography" award at her high school's ceremony Senior Year. She is currently a staff photographer for Washington Square News. She is really excited to be taking place in the inaugural issue of The Rational Creature and hopes to continue taking part in the issues to follow.

KATE HOLLAND Kate is a freshman Film & TV and Journalism double major from Dallas, TX and a staff writer for both Washington Square News and HerCampus NYU. A fan of grapefruit, Joe Biden, and the Oxford comma, she loves writing about politics and social and environmental issues, especially those dealing with feminism and women's rights. She is interested in news and media production and hopes to someday work as a producer in broadcast news.

KATE TELL Kate is a sophomore at CAS studying Comparative Literature and French Studies. She is incredibly interested in classical and modern works, economics, psychology, cinema, as well as intersectional feminism. Her favorite things include coffee, poetry, baking, petting dogs, and laughing mindlessly about anything with friends. Originally from New Jersey, she is ultimately passionate about becoming a better writer and person.

MADDIE HOWARD Maddie Howard, among other things, is an English major and NYU women's soccer player. She combines her love for literature and athletics by writing for the Sports section of Washington Square News. Maddie loves to explore the city and document her various adventures in the form of writing and photography on her blog, CrookedViewpoint.com. You can also find her wandering around The Strand bookstore searching for her next feminist read and sipping an iced coffee.

MIA JACOBS Photographer, journalist, and an avid admirer of the everyman — Mia features and showcases ordinary creatives. She is a Sophomore at NYU Gallatin School of Individual Study, focusing on Journalism and Photography.

NICOLE STAPLETON Nicole Stapleton is a sophomore at NYU studying "Female Narrative" in Gallatin. She is also a creative writing minor, and will be dancing professionally next September with Nadine Bommer Dance Company as a trainee. This is Nicole's first published work!

OMAYELI ARENYEKA Omayeli Arenyeka is senior at the Gallatin School of Individualized Study studying Creative Computation - using code to make art. When she’s not expressing through code, she's expressing her thoughts about love, religion, and growing up in a patriarchal society through poetry. She’s also takes the part in Bible where Jesus declares “I am the bread of life” way too literally.

RIANA GIDEON Riana is a junior at NYU studying photography and imaging. She focuses on documenting youth culture, female mentorship, and how visual imagery can initiate change.

SAMANTHA JIN SOON Sam Soon is currently a junior Photography & Imaging major in Tisch. While she has loved shooting travel and miscellaneous portraits, her recent work marks a significant shift in interest, with much of it revolving around explorations of femininity and ethnic identity in Western settings, and contributing complex narratives surrounding representations of such identities. Check her out on Instagram @samsoooooooon (that's 8 o's!)

TEAGAN RABUANO Teagan Rabuano (they/them) is a non-binary, transgender artist and activist. They are a Drama major in Tisch School of the Arts with a double major in Gender & Sexuality and a minor in Law & Society. They work with the Sylvia Rivera Law Project and Trans Lifeline and they can quote the entire movie, Legally Blonde.

XINYUE HUANG Xinyue Huang is a freshman majoring in Math and Econ, but she frequents Lillian Vernonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house as much as she visits Courant. Her creative frontier touches the realms of music, cooking, photography and literature. Her baby face sometimes tricks airport faculties into offering her unaccompanied minor service. Even though she constantly goes astray, she is never afraid of getting lost. And when she comes back, she has stories. Her ultimate goal is to become a housewife and bear a few children, because to live a boring life is the last thing she wants.

ZUZANNA WALTER Zuzanna is a junior at Gallatin with a concentration in Journalism, Creative Writing and Art. She is originally from Warsaw, Poland, but lives in the East Village with her dog, Pablo.

Emily Figueroa Videography Editor Emily is from Los Angeles, California and has a twin sister and an older brother. She is a social justice and film production major in NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study and is currently abroad shooting two short documentaries in Cuba. She loves rock climbing and weight lifting, and has been working and teaching climbing at the NYU Palladium rock wall for three years! But she also eats like a crazy person. Additionally, she is passionate about political discussions and fighting for the rights of minorities.

KATERINA VOEGTLE Katerina Voegtle is a photographer and visual artist currently double-majoring in Photography & Imaging and Social & Cultural Analysis at NYU. Her work centers around themes of gender, violence, and U.S. and Latin American politics.

RACHAEL MCCUNE Rachael McCune grew up in far-Northern California. She left NYU after a semester to pursue enlistment in the Navy. She is proud to serve her country and is honored to not only represent women in the military, but also women in STEM careersâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;as she will be working with nuclear reactors during her service. She is confident that her experience asea and abroad will provide much inspiration for further writings.

ABROAD CONTRIBUTORS

EDITORIAL

BOARD Spring 2017 Rachel A.G. Gilman

Creator/Editor-in-Chief

Rachel is a writer, a wanderer, and a junior in NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study concentrating in creative writing and gender studies. She is also General Manager of WNYU, NYU's radio station, and a columnist for Washington Square News. Visit www.rachelaggilman.com to find out more.

Stasia de Tilly-Blaru Creative/Art Director

Stasia, or Kowloon Baby, is a creator from Hong Kong currently based in NYC! She dwells in photography, collage, and digital art. She creates music and writes about musical happenings for Alt-Citizen. She is a sophomore in NYU's Gallatin School of Individualized Study.

Amanda Choy

Photography Editor

Amanda is a San Francisco Bay Area native currently studying Journalism and Media, Culture, and Communications at New York University's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development. Learn more at www.amandajchoy.com.

Spencer Peppet Audio Editor Spencer is a sophomore in the Experimental Theatre Wing in NYU's Tisch School of the Arts. Her goal is working for global intersectional feminism through art. She also loves embroidering, college radio, and yelling.

All rights revert to the contributor, whose authorization is required for reprints. The Rational Creature was made possible by NYU's Gallatin Student Resource Fund Grant.