Fall 2017 Issue 2 by Tufts Observer

TUFTS OBSERVER VOL. CXL ISSUE 2

the scope of desire

STAFF EDITOR IN CHIEF Ben Kesslen

Table of Contents

MANAGING EDITOR Carissa Fleury CREATIVE DIRECTOR Kyle Scott PRODUCTION MANAGER Chase Conley FEATURES Henry Jani NEWS Ale Benjamin Vivian Tam OPINIONS Emmett Pinsky Merissa Jaye

OCTOBER 10, 2017 Volume CXL, Issue 2 Tufts observer, since 1895 Tufts’ student magazine

‘desire’

This week, we’re thinking about desire. Who is seen as (un)worthy of desire? What wants do we have as students, as friends, as lovers, as a community? How can we imagine these into existence? This issue raises the questions we've been afraid to ask, and tries to find the answers we've been longing to know.

ARTS & CULTURE Lena Novins-Montague Jordan Lauf CAMPUS Wilson Wong Julia Press POETRY & PROSE Nasrin Lin Alexandra Strong VOICES Gabby Bonfiglio STAFF CARTOONIST Ben Rutberg WEB EDITOR Sasha Hulkower COLUMNS Sivi Satchithanandan COLUMNISTS Myisha Majumder Riva Dhamala Britt PHOTO DIRECTOR Abigail Barton PHOTO TEAM Priyanka Padidam Roxanne Zhang

2 5 8

We Just Wanna Pee by Ben Kesslen & Britt

Something Like Holiness by Carissa Fleury

ART DIRECTORS Annie Roome Nina Hofkosh-Hulbert

MULTIMEDIA DIRECTOR Kayden Mimmack

by Wilson Wong & Pat Montano Mahaney

Protecting Our Community

LEAD PHOTOGRAPHER Jordan Delawder

LEAD ARTISTS Jake Rochford Nicole Cohen

By Ben Rutberg

VIDEO DIRECTOR Aaron Watts PODCAST DIRECTOR Evie Bellow PUBLICITY DIRECTORS Alyssa Bourne-Peters Ashley Miller

Between the LInes

COVER BY KYLE SCOTT

Bitters

by Alexandra Benjamin

MULTIMEDIA TEAM Deanna Baris Peter Lam

INSET

& y

by Roxanne Zhang, Jordan DeLawder, Claire Pinkham &Abigail Barton

17 18 20

22 24 26 28

The BreakThrough by Justin Krakoff

Whole Wheat Girl in a White Bread World by Sonya Bhatia

Stiched Back Together by Elena Pastreich

A Conversation With my Mom About Desire by Riva Dhamala

VIDEO TEAM Daniel Jelčić Dylan Kelly Emai Lai PUBLICITY TEAM Owen Cheung Grant Gebetsberger Ellie McIntosh Sarah Park Amy Tong STAFF WRITERS Kyle Lui Jonathan Innocent Rosy Fitzgerald DESIGNERS Nicole Cohen Noah Neve Erica Levy Anna Stroe Dennis Kim LEAD COPY EDITOR Chris Paulino COPY EDITORS Owen Cheung Erin Berja Anita Lam Sonya Bhatia Juliana Vega Niamh Doyle

CONTRIBUTORS

Emma Herdman Justin Krakoff Madeline Lee Elena Pastreich Claire Pinkham Matthew C.Wilson Laura Wolfe

Ritualistic Remedies by Matthew C. Wilson

Screwing the Patriarchy by Caroline Blanton

Desire Lines

by Sophia Isidore

The Tufts Observer has been Tufts’ student publication of record since 1895. Our dedication to in-depth reporting, journalistic innovation, and honest dialogue has remained intact for over a century. Today, we offer insightful news analysis, cogent and diverse opinion pieces, creative writing, and lively reviews of current arts, entertainment, and culture. Through poignant writing and artistic elegance, we aim to entertain, inform, and above all challenge the Tufts community to effect positive change.

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we just wanna pee the fight for

all-gender bathrooms on Campus

Emma Youcha

by Ben Kesslen & Britt

n 2016, the Campus Pride Index named Tufts a “Top 30 School For LGBT Students.” Their criteria include resources like an LGBT Center, counseling for LGBT students, and policy inclusion. What it doesn’t include is access to and availability of all-gender bathrooms. Had their rankings included this, Tufts’ five-out-of-five-star score might have been different. Tufts’ Medford/Somerville campus has a serious lack of all-gender bathrooms. Hubs like the Campus Center, Dewick Dining Hall, and Carmichael Dining Hall only have multi-stall singlegendered bathrooms. 2

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For some students, this means they do not have a single-stall bathroom they can use if they are looking for some privacy. For other students— specifically trans, gender non-conforming, and non-binary students—this means they might not have a safe and affirming bathroom they can use in the entire building, or even in the surrounding area. This is puzzling. At a school like Tufts where rainbow flags fly from the administrative buildings, one would imagine that all-gender bathrooms would be a standard on campus. According to Hope Freeman, the Director of the LGBT Center, Tufts only has

around 12 to 14 bathrooms specifically designated as all-gender. This leaves many students wondering, specifically those who only feel comfortable using all-gender bathrooms: Why doesn’t Tufts have more all-gender bathrooms? And what is being done to change this problem? * * * Calls for more all-gender bathrooms are hardly new to campus. In 2002, a trans student named Stacey Anderson spoke to the Tufts Daily in an article called, “Transgendered students face unique challenges at college.” Anderson spoke to the difficulties of using single-gendered bathPHOTOS BY JORDAN DELAWDER

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rooms mid-transition, citing fears for her safety on campus. Since this time, senate resolutions have passed, Change.Org petitions have been made, task forces have started, and students have been demanding safe, gender-affirming, and accessible spaces to use the restroom. But much remains the same. Max Battle, a trans non-binary junior, and a member of the Observer’s podcast team, spoke of their safety concerns using bathrooms on campus. Referencing recent events of harassment that trans and gender non-binary students have been facing on campus, Battle said, “Using the men’s bathroom is terrifying—especially because I know that there are men on this campus who drive around yelling at gender nonconforming people.” Battle said safety is one huge component of the necessity for gender neutral bathrooms, but the issue goes beyond that. “Forcing people to pick between the men’s room and the women’s room reinforces the notion that non-binary people are ‘basically men/women,’” they said. “This has much bigger consequences than just using the bathroom.” Many trans and gender non-binary students who spoke to the Observer echoed Battle’s statement. One student said, “All I really want to do is pee, not re-hash my entire relationship to the gender binary in my head; I find myself mentally spiraling afterward, wondering […] how people see me, or if I am how I see [myself].” Students spoke to the exhausting daily traumas of having to put yourself in spaces with a gender you not only do not identify with, but also might actively reject. Another student said that, “Gender neutral bathrooms are the only bathrooms I feel safe using, and they are the only bathrooms that don’t force me to misgender myself.” Having this safety proves difficult though, as almost all the interviewed students mentioned that they have one or more classes in buildings without access to gender neutral bathrooms. Further, when there are all-gender restrooms, there still are not enough to alleviate some other problems trans and nonbinary students are facing. MJ Griego, a non-binary senior, said, “Tisch has single stall bathrooms, but cis[gender] people

use them all the time for privacy, leaving trans and disabled people, who need that space, to wait in lines.” Because there are so few all-gender bathrooms, trans and gender nonconforming students spoke of having to wait in line— sometimes for upwards of ten minutes—to use the only nearby bathroom where they feel safe. “I don’t think cis people think about how much planning a lot of us do in our day to make sure we don’t have to pee unexpectedly or in a place that feels unsafe,” said Emma Youcha, a non-binary senior. Safety, in this context, does not necessarily just refer to the physical definition of the word, as it also extends to one’s emotional and mental safety in spaces on campus. Freeman said, “There is a sense of urgency around making sure that bathrooms are appropriately labeled, that people can see where the bathrooms are, know where the bathrooms are, and don’t have to be walking all over the place holding it and ultimately leading to medical problems [and] mental health problems. All of this is relevant when talking about access to bathrooms.” Freeman and students emphasized it as a matter of feeling secure in both the space around you and in your own body and mind. * * * Administrators at Tufts know about the severe lack of all-gender restrooms, and acknowledge it is part of the larger work the University is undertaking to support trans and gender non-binary students. Barbara Stein, the Vice President of Operations, noted that, “Establishing and installing gender-neutral restrooms on campus is part of a larger, university-wide effort to support our transgender and gender nonconforming community members.”   Chris Rossi, the associate Dean of Student Affairs, said he and his colleagues are trying their best to improve and add allgender bathrooms, but in some cases, this is not something as simple as just putting up a new sign. Rossi said, “We need to move to, and we are moving towards, having multiple configurations that best allow for different options within a building.” This, Rossi hopes, will give students access to basic accommodations they need so they will not have to schedule “special conversations with university administrators.”

He added, “That’s what we are ultimately driving towards [...] I’m happy with our progress, but not satisfied with where we are.” This continued work is necessary, according to Rossi, because, “we have trans students, non-binary students, who don’t feel seen, heard, supported here at Tufts. Period.” Some of the school’s larger projects include providing all-gender bathrooms in all residence halls and making a more formalized process for how floors can determine the fate of their multi-stall bathrooms. This year, enacting Residential Life’s policies on converting single-gendered multi-stall bathrooms to all-gender bathrooms was complicated for residents of Carmichael Hall. Carmichael has singlestall, all-gender bathrooms on its top floor and on the ground levels. But when residents started their year with Carmichael’s new open-housing policy, they found that the multi-stall bathrooms throughout the building were not gendered. Some Community Development Advisors—who replaced Resident Advisors in the new Residential Life model—held votes on whether to make the multi-stall bathrooms all-gender. In the end, all multi-stall bathrooms were converted back to single-gendered restrooms. While the goal was to facilitate conversations in the dorms about assigning binary genders to bathrooms—and perhaps even having some multi-stall, allgender bathrooms—the current bathroom configuration in Carmichael has returned to “men’s” and “women’s.” One CDA explained the decision out of “our desire not to make anyone uncomfortable.” Rossi recognizes that this comfort clearly didn’t factor in trans and nonbinary voices. “A lot of the systems [used to determine bathroom policies], while wellintentioned and participatory, marginalized [certain] people,” he said. Sarah D’Annolfo, the Associate Director of Residential Education, agreed, saying, “Were we able to go back, we could have had a more productive conversation where people can choose something based on how they identify.” D’Annolfo, along with other Residential Life staff, are working on making their policies as inclusive as possible, saying the office really values and encourages student input. They are also working to ensure that all dorms, like OCTOBER 10, 2017

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PROVIDING ADEQUATE ACCESS TO ALL-GENDER BATHROOMS IS NOT JUST ABOUT GIVING TRANS AND GENDER NON-CONFORMING PEOPLE A SAFE PLACE TO USE THE BATHROOM, IT’S ALSO ABOUT RECOGNIZING THEIR INHERENT HUMANITY. Houston Hall, will have all-gender bathrooms in the near future. * * * Many of our peer institutions have faced similar issues, and responded accordingly. Brown University acted on students requests for all-gender bathrooms with an immediate change to all single-stall bathrooms. On top of this, their policy on bathrooms states, “When Brown builds a new building or does a major building renovation, we have a standard practice of including or adding a gender inclusive restroom.” Vassar College explicitly connects administrative efforts to increase all-gender restrooms with their responsibility to protect all marginalized groups. “Gender-neutral bathrooms are one way we live up to that policy.” Vassar emphasizes that gender identity and gender expression are protected classes under their non-discriminatory policy, and therefore as a university they have an obligation to provide access to bathrooms. While Tufts also recognizes gender identity and expression as protected categories of identity, their present failures to provide non-binary students adequate access to bathrooms—a public accommodation—are clear. When Rossi was asked if Tufts’ compliance with their own policy seems limited, sporadic, and inconsistent, he declined to comment, saying, “You raise an important question, but one on which I can’t comment.” Connecticut College takes its commitment to all-gender bathrooms a step further, citing moral and legal obligations to provide all students access to bathrooms on campus. Their policy states that, “Access to public accommodations has been a central struggle of many civil rights movements throughout history, including that of African Americans, 4

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disability rights activists and LGBTQIA people.” They continue by saying, “Restrooms, locker rooms, dressing rooms and changing areas are common spaces that we navigate on a daily basis; they also serve as lightning rods for the enforcement of gender norms, the policing of transgender people, and sadly, a significant amount of violence. Gender inclusive restrooms are one small but important step in making the world a safer place for transgender and gender non-conforming people.” Connecticut College’s choice to link bathroom access to larger civil rights struggles is crucial in understanding the importance of the fight for all-gender bathrooms. Providing adequate access to all-gender bathrooms is not just about giving trans and gender non-conforming people a safe place to

use the bathroom, it’s also about recognizing their inherent humanity. “Increasing the availability of genderneutral bathrooms continues to be a concern,” Stein made clear. In the meantime, while bureaucracy, legal issues, and projected costs of creating all-gender bathrooms slow the process, students have been taking matters into their own hands. Yoji Watanabe, a non-binary sophomore, said, “Last year in Lewis [Hall], I was expected to walk down three hallways and a stairwell to access a gender-neutral bathroom. That was bullshit, so I made a sign designating the bathroom as genderneutral.” Watanabe said the sign stayed up in Lewis for the rest of the year—without a single complaint.

MJ Griego

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SOMETHING E

ach day of my childhood, at seven in the morning, my White mother would wake me up and bring me into our living room. On the coffee table sat a series of combs next to her steaming cup of coffee with the morning news playing softly in the background. What followed was a ritualistic tugging and pulling of my hair, an attempt to drag a comb through my long tangles, the familiar twisting of my curls into two little ponytails on top of my head. Sometimes she would add colorful butterfly clips if she had the time. I would usually cry—a combination of my overactive tear ducts and me being, from then until now, incredibly tender-headed. Seven in the morning became my least favorite time; some days I still wake up in the early morning hours with my hands clutching my head. Muscle memory is powerful. Once in 6th grade when sitting in my favorite place in my middle school—the library—some of my friends asked me to take my hair out of my signature two buns. I hesitated, remembering all the hard work my mother put in that early morning to, as she said, “tame my hair.” But at the vulnerable age of eleven, one of my biggest worries was getting my peers to like me. In 6th grade, I was a chubby, shy nerd who would rather sit in a warm corner reading the next Harry Potter book than go to the beach or the mall

like most of my friends. Because I was the only kid of color in my whole school, I was familiar with being different. But that day, for some reason, I just wanted to fit in. I reluctantly grabbed the two rainbow hair elastics from my hair, took them out, fluffed up my hair, and looked up. What followed was laughter, pointing, and a flurry of kids telling me I looked like one of the Dreamworks troll dolls. When I got home from school that day I told my mom I wanted to relax my hair. She let out a sigh of relief, as if she had been waiting for the day I would ask. Without wavering, she drove me an hour and a half to the only Black hair salon in Maine, and for the first time, the older Black woman who had been braiding my hair for years applied the chemicals to my curls that would transform my hair into the silken tresses that I longed for. I remember the burning sensation, the acidic smell. I remember how I wanted to scream and wash the chemicals out the instant they hit my head. I remember sitting there silently, waiting until it was time to rinse, blow dry, and then use a straightening iron until I had pin straight, shiny hair. From that day forward, I relaxed my hair every two months until I graduated from high school. For seven years, six times a year, I made the long drive to Portland to repeat the act of undoing what I thought was a mistake—my thick head of 4b, kinky curls.

By Carissa Fleury PHOTOS BY KYLE SCOTT

October 10, 2017

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troit police. Tamir Rice was 12 when he was gunned down less than 3 seconds after Cleveland Police arrived at the scene where he was playing with a toy gun. Trayvon Martin was 17 when he was profiled as not belonging and then gunned down by George Zimmerman. Charleena Lyles and her unborn child were killed by Seattle Police after calling to report an attempted burglary at her home. The list unfurls with no end in sight, remains imprinted in our minds from the moment we wake to when we sleep. There are names many of us do not know; names of Black people who are conceived as dangerous, as unnatural, as undesirable, and then violently removed from this plane of Earth. Like the school administrators at Mystic Valley Charter School, we can imagine the police, the enforcers of state-sanctioned violence with their fingers on the triggers of their guns, asking Black people “Are you people real or not?”

My experience is not unique—actually, it’s quite the opposite. From an incredibly young age, many Black children, especially Black girls, are taught that our bodies are wrong. That our skin is too dark, that our noses are too big, that our laughs are too loud, and especially that our hair is too unruly. These messages are passed down to us through family, peers, books, television shows and music, through our nightmares and the soft whisperings in our ears whose origins we could never find (was it the gods? our subconscious? is this the way things would always be?) In May of 2017, reports came out that Mystic Valley Regional Charter School in Malden, Massachusetts—only 4 miles away from Medford—had begun punishing Black girls for wearing natural hairstyles. Two Black students were dismissed from their sports teams and were forbid from going to their proms because they 6

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wore their hair in braids. A Newsweek article wrote that “The Mystic Valley Regional Charter School in Malden enforces a strict dress code preventing students from wearing their hair in any unnatural way, which includes braids.” This sentence jarred me from reality, my brain throbbing an unnatural way, an unnatural way, an unnatural way. In addition to being removed from extracurriculars and rejected from school events, many Black students, whether or not they had braids, were suspended and singled out for hair inspections by school administrators. The students were marched down the hallway and interrogated, being asked, “Are those extensions, are your braids real or not?” These reports exist within a larger system of state surveillance of Black bodies. Black children are disallowed childhoods; Aiyana Stanley-Jones was seven years old when she was shot in the head in her sleep during a night attack on her house by De-

When talking to Black Tufts students, I found each of our stories to be intertwined and eerily similar. Simone Sanders, a Black senior, reflects on how her curly hair was seen as not only undesirable, but as distracting from her academic progress. “My personal finance teacher in 10th grade wrote in a progress report to my parents that I was doing well, but I would probably do better if I didn’t play with my hair so much. I had braids down to my hips at the time, and there was nothing he could do to get me to stop enjoying my hair.” Sanders found confidence in wearing her hair in braids, highlighting that be-cause of her multiple curl patterns, she believed she “couldn’t and shouldn’t wear [her] hair curly.” Because of these violent messages she internalized, she wouldn’t wear her hair naturally, opting to “[straighten] it every other week or every week until the summer of 2016.” Similarly, Wilna Paulemon, a Black senior, says that often the negative messages about her hair being sent weren’t necessarily direct, but were more maliciously insinuated. Messages like that her “hair was difficult, ugly, undesirable, unprofessional, and simply unmanageable. A lot of these messages were implicit through media or

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the way adults reacted or spoke about my hair, and people with my hair texture.” This pattern of feeling intense pressure to chemically alter Black hair runs deep throughout Black communities, and is often passed down not only through media dominated by White people, but also through the internalized racism of elders in the Black community. Phyllis Njoroge, a Black junior says that “In middle school my mom and I got in an argument because I wanted to weat my natural hair and that made me upset that she didn’t support the hair I was born with.” Sanders’ words parallel this, saying that “[her] mom prefers her hair straight” while Anna Rodriguez, an Afro-Latina senior, says that while her parents never directly gave her messages about her curly hair, the understanding that there is “good hair” and “bad hair” was still felt. “My mom’s actions [affected me], even if she didn’t know it,” Rodriguez says. “Because she has fine, almost straight hair, she didn’t really know how to protect/or style my hair as I entered my pre-teen years, so she began to perm it. I grew up constantly going to salons on Saturday mornings to endure long, painful, hot-ass hours under a dryer, to just hear older Dominican woman gossip about good hair and bad hair. The salon was such a toxic environment for me because I always left feeling like I wasn’t going to be attractive unless I spent all those hours straightening my hair for the sake of it being ‘easy to deal with.’” Paulemon also reflects on how adults in her life contributed to her negative feelings about her hair, saying “I’ve also had family members or friends tell me that my hair texture just isn’t good enough or suggest that I need to do something [different] with my hair for an event.” This language is pervasive. This language feeds into the idea that straight hair is the epitome of desirability. It feeds into the belief that hair that appears closest to set Eurocentric beauty standards should be the standard for Black hair. Consequently, tight coiled curls are seen as not only aesthetically inferior, but are also cited as being unprofessional and improper, and therefore a problem to be solved. It is not a coincidence that these beliefs can be detected across ages, ingrained

in our parents, our grandparents, our great-grandparents. This trauma is transgenerational—Black folks were and still are told that our bodies are wrong, and that in order to merely survive in this world, we must attempt to assimilate into Whiteness. However, while being Black and living in this world comes with certain traumas, it also comes with resistance. Sanders, Rodriguez, Paulemon and Njoroge all echo sentiments of moving towards some-thing like healing the wounds that they have often felt about their hair. Sanders highlights how social media has been a central part of her journey towards healing and self-love, “Over the past few years, I’ve been so impressed by the amount of people advocating for Black natural hair. Because of the number of people

FROM AN INCREDIBLY YOUNG AGE, BLACK CHILDREN, ESPECIALLY BLACK GIRLS, ARE TAUGHT THAT OUR BODIES ARE WRONG. talking about natural hair care, and the impact on (social) media, I’ve felt comfortable.” Paulemon cites positive media also being central to her journey towards self-love. “Until very recently I never saw Black women with natural hair on television” she said. “So you can imagine how I felt as an 8th grader watching Black women talking about ways to take care of natural hair! That to me was revolutionary. That started something for me. So while the representation of hair like mine was no-where in popular media growing up, I am super grateful for media like YouTube for giving Black women the platform to share their knowledge about hair with other Black/mixed women across the globe.” Rodriguez speaks in a poetic love letter about her hair: “I love my hair. Even though I mistreated it for so long, it still came back strong for me. Even though I tried to kill its nature, it still came back to me. Even after all those chemicals put on my head, it came back to me. It has been

one of the few things that has remained loyal to me.” However, as Njoroge, says, there are still double standards within Black natural hair movements. “I’ve learned to like Black hair” she says, “but that doesn’t mean I like my Black hair. I still feel as if there is a bias to certain natural looks and my curl pattern and texture don’t fit those, so even though I feel more comfortable with Black hair, I still don’t feel like I love my hair.” In the end, a heartbeat that connects each of these narratives is how vital hair has been and continues to be to the Black community, and to each of us in our journey towards healing. Paulemon perhaps summarizes it best, remarking: “My hair is a huge part of my Black identity. As I learned to love myself, learning to love my hair was a huge part of that. They went hand-in-hand so I can’t really separate my identity from my hair. My hair reminds me of my ancestors, of my history, of my Blackness. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Once, a few years ago, my mom asked me if I would ever cut all my hair off, otherwise know as “The Big Chop.” I automatically responded, “never.” I remember being filled with fear, and horror, imagin-ing myself not having any hair to hide behind. Last week, I walked into a barber shop and said “shave it all off, please.” Fifteen minutes later, I touched my hands to my head, and felt the soft remains where before there had been inches of growth. For a moment, I didn’t recognize myself, and I felt flooded with terror. Then I took a deep breath, smiled with my gap teeth which I have come to love, and walked into the sunshine, feeling light. In therapy, I’ve learned a technique of healing that involves imagining that the little child I once was is a part of me still; imagining that the little kid who was called a monkey, a troll doll, an ugly Black girl continues making a home in my heart. Last week I stood for a moment in the soft sunlight on the sidewalk in Davis Square, closed my eyes, and held the little girl’s hand in my head, whispered we got this. you are a miracle. Me and the little girl inside me, we walked hand in hand towards something like healing, something like prayer, something like holiness, something like love for us both. October 10, 2017

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“C

oming to Tufts was a really jarring experience because I had never been in a predominantly White institution before, and it was a lot about figuring out who I was when it came to navigating my mixed-race identity,” said Shana Merrifield, a mixed White Asian senior. For many multiracial students like Merrifield, navigating multiple racial identities is a complicated task because they are too often neglected from conversations about race on campus. Mixed-race students have expressed their frustrations with the University’s lack of accessible multiracial spaces, resources, and courses offered on campus. This semester, a group of students established the Mixed Peer Leader (MPL) program, which, as described 10

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in its application, was designed to be a “support system for incoming students who identify as multiracial, multiethnic person of color (POC), transracial adoptee, or third culture kid (TCK) and wish to meet current mixed Tufts students.” Its arrival is the newest addition to existing peer leader programs, such as the Asian American Peer Leaders, Global Orientation Leaders, Latino Center Peer Leaders, Students’ Quest for Unity in the African Diaspora, Team Q, and the Women’s Center Peer Leaders—for the MPL program, however, there is no corresponding space. Makaylah Respicio, a mixed Black Asian Pacific Islander senior and MPL co-coordinator, explained the importance of having specific spaces to facilitate discussions ART BY MADELINE LEE

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about being a multiracial Tufts student. “Being at Tufts forced me to confront the multiple identities within myself. The peer leader program was created to build a mixed-race community to talk about these issues so that freshmen had a place to come into. I wanted them to know that there are people on this campus thinking about them.” Sasha Raveendran Greene, a mixed White Indian junior and an Association of Multiracial People at Tufts (AMPT) E-Board member, emphasized that there was value to having designated spaces for multiracial people. She said, “I think some kind of physical space that could facilitate conversations about being mixed-race would be beneficial because people would really value a place where they can feel safe and be able to talk about things related to their identity and be able to exist.” Within the Group of Six, there are three centers that specifically cater to race–the Africana Center, the Asian American Center, and the Latino Center. However, they are all physically separated from each other, inhibiting many multiracial individuals from being in a space that fully encompasses all of their experiences. Additionally, without an existing space dedicated to supporting mixed-race people, students have expressed difficulty with gauging how and where they can find community. Since she was a first-year, Maya Laughton, a mixed African American Indian White senior, dreamed of a mixedrace center where there was “a solid mixed-race community that was both an affirming and positive space, especially as an emotional support system for mixed-race students.” She described how it was difficult to find a mixed-race community without a physical space and that “it would have been nice to have someone help [her] navigate Tufts as a mixed-race person.” Some students had also wished there were more collaborative efforts between centers. Daniela Sánchez, a mixed Mexican Native junior, said, “I wish that the Group of Six were not just individual groups, but more of a cohort, so that moving between each space was something that was easier and more fluid. Ideally, it would be so nice to have a multiracial center, but one that served the entire people of color community. I think that allows for other connections within the Groups of Six and within student organized clubs to realize that there is a lot of crossover. Sometimes, we have a lot more in common than we realize.” Respicio expressed similar sentiments. “The idea that race is compartmentalized and the centers don’t do more together is frustrating to me. I want more spaces to be created where it isn’t just centered on one of these identities,” she added. In an article published in the Tufts Daily on March 27, 2017, it was announced that Linda Daniels was recently named Senior Director of Diversity, Pluralism, and Inclusion, which works on programs related to intersectionality with several campus offices—one of them being the Group of Six. In the same article, Daniels said that an overall goal of hers was “to find overlap in our community, engage in

shared exploration of our varied identities and develop [a] holistic sense of awareness, compassion and empathy for each other.” One of the campaigns she plans to launch is called “Unapologetically Me,” which seeks to “help students express themselves and understand their similarities and differences.” While these efforts certainly mark a stark difference from previous attempts to create a collaborative space, Raveendran Greene noted her frustration with the administration’s overall lack of support for multiracial students. “With AMPT, which is all student-led, it feels like we’re alone in supporting the mixed-race community, which is not how it should be, since there are so many multiracial students at Tufts,” said Raveendran Greene. “There is a lack of administrative funding and support systems for multiracial students and there is currently no way to meet multiracial students other than AMPT and the MPL program. Tufts doesn’t make an effort to connect them to any resources.” Additionally, aside from not having a mixed-race space on campus, there are several racial identities that fall through the cracks within the Group of Six—Native and/ or Indigenous, Pacific Islander, Arab, to name a few. For students who have these respective identities, many felt invalidated to not see themselves reflected within their environment. Anna del Castillo, a Latina senior with Incan roots, recognized that spaces for multiracial students were essential and that “a space for Native and Indigenous students is [also] crucially needed. Tufts doesn’t provide community for Native and Indigenous students, which is probably why we have such an incredibly low number of Native students on campus.” Furthermore, beyond visibility and accessible physical spaces, multiracial students face trouble because the University doesn’t list any resources for them on their website. Student Information Services also doesn’t offer any courses related to mixed-race studies. Respicio said, “Having access to academic resources and learning about the terms that you relate with is really important for forming multiracial identity. Studies about mixedrace identity would allow students to know that this is an identity that they have access to.” Merrifield felt similarly. She said, “I felt invisibilized when I found out that there were no resources dedicated to multiracial people, especially because they pride themselves in diversity so much. Mixed race identity is multifaceted, and we deserve more space on this campus.” Laughton elaborated that “mixed-race is not a subidentity of monoracial categories.” With this understanding, we can view mixed-race as its own identity and treat it with the appropriate recognition it deserves. As the mixed-race population continues to grow, the University has an increasing obligation to support mixed-race students on campus. october 10, 2017

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poetry

BItters

The other day I began to wonder if you were an acquired taste like black coffee and red wine or sometimes both at once I wonder because it certainly took a year of circumstance and random chance to circle back and finally stop feeling like the word re-try meant waste of time those countless sips reversed, rewind I wonder if I could count how many tastes it took before the bitter tinge subsided, before the receptors in my brain learned need from like and decided it was high time to learn about organic pinot grapes that live in steel bins in Oregon and fair-trade beans ground gracefully in Guatemala.

By Alexandra Benjamin

Tufts Observer

october 10, 2017

and one night stands into standing arrangements, as it happens. It certainly was enough, to make one wonder, if taking time means compromise or not quite right— sophistication, some call it. Grown-up taste buds who know that sometimes it’s not about the instant bliss of a brief but beautiful high, its aftertaste a harsh reminder of that first most-perfect try. Insurgent as it is, it only takes a few thousand hits to find acquired still fits in; you’re still addictive— still as integral as blood, to be just as deadly too, a slow release before the flood.

It certainly wasn’t on the first swig or the second or the third but it was few enough to turn glasses into bottles and savored cafecitos into guzzled tumbler-fulls,

ART BY NICOLE COHEN

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w a r m enough

PHOTOS BY JORDAN DELAWDER (TOP), ABIGAIL BARTON (BOTTOM)

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PHOTOS BY ROXANNE ZHANG (TOP LEFT), CLAIRE PINKHAM (BOTTOM)

FEATURE PHOTOS BY ABIGAIL BARTON (TOP) AND CLAIRE PINKHAM (BOTTOM)

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PHOTOS BY CLAIRE PINKHAM (TOP RIGHT AND LEFT), ABIGAIL BARTON (BOTTOM RIGHT)

FEATURE

poetry & prose

Ritualistic

prose

The cold winter wind blows through the crack in the kitchen window as I stand over the sink, watching the snow fall into place on the lawn outside. The kitchen feels bigger these days, and even more so in the morning. I walk to the refrigerator and pull out the dozen carton of eggs. There are only seven eggs left, which are enough for Rosa and me this morning, but I will have to take a walk to the corner store later to get more for tomorrow morning, a nice opportunity to dust off my cane and work these new hips. I pull out a bowl, a fork, and the blend of seasonings Rosa loves to make eggs with. I crack each egg open on the corner of the kitchen counter, one light tap, followed by a harder tap. Rosa was always convinced this is the best way to crack an egg. I empty the cracked eggs into the bowl, using only half of the yolks. Rosa and I both have high cholesterol, so we tend to watch how many yolks we use, especially at this age. I add the seasonings. A dash of paprika, two dashes of garlic powder, a pinch of salt, and what we believed was our little secret, a splash of milk, 2%. I whisk the eggs, careful not to beat them too much. Mid-whisk, I remember to grease a pan and turn on the stovetop, which I find neat because even though I have been trying to make Rosa’s eggs every day for four months now, I always forget to turn the stove on. Rosa has a mysterious perfection to her egg scrambling, not too soft, not too firm, and every day I feel like I get closer to recreating it. When the eggs are done, I separate them onto two plates, placing them on our little dining table in our usual spots. I grab the loaf of wheat bread from the fridge and head over to the toaster. The draft from the window kicks up a bit though, so I walk back to the dining table, pull the cardigan off the back of my chair, and put it on. Walking back to the toaster, I place three slices in, two for Rosa, one for myself. I stand by the toaster, waiting for the bread to be done. I’ve grown to love the time it takes bread to toast. It gives my mind a healthy amount of time to wander, which is hard to come by these days. When the bread finishes I grab all three slices and butter them all, putting a bit extra on Rosa’s slices. She could never let go of her too-buttered-toast. I get a little nervous before trying the eggs, as usual. I wonder if this is the day that they hold up to Rosa’s masterpiece. I try the eggs, they taste good. Very good actually, but they’re too salty, just like yesterday’s, and a bit too firm, reminding me of last Sunday’s eggs. They might be tasty, but these are not Rosa’s eggs. Better luck tomorrow. I finish my meal, then swap my empty plate with Rosa’s untouched plate, and start eating hers. I do not like to let food go to waste, so I have made a habit of eating the food I make for Rosa as well. The last few bites always feel like I am forcing it a bit, but I always finish, always. Afterwards, I gather our plates, and load them into our dishwasher, for which I am quite grateful. Doing dishes was never my strong suit. I head out the kitchen, and down the hallway to the back of our house where the bedroom is. I walk in, the morning news is on our small television. Somehow the news seems to sound the same every day, but it’s a comforting sound. I get into bed, which always hurts my hips more than it should, and turn my focus to the news. After some time, the news turns into background noise. I look out the bedroom window, and the snow is a clean blanket, tucking the fading green grass neatly into bed. After some time, my mind wanders, and I drift to sleep.

Remedies by Matthew C. Wilson

ART BY LAURA WOLFE

october 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

FEATURE

aRTS & CULTURE

Screwing the PATRIARCHY

The rise of feminist pornography By Caroline Blanton

t first glance, the phrase “feminist porn” may seem like an oxymoron of epic proportions. Although many feminists strongly believe in the importance of destigmatizing sexuality and desire, others are skeptical that ethical, feminist porn could even exist, and consider the sexual objectification of women to be inherent to pornography. Andrea Dworkin, a radical feminist involved in activism during the 1970s, characterized pornography in her 1996 book Intercourse as the essence of male power, saying “Any violation of a woman’s body can become sex for men; this is the essential truth of pornog18

Tufts Observer

october 10., 2017

raphy.” Yet in recent years a rising number of professionals working within the porn industry have created content that defies this belief. Feminists have debated the morality of pornography since the beginning of the Women’s Movement, and the discussion gained national attention during the Feminist Sex Wars of the 1980s. This period of the Women’s Movement was characterized by highly polarized debate between “pro-sex” and “anti-pornography” feminists. In 1976, an organization known as Women Against Violence in Pornography and Media set out to edu-

cate people about the “woman-hatred” expressed in pornography and other media, and to raise awareness about the link between pornography and sexual violence against women. They continued on to characterize the proliferation of pornography at that time as a backlash against the feminist movement. In contrast, pro-sex feminists advocated for a radical change in how our society views sexual pleasure, whether that be through pornography, sex work, or daily acts of intimacy. Pro-sex feminists attempted to reframe the typically malecentric conversation about pornography ART BY EMMA HERDMAN

FEATURE

ARTS & CULTURE

in order to urge the industry to represent sexual desire in a more positive, healthy way. Why is feminine sexual desire considered shameful? Why do so many of the conversations surrounding sexuality in society center around the dominance of cis men and the cis male experience? Why do we actively deride those whose sexual preferences deviate from our arbitrary socio-sexual “norm?” These questions, raised by members of the feminist movement during the ‘70s and ‘80s, are ones that our society still grapples with to this day. The contemporary definition of feminist porn, while still widely debated, can be loosely defined by a certain set of guidelines that many feminist porn sites and companies include in their mission statements. First, performers of all genders in feminist pornography must be treated as equals. That includes compensation, health benefits such as access to contraceptives and STI screenings, explicit consent from both actors before, during, and after a scene, and equal weight to both performers’ sexual pleasure during the scene. Feminist porn rejects the concept of the male gaze—porn that is heavily male-centric, based on male pleasure, and from a male perspective—that permeates contemporary pornography. Second, providing the emotional context for sex through the filming, editing, and acting of each scene is important to feminist pornographers because it actively works against the idea that sex is something that happens to people, and that instead, healthy, consensual sex is something that people do together. Feminist porn also strives to elevate queer sex and queer relationships beyond the fetishized role the queer community often plays in mainstream pornography. Porn series such as CrashPad depicts queer sex that is meant to service queer viewers, and their website indicates their works strive to be a “honest depiction of female and queer sexuality.” Finally, and possibly most importantly, truly feminist porn is porn that strives to accurately depict the wide spectrum of human sexuality, and challenges the stereotypes of women and marginalized communities often presented in mainstream porn. According to feminist

pornographer and sex educator Tristan Taormino in a 2013 interview with Cosmopolitan, “Feminist porn explores ideas about desire, beauty, pleasure, and power through alternative representations, aesthetics, and filmmaking styles. Feminist porn seeks to empower the performers who make it and the people who watch it.” That’s not to say that feminist porn isn’t hot. Feminist porn can be just as steamy, kinky, or wild as mainstream porn, but without the guilt, shame, and discomfort many people experience while watching the degradation of the actors in mainstream pornography. In fact, many of the mainstream media’s assumptions about feminist porn are completely unfounded and often unfairly discouraging to potential viewers. Feminist porn celebrates diversity of sexuality and sexual preference, and thus is able to appeal to a wide range of audiences. Contrary to popular belief, feminist porn is easily accessible and readily available. While mainstream porn may still vastly outnumber feminist alternatives, the past two decades have seen exponential growth in the field of feminist pornography. Thanks to technological innovations of the early 2000s, the porn industry has become much more accessible to a much wider variety of directors, producers, actors, and filmmakers. With the rise of the Toronto-based Feminist Porn Awards—the longest running celebration of erotica focused on women and marginalized people—feminist porn and pornographers are gaining national and international attention. As Toronto Feminist Porn Awards Coordinator Carlyle Jansen articulates in a 2017 interview with Telegraph, “It’s really exciting because now you have trans people and people with disabilities making porn. Communities who are often underrepresented, stereotyped, and fetishized are now making [porn] on their own terms.” Whole sites such as Feminist Porn Reviews are dedicated to recommending videos, filmmakers, and databases that proliferate feminist porn. Highly rated sites include Indie Porn Revolution—one of the oldest queer porn production companies—CrashPad Series, LustFilms, and many other websites, most of which have been operating for over a decade to pro-

vide porn that is inclusive and feminist. As LustFilms producer Erika Lust explained to Feministing, “Porn has the ability to not only inspire passions and lusts we never knew we had, but also educate, allowing women to explore their sexuality, embrace it, enjoy it, and to demand our right to sexual pleasure.” Although the feminist porn industry is thriving, its anti-pornography countermovement continues to fight back. Prominent anti-pornography voices such as Julie Bindel and Germaine Greer argue that the “need” to consume pornography at all, feminist or not, is a constructed desire under patriarchal capitalism. Even within the feminist porn industry, many disagree about what actually constitutes feminist porn, and where to draw the line between validating a variety of sexual desires and veering into un-feminist territory. Filmmakers like Taormino are of the view that one’s sexual desires are fully authentic, and thus are wholly self-justifying. However, Taormino’s critics, like University of Dayton Professor Jessica Whisnant, would argue that some sexual desires and kinks cross an ethical line, and the degradation of performers for sexual pleasure on camera can never be seen as feminist, with or without the consent of the performers. As Whisnant argues in her 2016 study of Taormino’s work, “Either it is feminist to celebrate and advertise women’s ‘authentic’ desire to be sexually dominated, or it is not. Either it is ethical and honorable to ‘play with’ and promote dynamics of humiliation and violence that terrorize, maim, and kill women daily, or it is not.” Pornography, whether we want to admit it or not, plays a powerful role in shaping our cultural concepts about sex, desire, and gender equality. Sex and desire are integral parts of the human experience, and in our increasingly digitized world, porn has—for better or for worse—come to play a key role in the development of our own sexual identities and preferences. Human sexuality, however, does not have to be shameful and taboo. Once we destigmatize sexuality, we as a society can have more frank conversations about the nature of intimacy, and how to promote and preserve gender equity while still having positive sexual experiences. october 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

FEATURE

campus

DESIRE LINES

urning the corner onto Powder House Boulevard as you walk from campus to Davis Square, you will have two options: the continuation of a paved road or an extended dirt curve. This curve slopes up a non-uniform sprawl of hill right into the center of campus. It is one of the many desire lines that mark the Tufts grounds. Desire lines, a term used in urban planning, are the paths that form naturally from human foot traffic over popular shortcuts off of paved walkways. You see them as juts off sidewalks where the grass has been decisively worn down, set by communal movement patterns. For urban planners, desire lines have become a useful tool for designing ideal public spaces that let the public set their own paths. The modern Boston Commons is an example, according to Tufts Urban and Environmental Policy and Planning (UEP) professor Christine Cousineau. She explained that the architects followed the existing human-made footways during the Commons’ reconstruction to pave the presentday walkways. Desire lines cross the Tufts grounds as well, forming a sort of alternative map of campus, dissecting social spaces and living spaces alike and even morphing the borders of Tufts and the surrounding communities. They are a visible way we imprint our desires right onto the spaces here at Tufts and a way of looking at how we interact with those physical spaces. The formation of these autonomous routes is also a commentary on the administration that designs the campus spaces in their crossings. Desire lines spur the question: What do we desire from the Tufts campus as we walk and shape its paths? A dirt path leads you off of Talbot Avenue and across the plot of grass to the lower Campus Center. It is one of the clearest desire lines on campus. Right in the crossroads of several major social hubs, it is wide enough for a group to move across together, the way in which students often travel through this part of campus. The path both quickens the route between popular destinations and allows for a new way of exploring each space as you pass diagonally through the tree cover. You’ll

notice that this desire line has curiously been filled in and shaped, appearing to be an official walkway. “Students just started jumping over shrubs and bushes to get where they needed to go, so we started to open it up,” explained Steve Nasson, Tufts’ Senior Facilities Director. He described how Tufts Facilities began to maintain the originally studentmade path. “They are things we can’t really control or maintain, especially in lower campus where the soil is acidic and it is difficult to sustain grass.” Nasson commented that desire paths are very common on a college campus where students tend to move socially and seek out the most efficient routes. The lower Campus Center desire line now forms a part of the “legitimized” campus landscape. In this sense, it serves as a register of a form of productive dialogue between students and faculty, as well as an instance of students literally shaping the Tufts campus. “They are a way we can learn from students. We are always open to hearing their thoughts and suggestions––if a student wanted to make these lines their project, we’re here,” Nasson added. Moving towards Davis Square you likely traverse a sprawling, thin dirt path drawn from the Latin Way apartments and ending at the mouth of Powder House Boulevard. A student-made exit from campus, the dirt desire path connects students to the shortest, most common route to Davis Square. The path’s aesthetic is one of efficiency—dirt marked by fast, deliberate footsteps. The shape allows for little consideration of your surroundings or of which route to take as you enter MedfordSomerville. According to a Google survey, it is the path that the majority of nearly 400 Tufts students use to get from Davis Square to continue onto Leonard Avenue and all the way to the center of town. In the same poll, nearly half of the participants reported never changing the route they take to the Davis, following the same path each time they plan to leave campus. What this means is that the majority of students at Tufts do not stray from a singular, student-made path as they enter the city, which says a lot about the way in which our student body interacts with the surrounding community.

By Sophia Isidore

Tufts Observer

october 10, 2017

ART BY JAKE ROCHFORD

FEATURE

campus

Emma Kahn, a senior majoring in Anthropology with a focus on Placemaking Studies, believes these paths encourage a greater line of questioning. “You can look at these paths and think ‘Oh, people were just trying to be more efficient with their routes,’ but I think it’s interesting to push further and ask where large quantities of people are moving to and through that hasn’t been formally designated for walking by our campus planners and landscape designers and why.” Kahn noted, “These unofficial paths really raise questions about how Tufts decides to designate pedestrian paths to begin with, and what assumptions about [and] suggestions for human movement on this campus are fundamentally embedded in those plans.” Desire lines along campus borders have greater implications in the way they reflect the University’s presence in the surrounding community. The Davis Square desire line falls along one of the most precarious areas on Tufts’ grounds in terms of gentrification and development debates, as reported in an article by Tufts Observer in April of 2015. As the article noted, the University continues to expand its borders along Powder House Boulevard, paying a minimized sum on its properties to the city as a notfor-profit Pay in Lieu of Taxes (PILOT) organization. Meanwhile, local legislators have proposed over the years to increase Tufts’ payments to the community. The University’s development parallels the way in which students travel through the Medford-Somerville community—both groups forming paths that seem to run in a singular direction. As a student body, we are a formidable presence in Medford-Somerville, but it is important to question the extent to which our contributions are spatially conscious. How much exploring do we genuinely do beyond the paths of our central campus and the bee-line out of it? Forming another border on campus along College Avenue, there is a fence, within which you can find an irregularity in the geometry: several openings where bars have been forced apart. Portal-like bends along the periphery of the athletic field, shaped just

passing by the desire lines on campus should remind us as a student body that our institutional spaces are more malleable than we realize.

the size of a college-aged body––they are desire lines of sorts. “Fences!” remarked Lydia Collins, a fifth year UEP student, are the most definitive feature of campus design. “The fence is very important to the image of Tufts as a ‘Light on a Hill,’ but we have to think of what a fence means.” The grounds at Tufts are definitively, yet subtly, enclosed by the fences that run the length of College Avenue and mark the entrances to main campus. The fences along Professor’s Row, for one, lack sidewalks on parts of the fence-baring side—a way of sealing out outside pathmakers and corralling students along a specific path inward. Desire lines are not exclusively formed for the sake of efficiency. In public parks, desire lines are often extensions of walkways that let people see beyond the paved road. In this way, they represent our visual desires, how we wish to see spaces, and most importantly, our sense of wandering. The fenced-in design of campus is not conducive to wandering, despite the emphasis the University’s educational values place on “curiosity.” Think of the fascinating views and natural spaces within the Tufts grounds: the Tisch rooftop’s panorama of Boston, the large skyline below Wren and the Hillside Apartments, the gardens at lower campus. They all are stationed within an elaborate grid of pedestrian ways and then by even more fences. The “desire breaks” in the College Avenue fence are a way in which students have forcefully redesigned the architecture of campus to reflect their desire to wander. It is interesting to ponder the sheer physical exertion that went into pushing apart the iron bars of this fence. It represents a strong-willed act of desire and also serves as a visual reminder of a certain frustration and sense of containment within the space of campus. The German art critic Siegfried Kracauer once wrote, “The value of cities is measurable with the number of places they reserve for improvisation.” The paths students make throughout campus are an exercise in improvisation, of using deliberate erosion as a tool for curiosity, commentary, and questioning. In their physicality, they evolve to reflect faults and values of the administration and the student body alike. Passing by the desire lines on campus should remind us as a student body that our institutional spaces are more malleable than we realize. october 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

FEATURE

news

n September 26, Boston voters sent a clear and powerful message to the city’s political establishment: change is coming. Primaries in city council districts saw two women of color advance to Election Day—a marked shift from almost a decade ago—when no woman of color had ever sat on the council. In District 2, which is composed of Charlestown, East Boston and the North End, Lydia Edwards, a Black attorney, advanced to the general after running an outstanding race to finish within 77 votes of upsetting Stephen Passacantilli, Director of Operations for the Boston Transportation Department and an ally of Mayor Marty Walsh. Similarly, Roxbury’s District 7 saw Kim Janey, who has spent two decades organizing for children’s issues, dominate in a

Councilor Pressley reflected on her landmark win in 2009, stating, “I am the first woman of color elected to the Boston City Council, but I am not the first woman of color to run. I do think that, although those candidates were not victorious in the conditional sense because they did not secure a seat, that every time a woman of color ran, the electorate became more adjusted to the idea. I commend a thanks to every diverse candidate, particularly the women, who ran before me.” Pressley expanded upon this notion of the changing electorate, arguing that her election is a continuation of an overall long-term shift. “My election and the subsequent election of my fellow sister colleagues is evidence that once the electorate has tested that muscle, they just continue

connecting advocacy and policy. “Often, advocacy is the first step,” she said. “These things are happening, but it seems no one knows about it because it’s not in the public dialogue, public discourse, public view […] We have to name [the problem] in order to work on it.” Since Pressley’s election, other minority women have followed in her footsteps. Taiwanese American Michelle Wu, who first ran in 2013, became the council’s President only three years later, marking a historic occasion as the first woman of color to hold the office. Another landmark year was 2015, as Annissa Essaibi George and Andrea Campbell ousted incumbents. Essaibi George, who is a first-generation American of Tunisian and Polish descent, ran a

to build it,” she said. “They elected the first woman of color, and I’d like to think they thought that nothing blew up. Different issues were tackled, and there were positive outcomes. The electorate will continue to push for a government that is representative, and I do mean of every viewpoint.” During her time in office, Pressley has worked hard to tackle what she calls the “transcendent issues” that she faced as a child growing up in an environment where addiction, poverty, violence, and abuse were not unique to her circumstances. Because of this, Pressley has spent much of her career on the council focused on addressing student health. She cites her initiatives of increasing social and emotional wellness support in schools, revising sexual and health education, and improving the quality of school food, to name a few. “Ultimately, if the student is not healthy, they can’t even see what is being taught to them,” she said. “That lens is directly informed by my own experience as a child who experienced a great deal of trauma and dysfunction in my own life, who lived in the school nurse’s office. My advocacy is directly informed by my own personal experiences, which I know is not a unique story.” Jessica Taubner, Pressley’s Chief of Staff, commented further on the idea of

campaign focused on improving Boston’s high schools. She utilized her background as a teacher at East Boston High School to defeat Stephen J. Murphy, who had served nearly two decades on the council. Campbell, a Black attorney, cruised to victory against then-City Councilor Charles C. Yancey, who had represented the Mattapan and Dorchester-based District 4 for the entirety of its existence. Tufts alum Caroline Kimbell-Katz, who is managing Campbell’s re-election campaign this year, said of her initial run that “the thing that motivated a lot of people to support [Campbell] was her tremendous story that was so relatable to so many people.” Throughout her campaign, Campbell discussed how the life of her late twin brother Andre had impacted her. Andre died at the age of 29 while serving time in state custody pending trial. Though Campbell and her brother’s lives took very different paths, she ran on a platform that emphasized the need to increase the overall quality of opportunities available to disadvantaged youth. Though she doesn’t claim to have all the answers, she has connected visibly with the district’s voters, and has brought necessary attention to the glaring opportunity gap that exists for a large sector of the electorate.

THE BREAK THROUGH how women of color are transforming boston and cambridge politics

By Justin Krakoff

field of thirteen candidates, setting her up to become the first Black woman to represent the district. If both women win, the Boston City Council will have a record six women—almost half of the council. A similar story is unfolding north of the Charles River, with multiple women of color running for a position on the Cambridge City Council. Since Cambridge does not hold primaries, all twenty-five candidates are running in the general election. Out of these candidates, three are women of color—Pakistani Muslim Sumbul Siddiqui, Laotian Vatsady Sivongxay, and Japanese and Taiwanese American Nadya Okamoto. Currently, the city council only has one woman, and no women of color. With all these women running for office, it is easy to forget that it was only a short time ago that Boston and Cambridge politics was just another boy’s club. In 2008 and 2009, two women led the charge to shatter this norm: Cambridge Mayor Denise Simmons, and Boston Councilor-atLarge Ayanna Pressley. Both these women’s victories were political earthquakes. Simmons was the first openly gay Black mayor in the entire country. Pressley was the first Black woman—and woman of color ever—to sit on the Boston City Council in its 107-year history. 22

Tufts Observer

October 10, 2017

ART BY CHASE CONLEY

FEATURE

news Despite the successes of these women, gender remains a relevant obstacle in Boston politics, and the council is still maledominated. Katz remembers a particular instance when she spoke to a neighbor while campaigning. “I said do you know who your councilor is,” she recalled. “I hadn’t said anything that was gendered. And he goes, ‘Oh yeah, who is he?,’ automatically. We still have [that bias] we’re battling.” This inherent bias makes it all the more groundbreaking that women, specifically women of color, are the ones driving change in Boston, reaching people from all walks of life and drawing attention to the issues impacting local communities. Boston City Council candidate Kim Janey elaborated upon this sentiment. “It Sumbul Siddiqui is not lost on me that if I am At-Large* fortunate enough to be elected to represent District 7 on the City Council, I will be the first woman to hold that seat,” she said. “But for me, this election isn’t about making history, it’s about making a real impact that improves the lives of people in my community.” Janey’s emphasis on a relationship between local communities and government describes a recurring theme of this election season, as candidates are working not only to change the conversation surrounding the community but also to influence how debate is conducted. Programs such as Emerge Massachusetts are working to train potential female candidates in order to make *Candidate in 2017 a difference in local communities. Previous alumni of the program include Siddiqui, Edwards, and Sivongxay, who all have sought to highlight community needs and discourse in their campaigns. Tufts student and Cambridge local Jonah Schwartz, who is also an active volunteer for Tufts Democrats, elaborated upon this relationship. “Politics in both [Boston and Cambridge] is very heavily neighborhood driven,” he said. “[T]here are very large immigrant communities and communities of color in both cities [… ] With the increase of housing cost and gentrification

in the two cities, these communities are really pushing back through political and activist means.” In terms of candidates’ specific policies, Schwartz added, “I think the new generation of people running feel that they need to take charge to not only protect the places they were raised, but to make sure that their communities are able to survive.” Sumbul Siddiqui, who is running for Cambridge City Council, echoed this sentiment, drawing upon her personal and professional background as a legal aid. “A creation of affordability, for me, is an im-

Vatsady Sivongxay At-Large*

bridge, it’s so hard to do because we have a lack of affordable housing. My platform is what are some policies that this city can really try to move the needle on making it easier to live here and addressing displacement because we are really displacing people of color and low-income people.” In the end, there is still work to be done, despite the increased representation of women of color in Boston and Cambridge politics. “People subscribe to this idea that there is only one narrative for a candidate, especially for female candidates or female

Boston District Currently Held By Woman Boston District WITh Woman Candidate in Cambridge (Woman Candidates in 2017)

Nadya Okamoto At-Large*

Lydia Edwards District 2*

KIM Janey

District 7*

AYANNA PRESSLEY At-Large

ANNISSA GEORGE At-Large

Michelle Wu At-Large

AYANNA PRESSLEY District 4

Boston At-Large Seats (3 of 4)

portant topic because I grew up in Cambridge public housing,” she said. “When I talk to residents […] especially people who live in low-income housing, they feel like they are the other in Cambridge […] It has been a huge motivating factor when people say, ‘We’re so happy that you understand what it’s like living in low-income housing.’” In fact, the first section on Siddiqui’s campaign platform is dedicated to affordable housing. “For me, it’s looking at pathways out of poverty,” she said. “In Cam-

CANDIDATE PHOTOS COURTESY OF CAMBRIDGE CIVIC JOURNAL & CITY OF BOSTON

candidates of color,” Councilor Pressley remarked. “[Women] will cancel themselves out and say, ‘I have a desire to run, but I don’t fit the prototype.’” However, Pressley remains optimistic. “The more women that disrupt this prototype, that come from many backgrounds to represent the diversity and the continuum of the experiences of women in our society, the more women are liberated to run, telling their own story, and standing in their own truth.” October 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

FEATURE

VOICES

WHITE By Sonya Bhatia

n my grandparents’ house, a statue of Ganesh, one of the many deities in Hinduism, sits proudly on the mantle. Its bronze coloring echoes the pillows and other decorations in the house, invoking the spirit of their Indian culture, a myriad of bright colors and elaborate designs. My grandparents speak to each other in Hindi, their words forming into a melody that I cannot understand. If I look hard enough, I can see pictures of their younger selves with their families in India, a life they left behind in the late 1960s for the greater opportunity in the US. It is easy to spend time with my grandparents because after a five-minute drive, I am home. This area has been my home for my entire life—a suburb an hour north of Houston, Texas. My own house has no traces of Ganesh statues or Indian décor; rather, there are oil paintings of American beaches and pictures of our family, happily smiling in the Texas outdoors. My parents speak English to each other, the only language I can understand. When I look out my bedroom window, I see mainly White families walking along the streets, with the whirring of cars donning their Republican stickers and the occasional Confederate flag. If I scour school yearbooks and photos with friends, I see a similar sea of White faces. From a young age, I tried to be White, distancing myself from my Indian ties. The implications of this US Southern culture polluted my mind without my recognition. I would listen to country songs, men with their raspy and deep voices, bellowing declarations of love to their desired women. As a little girl, I would close my eyes and envision a beautiful woman, confident in her poise, a sly smile upon her lips. And every time I would imagine this woman, she would be White. I remember in the third grade, every day before I went to school, I treated my ears like they were a forbidden object,

Tufts Observer

OCTOBER 10, 2017

always making sure that they could never be seen. I believed showing my ears made my appearance uglier because they made me look too Indian. If I covered my Indian identity, maybe I would be more favorable in the White eyes. As I got older, no matter how I “modified” my appearance, I could never emulate the same country song beauty—I could never be favorable in White culture. I learned that conforming to Southern cultural norms would never make me feel beautiful, so I tried to tune out the White noise. On the flip side, I never felt Indian. My insecurities towards my culture further blossomed at my uncle’s Indian wedding, at the age of ten. My parents and I were the only ones to wear American clothes. I wore a purple dress, synched at the waist, with a gemstone neckline at the top. Hanging on the rack was a blue sari especially picked out for me, but I refused to wear it for its discomfort—not only in its physical feel, but in its significance—this sari seemed to be only a foreign top and skirt. When I walked into the wedding, I observed the waves of women and men in their Indian dress. These people were supposed to be my “aunties” and “uncles,” but they felt like mere strangers to me. I did not possess that special connection that ties a culture together. Looking back, I envied one young woman delightfully dancing in her sari, appreciating the beauty of the event. She came up to me and asked me, “What type of wedding would you have?” I shrugged and declared, “I would have an American wedding.” I saw the disappointment in her eyes, a look that resonated with me. She replied, with a distant look of certainty, “Only an Indian wedding for me.” Growing up, I was asked questions about the Indian food, clothes, and celebrations—in a White America, only the superficial components compose a culture. This toxic belief only

FEATURE

VOICES

drove me further away from my Indian identity because when I answered, I felt like I was giving an outsider’s perspective. But it was the deeper part of my Indian heritage that I most identified with—the culture of perfection, the aim for education and success to come above all else. As Americanized as my parents were, this instilled motivation was a cultural tie that linked me with them and my grandparents. My grades became the common thread that connected generations together. The emphasis on school helped me achieve and always strive for more knowledge. But, sometimes, the insecurities that stemmed from my grades equating to my wellbeing boiled over. Recognizing that part of my stress stemmed from my cultural upbringing made it easier to understand the pressure. I decided to take action to further understand my identities by joining my school’s Student Diversity Committee. My White dominated student body perpetuated a culture of colorblindness—they ignorantly believed that race was not a relevant issue in our community. Organizing and leading racebased activities was always the hardest because no one wanted to face the discomfort of their privilege. This sentiment was especially noticeable when our committee wanted the theme of our Equity and Inclusion Symposium—a half day dedicated to diversity activities—to be White privilege. When we presented our idea to administration, it was immediately shut down. Their reason was it would make students feel too guilty, but more importantly, make tuition-paying parents beyond angry. Instead, we employed useless metaphors to portray privilege in a way that students never processed. The student culture and lack of dialogue sometimes made me feel as if my racial issues were figments of my imagination. My full exodus from efforts of trying to assimilate into Whiteness began with the recent election. Never before have I felt so self-conscious about my skin color. As a brown woman, the result of the election was a message from America saying, “We do not want you here; we do not appreciate you.” In my community especially, the overwhelming majority voted for Trump. I never thought of the racist implications of my community until the results of this election. The most horrifying moment for me was a picture posted on Facebook from a nearby neighborhood. The photo was a list of ethnic groups that should be kicked out of their neighborhood; among the groups listed was Indian. It left me with a sense of discomfort that never quite dissipated, even in my last months at home. When I walked in the grocery store, I would see the White, suburban moms stare at me—what were they thinking? When I sat in my majority White church, in the same minds that absorbed the lectures of love and acceptance, were the poisonous whispers of White Supremacy. Even though I would never hear them express it, I couldn’t help but feel like I was tiptoeing on broken glass. Over the summer, I went with my grandparents to an Indian grocery store called Raja Sweets that was a 45-minute drive from my house. In the past, these places usually made me feel uncomfortable due to my insecurities with my Indian heri-

ART BY AMY TONG

tage. But that day, something felt different. I watched an Indian wife and husband pushing their shopping cart. An old Desi woman was slowly eating her samosa. A young couple talked in the aisles that stocked a variety of rice. Being surrounded by other Indians, for the first time, I did not feel that same wave of isolation. I felt a relief I can’t quite describe—a great respite from my daily jumbled thoughts about race. Being at Tufts, I have felt this same type of solace as I still explore my cultural identity. The diversity here has been a splash of empathy in my usual White washed world. Some of the Desi people I have met also do not have a singular culture—they too exist in an in-between world of Indian culture and American expectations, some to different extents. There is a new pride I feel, not only for being Indian, but for being in a gray area of my cultural identity. Because sometimes the beauty of being Asian American lies in the unknown middle.

OCTOBER 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

FEATURE

arts & culture

stitched

back

together recovering from sexual trauma through art By Elena Pastreich

Content warning: sexual assault, sexual violence

he Monument Quilt is a traveling and fluid work of art by survivors of sexual assault and sexual violence, many of whom would not consider themselves artists. As the project grows, so does the quilt. Red squares of fabric, some featuring long paragraphs or small drawings, others with simply a single word written on them, are mailed in from all across the country and stitched together to form a massive and constantly expanding work of art.

26 Tufts Observer October 10, 2017

This project will culminate in a display of 6,000 fabric squares that will occupy over one mile of the National Mall in Washington, DC. Each square was made by someone who is a survivor of sexual violence. Through the quilt, they transcend their different languages, places of origin, genders, and forms of expression. The project seeks to share stories of assault, and is part of a growing movement of artists who openly express their survivor status through their work.  In doing so, these artists attempt to

change the narrative of how we see survivors and help others come to terms with their own experiences. The process of creating this art often functions as a method of individual healing. A Tufts student and survivor of sexual assault, who asked to remain anonymous, discussed how creating art helped her understand what she was experiencing. “I felt like I didn’t have the language to talk about myself and what happened, what I needed from myself, and other people, so I more ART BY JAKE ROCHFORD

FEATURE

Arts & culture

so turned to art,” she said. As an artist who works with metal, using techniques such as resin image transfer that require a large amount of focus, she used that outlet to channel her energy into creating. “You need to be 1,000 percent focused on what you’re doing so it kind of was like a way for me to get away from my feelings… but then I pushed myself to incorporate [them],” she said. She created works of art that addressed her assault, often in a way that only she would understand. For example, she made herself a necklace that she always wore which she described as a “Covert way of showing my survivor status to the world.” Sometimes, these deeply personal works of art have a wideranging impact. Rupi Kaur’s self-illustrated book of poems “Milk and Honey” has amassed a large following and touched many people who can relate to the way she openly talks about love, pain surrounding sexual assault, and healing. Kaur’s honest and poignant poems challenge the way we see survivors and create an outlet in which she can express her own experiences and convey her emotions to others. Kaur’s poems also discuss reclaiming desire after sexual assault and are transparent about her healing process. The illustrations that accompany her poems are often simple and abstract, but are an expression of emotions that cannot be fully conveyed through words. Other works aim to raise awareness and start conversations about sexual assault, especially on college campuses. The documentary “The Hunting Ground” exposed universities for insufficient action to protect survivors and even for sometimes protecting rapists. In another well-known piece that sparked controversy in 2014, Columbia student Emma Sulkowicz carried around the mattress she was assaulted on

to protest the way the university handled her sexual assault in a performance piece called “Carry That Weight.” Sulkowicz told the Columbia Daily Spectator, “The act of carrying something that is normally found in our bedroom out into the light is supposed to mirror the way I’ve talked to the media.” Projects such as the photo-series “It Happened”—which graphically depicted different forms of sexual assault and was shared on Facebook and Tumblr—aim to tell a wide range of stories and challenge our assumptions about sexual assault. It was started by a photographer and college student, Yana Mazurkevich, in response to Brock Turner’s release from jail

There is not one template for how art helps survivors of sexual violence. Every survivor has a different experience, and finds comfort in a different form of artistic expression.

after serving only three months for three counts of felony sexual assault. She told Buzzfeed, “The inspiration behind the series was an accumulation of personal experiences and experiences that my friends have been through.” Action for Sexual Assault Prevention (ASAP), a student group at Tufts, has brought these conversations to campus and seeks to examine how we can create spaces on campus that are safer for everyone. ASAP has put on events such as “It Happens Here,” in which Tufts students share poems, essays, and personal accounts of sexual assault on campus and off. This performance seeks to provide healing

and solidarity for survivors while simultaneously shedding a light on the ways that rape culture exists at Tufts. There is not one template for how art helps survivors of sexual violence. Every survivor has a different experience, and finds comfort in a different form of artistic expression. “Art has a really cool way of expressing emotions that you can’t quite put words too, or putting words to things you were feeling but couldn’t quite express,” said a Tufts student and survivor who wished to remain anonymous. Artists are able to capture emotion through music or visual arts that is difficult to articulate but important to share. The same student said, “The production of art is a powerful way to explore feelings without having to give the backstory to anyone else or without requiring validation from anybody else.” She also discussed the importance for her of understanding that she was not alone in her survivor status and her experience was valid. Music and poetry allowed her to relate to others who had struggled through similar emotions. These works of art, both public and private, are part of a process that is vital to establishing solidarity and understanding between survivors. Poets, visual artists, and musicians all have the ability to bring people together, and their work is often tied into activism and healing. While creating or appreciating art is not the only way to heal, or even a perfect way for everyone, the process is important for many survivors and crucial for changing the way sexual assault is represented. As one square on the Monument Quilt reads,  “I am finding my voice again and you can too.”

october 10, 2017 Tufts Observer 27

FEATURE

COLUMN

A CONVERSATION WITH MY M The familiar ringing of an outgoing FaceTime call travels through the room. The vibrations of its sound waves are felt strongest near my heart, but maybe I’m just nervous. The ringing stops and my screen explodes with my mother’s face—she really needs to learn that she doesn’t have to be an inch away from the camera lens for me to see her during a FaceTime call. But maybe that’s her way of decreasing the spatial distance between us, with her in Oakton, Virginia, and with me here in Somerville. I find myself adjusting my grip and bringing the phone closer to me too. – Haloo chōrī! – Hello mommy! – Haloo? Haaloo? – I’m here, I’m here! Hello! She adjusts her glasses until they’re nestled into their home address right at the top of her nose. – Anī timīlā’ī kastō cha? Kē kēhi bhayō? – I’m fine! No, nothing happened. I’m just calling to talk to you about the column I’m writing for school. – Haloo? Haloo? Her image blurs as a message replaces her on my phone screen:

As I’m left in this virtual space, I stare at the video of myself in the top right corner of my phone and look back at the message overlaying my mom. Poor connection. The video will resume automatically when the connection improves. But when will it improve? Through writing this column, I’m trying to improve it as I attempt to engage in conversations with my mom that I typically wouldn’t have—but will it work? Is this enough to 28

Tufts Observer

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overcome the generational and cultural barriers between us?

– Haloo? Haloo? Riva, kē bhayō? – The Wi-Fi here is just really bad, but ok, let’s start. So, this week’s theme is desire. Behind her frames, I can see hints of her eyebrows scrunching together and a wrinkle forming between them, as if to act as a boundary marker saying “HALT! You can’t scrunch any further!” – So I want us to talk about wants, our wants. – Right now, I want you to tell me where you are. And what are you drinking? Have you had anything to eat? I look around. I’m sitting at an outdoor table at Kickstand Café in Arlington drinking their house-brewed chai latte. I had only had a salad that morning, but I knew the angry tirade that I would receive if I told her that. – Yes, yes, of course! I had a sandwich this morning and I’m just at a café drinking some chai. – Chai? Why are you going out and drinking chai? Her words were dripping with hidden meaning: You know I make cups of chai every day for myself and it tastes much better than anything they say is chai here. Why are you going out and buying their chai instead of drinking our chai? – Mommy, don’t get off topic! What are some of your real wants? Or, what did you want when you were younger? She moves her head back from the screen and thinks. I wonder if she’s now increasing the spatial distance between us as a way to think back to a time before me; as if spatial distance away from the present makes traveling temporal distances to the past shorter. – Electricity. – What? – Electricity.

– Yes, mommy, I heard you. Can you explain what you mean? – Ok, when I was younger, I was living in Ilam, you know this. It was very beautiful, but we didn’t have electricity. Our neighbor across the border, Darjeeling, did. During the day, you would just see its hills and our two lands would blend in their natural beauty, but during the night, I would look across and see stars. Not just in the sky, but in the lands. It was electricity. I longed to live among the stars, how wooooonderful it would be. Electricity. As she speaks, I take her in with attention. She had moved herself closer to me again. Her black hair is in a bun, which is how she usually wears it at home. A few strands had escaped, but they were hardly noticeable as the sun shining behind her illuminated them invisible. As she moves, a few gray hairs can be seen, gleaming like accidental pencil marks on a black piece of paper. Her mouth yields a delicate smile, but it is her eyes that I find myself focused on. I watch as they light up with the remembered lights of Darjeeling and imagine those lights reflected onto a distant night sky. I feel myself uncovering a part of her that was previously hidden by time. I want to see more. – What else did you dream about? What personal things did you want from life? – Personal things… hmmm…well I wanted what everybody else did. A good education and a nice husband. Is that what you meant? Times were different back then, I wasn’t thinking about things the way that you guys think now. – What way is that? – Well, you guys have so much more independence than I did at that age. You have explored more aspects of life than I had and because of that, think about life, question life, and want different things from life. You value things differently. For me, I know it would be considered small now, but wanting something like electricity was considered a BIG dream… Haloo? ART BY ERICA LEVY

FEATURE

column

Y MOM ABOUT – No, I heard you, I was just taking it all in. I could feel her gaze on me, assessing me, as if trying to gauge whether I truly understood her. And I do—or at least I think I understand her as much as I can. In my eighth grade science class, I learned that because of the mitochondria—which can only be received from the mother—humans carry more of their mother’s genes than their father’s. I’ve always carried that little piece of information around with me as a certified fact that my mom and I were more similar than the silence between us gave off. However, time placed us and continues to push us in different directions. I was born during a different time, in a different place, absorbing a different culture, and every new person and every new experience made and continues to make our underlying genes a little less prominent. As we speak, I keep wanting her to divulge more information about her desires and have them be more “personal,” but movements across different times and boundaries (from Ilam to Virginia—with stops in Jhapa, Biratnagar, Kathmandu, and New York) have shaped her differently. I do think that what I consider her “personal” wants still exist; I think that she just might categorize them differently. So, I shouldn’t expect her responses to parallel what mine would be—that just wouldn’t be her. – Hmm…okay. What about now? How does it feel to have your dreams of electricity come true and what are your wants now? – Living among the stars isn’t as magical as I had envisioned. Problems, the darkness, don’t just go away when you turn the lights on. But I am happy. I am happy where I am now and I recognize my privilege. I’ve grown more independent since then and I am stronger now. Now… my wants are for continued happiness and my wants are with you and Susan as you continue to grow up. Everything that you guys want, I want for you two. So chōrī, what do you want? Actually… can we do this later?

It is Bijayā Daśamī and I am going to the Durga mandir soon. – Haha, yes, we can be done for now. Happy Bijayā Daśamī! Love you! – Love you too, chōrī. then and I am stronger now. Now… my wants are for continued happiness and my wants are with you and Susan as you continue to grow up. Everything that you guys want, I want for you two. So chōrī, what do you want? Actually… can we do this later? It is Bijayā Daśamī and I am going to the Durga mandir soon. – Haha, yes, we can be done for now. Happy Bijayā Daśamī!

By Riva Dhamala

OCTOBER 10, 2017

Tufts Observer

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