UGH MAGAZINE february 2016 / vol. 1, issue 3
E
Staff Editors-in-Chief
Hazel Crampton-Hays & Justine Goode
Production Editor Justine Goode
Cover: Maya Elany Back Cover: Dolly Pontillas
arly in our friendship, we bonded in one beautifully dramatic, drunken moment. It was the end of our sophomore year, and the frustration and heartbreak that had been building up for months inspired us to journey to the college tennis courts and let out carnal screams, stomping our angst out onto the asphalt. We yelled and swore and jumped up and down, railing against the bullshit in ways that weren’t, you know, acceptable in most social settings. Everything we were feeling tumbled out in cathartic surge, and we left the courts arm in arm, feeling a little lighter than before. This is all to say that we might get a little intense sometimes, or maybe feel “too much.” But we think that— aside from giving us spectacularly dramatic emotional lives— that can be a good thing. We tend to throw ourselves head first into things we care about and trust that it will work out, and we know so many others who do the same. Our passions as young women are not just romantic, as they’re often emphasized to be: they are professional, social, obsessive, and eccentric. Sometimes they conflict. Sometimes they confuse us. We’re still figuring it all out, but that’s okay. So think of this issue as your metaphorical tennis court. We wanted to provide the space for you to shout whatever’s on your mind, to release your frustrations and uplift your accomplishments. Passion takes many forms—zeal, angst, drive, and desire—and Issue 3 is meant to showcase what happens when you follow those feelings. In late January, a friend told us they’d seen UGH on a popular Youtube vlog. Thrilled that our passion project was reaching audiences beyond our immediate social circle, we eagerly looked for the video. Unfortunately, the coverage was less than adulatory, as the hosts mocked our mission statement, articles, and existence. We can take a joke, but even so, seeing UGH as a punchline was a little hard to swallow. We posted wounded Facebook statuses, vented to our friends and moms, and got back to work, focusing on expanding our social media presence and promoting the magazine. For the first time, we received unsolicited submissions from several different countries—Argentina, Germany, Australia, and the Philipphines. Passion flowed in unprecedented amounts, and we are so grateful that you decided to share it with us. What you have contributed truly proves that there is no limit to the interests, imagination, and determination of young feminists around the world. So THANK YOU, and we hope you enjoy the issue! —H&J
in this issue That Feeling , by Anna Gelman fwd: passion, by Mimi Stern Eclipse, by Zoey Memmert-Miller Life in Technicolor, by Maya Elany Burning and Buzzing: An Interview, by Anna Droege Moon Signs, by Anna Kucher Kiss and Tell, by Esther Espeland pink and night sky dresses, by Mia Silvan-Grau Luck of the Irish, by Amara Granderson I AM, by Nadia Bump Queen, by Hanne Williams-Baron
No Nacimos Para Que Nos Mates, by Carolina Cabrera Border Studies, by KaĂŻa Austin Puppy Love, by ZoĂŤ DePreta Passion for Fashion, by Keisha Lee the devil at the dinner table, by Rachel McLean Sassy, by Hazel Crampton-Hays Lick Me: A Playlist, by Hannah Lemkowtiz
featuring art by Ilana Hamer
Isabel Leader
Charlotte Mesch Dolly Pontillas Leann Skach
Danielle K. Stolz Maya Zeemont
That Feeling by anna gelman
I
magine me, at seventeen, in the moment my life was changed forever. I was sitting in the audience of Satirikon Theater’s King Lear, in Moscow, and had spent the previous three hours understanding roughly 35% of the Russian Shakespearean text being hurled at me. I was unshowered and tired and desperately trying to grapple with Shakespeare and Russian simultaneously from the back of the house. And then it happened: one of those incredible moments of live theater, one of those incredible moments in art, that makes you feel like you’ve been punched in the stomach and you’ll never be able to fully breathe again. Like after this moment, you’ll never actually be the same. I have an obsessive personality, especially when it comes to the things I’m passionate about. When I was a kid, I ruined my parent’s VCR by repeatedly playing my prized possession: a claymation version of Twelfth Night. In high school I fanatically collected every piece of recorded music, every b-side, from my then favorite band, Voxtrot, and referred to the lead singer as if we were on a first name basis. I have an Anton Chekhov quote tattooed on my body. I don’t love lightly. I commit. The objects of my obsessive affection are joined together by a common thread: that feeling. Through my teenage years, it was a euphoric high I chased through art. I didn’t know what or why it was, but I knew I got it from the local university’s production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead (that I saw four times), and that it came two minutes and thirteen seconds into that Peter Vronsky song that had already surpassed two hundred plays in itunes. A beautiful shot in a movie, a key change, the last line of a poem: these were the reasons I loved movies or music or books. I was searching for more and more things that made me feel that way, that moved me so intensely that I couldn’t get them out of my mind for weeks or months afterwards. But that moment, as the lights faded at the end of King Lear, I was overcome in a way I never had been before. For the first time in my life, I understood what this feeling was. I was moved by theater, sure,
but this wasn’t some cosmic coincidence or the magic of theatrical performance. This was a story being told. This was someone’s idea of how to tell that story. How had he felt when he came up with it? How had he felt when he put it on stage? Could I do that to? Could I make people feel this way too? Sometimes I think I’m a director for selfish reasons; that my pursuit of an incredibly difficult and evasive art form is just to tailor that feeling specifically to myself, to create moments I know will give me a delicious artistic bellyflop. But even if that is true, creating that feeling is hard. I mean really, really hard. In becoming a director myself, I have discovered that the moments I cherished as a teenager were the product of the real work of a director: a deep understanding of text and characters, an emotional understanding, and an intense analysis. In other words, it’s what makes it so difficult and sometimes impossible, to create good theater and film. The feelings I blindly chased unknowingly became my education, informing me how to approach theater, how many different ways you can tell a story, and how powerful art can be. If you were to ask me now what gave me the feeling, I’d do my best to explain to it to you. I’d tell you how the camera work was connected to the anxiety of a movie, how the combination of three words changes the perspective of a whole poem, or how the end of King Lear refocused the whole play to be about the tragedy of family. But what’s spectacular about art is that the emotions it produces are inexplicable. That feeling was never connected to rational thinking, but to the strange way my heart works. I’ll never know completely what gives me that beautiful feeling, but the never-ending search for it has given me what I want to do with my life. I’m a director. I’m a director because I love stories. I’m a director because I love to analyze and create and feel. I’m a director because of all those little moments that made my stomach flip and that I couldn’t shake from myself. I’m a director because there’s nothing cooler or weirder or more difficult to explain than emotions. Especially my own.
“The feelings I blindly chased unknowingly became my education, informing me how to approach theater, how many different ways you can tell a story, and how powerful art can be.�
hey remember when I was like "I'm not passionate" i LIED !! I wrote a poem in response to an email I just got from WOBC, entitled "Your WOBC Show Application" where the word "unfortunately" was used in the first sentence. and it goes a little something like this ______________________________________________________________________________
my favorite poem as a kid was "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" not because I liked the poem or appreciated its meaning but because I thought it was so /// goddamn /// funny to listen to some old dude who was hired by the publishing company to voice their audiobook somberly say "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" twice in a row think about it. it's funny for an 8-year-old. Genius says that "the rigid form - two end rhymes, a pattern of repeating lines and five three-line s ____________ I have listened to men on CDs and the radio - Garrison Keillor, Leonard Cohen, Ira Glass my whole life. Men Telling Me Stories embracing the femininity of storytelling of song of passion inhabiting the spaces that were once ours. A Passionate Man is sensitive, smart, understanding. A Passionate Woman is a stereotypical mess. they will try to kill your passions and they will try to take your spaces but you must rage, rage against the dying of your light ______________________________ EPILOGUE so when a 22-year old girl asks for an hour of your air waves to host a show about women doing something rad something that women have been PUSHED_OUT_OF_DOING.JPG like politics or storytelling or economics let her fucking do it ___________________________________________________________________________
I hate WOBC rn and I'm #really #upset #about #this because it sucks!!! I loved my show! I was pa love forever, Mimi
_____
stanzas with a four-line stanza at the end - suggests the poet's attempts to control his passionate emotions".
assionate about it! It had a really high listenership! It was really fucking cool! ughh wtf.
eclipse
by Zoey Memmert-Miller bruised apricot moon with the echo of earth lain across it on the beach below, we sit legs straight out feet arched into commas passing a whiskey bottle lunar shadow flitting like moth wings across porch bulbs on nights filled with whispered laughter finally I remember again what it is to feel vibrant: small spark in the diaphragm, tip of the wave breaking— the lighthouse beyond the hill dips and swivels, shedding lost lovely light like television static, or early snow.
art by Leann Skach
life in technic photos taken by maya elany at prague
color film school
M
y parents always said I picked a particularly expensive “hobby” when talking about going into the film
industry. In both senses of the word, it’s taxing. At Prague Film School, my good friend, Rushil stopped me
mid millionth “Thank you,” after a long shoot and told me, “If we keep thanking each other that would be all
we said the entire semester.” We were constantly working for each other. No one was getting paid, or leaving famous from this program. Grades didn’t matter. There was no professor chastising you for being late. The motivation lay somewhere
else. It was the constant feeling that you needed to get things done, and you needed the help of others in order to do that. You had to be confident in things that didn’t feel certain to you while being open to constant change and revision. As a
director and as a woman I learned to be sympathetic but also unapologetically stern. It was always about trying to strike a balance while also trying to do it all. My projects were just as important as my peers’. I was making things for myself and for others. I asked a lot from people and yet I had to learn that that’s okay. Say thank you, say sorry, but I learned that I
was not asking for any more than my peers were asking for or could handle. I spent four months truly learning at Prague
Film School. I did not find myself while backpacking beyond Prague, discover true love abroad, or become more euro-chic (despite the fantasies). For me, it was even better. I was creating with people who were passionate. They were passionate about my work and I about theirs. We were passionate about each other and it was really good.
— ME
burning & buzzing an interview of romey pit tman, by anna droege Romey Pittman: Okey doke! Anna Droege: Okey doke! How would you define passion? RP: How would I define passion? AD: Yeah! RP: I would define passion as a combination of desire and some sense of mission or fate - something that makes it not just about what you want but about a sense of destiny. AD: Do you have a passion? RP: I do! I have a passion around education - for poor kids in particular, urban poor kids without access to a good
education or an education that affirms their humanity and being - and trying to address that problem. I also have a passion for a certain kind of lifestyle that includes my family and the way that I relate to my family and my partner and how we spend our time together. AD: Wait hold on I can hear a violin - can you move to a different room? RP: Is the reception good in your room? I can go up there. AD: Yeah I think so. So for each of those, could describe what your desire is and what your mission is, based off your previous definition of passion? RP: Yeah! Well I think that the thing that I desire - huh it’s
funny, like in terms of my work it’s much about the mission part than about the desire part for me, which maybe makes it less of a true passion than sort of a calling. I think for some people, a passion for something means that they can’t get enough of it and that they hunger for it in a visceral kind of way and I definitely have felt that kind of passion in my life too but I feel like the passion that’s most enduring and resonant for me is the kind that has to do with a sense of destiny. It’s like “this is what I’m on this planet to do and this is why I’m here.” I’ve felt that kind of passion in a love relationship but I’ve felt that in my work and I’ve felt that in building the house, building our cabin. I think that for some people what they want or the “I need this to feel happy” feeling is the driving thing and I think for me it’s not as much the “I need this to feel happy” as much as “I’m meant to do this.” I don’t know if that makes any sense. AD: You’ve talked before in our relationship about how retroactively you can see where your passion came from, but can you describe figuring out that sense of destiny and how you figured out what it really meant for you? Like how did you know your destiny? RP: How did I know it was my destiny? AD: Yeah, or when did you get that feeling that this really is the thing you were meant to do with your life?
to the visionary art museum because it’s a sense of this is creative beauty and this matters and this is right and this is what I want for me too. And I’ve gotten it when I’ve fallen in love with a person and thought “God, I want more of this person. I wanna drink this in as fully as I possibly can.” And I’ve gotten it in my work when I’m working with a kid or a group of teachers and feeling like there’s been a breakthrough or a sense of somebody getting really empowered and I think “Yes! This is what I want! I want more of this!” AD: I like that.
“There’s an actual physical response that I get sometimes when I feel passionate about something in a mission-driven sense. I’m not sure that this is necessarily a good thing, but my ears burn and I get heat down the side of my neck from my ears down to my chest and it’s this feeling of incredible intensity.”
RP: I don’t know! I think there were elements of it that I felt really early on, and then other parts of it that felt like they got clarified or narrowed or more focused over time, but I think every time and every point in that journey there was a sense of an aligned vibrational frequency or an internal sense of “Yeah, this feels like the right thing.” There’s an actual physical response that I get sometimes when I feel passionate about something in a mission-driven sense. I’m not sure that this is necessarily a good thing but my ears burn and I get heat down the side of my neck from my ears down to my chest and it’s this feeling of incredible intensity. It’s not an emotion I can name but it’s a sense of intensity. I get that feeling when something resonates with me in a really powerful way. I’ve gotten it when I’ve gone
RP: It’s a physical sensation that I get that lets me know this is it! I’ve tapped into the core stuff here. AD: I like that the indicator of something being really right with who you are or what you want is physical because I get that too but I get it very differently though. I don’t get this burning sensation but everything inside my chest expands a lot and it’s very full of air and I need to shake it out so I need to shake around and jump around. I get really buoyant and jumpy, not like anxious jumpy, but like I need to go up. I need to stand up and jump up and I need to move and it’s an involuntary thing. And it’s happiness too and excitement but I’m not able to contain it so it’s a little bit scary sometimes but in a great way. It’s intense. RP: I wonder if everybody gets that or if it’s something that’s unique to our little— AD: Clan.
RP: Yeah but I think it is pretty universal. AD: I think so too! But I wonder if the types of physical reactions are more unique. Because you’re getting this burning thing and I’m getting this inside out pressure and like something is crawling up my spine really fast. I wonder how different they are or if we’re just interpreting them differently or if it’s what’s driving us, the emotion that’s driving us. I look for excitement and I look for beauty and inspiration and these sort of airy things and I think for you
you often look for things that you can fix, bigger problems like the way that fashion manifests itself, as more of this determination to fight back.
but it’s this constant swing back and forth between that and all the sort of daily shit that you have to go through. It’s hard to talk about this in the abstract.
RP: I think that’s true.
AD: It seems as though the role that passion plays changes as you age because as you get older you have more things that you need to do and less time to follow your passion or whatnot. Do you have any knowledge to impart? Any wisdom?
AD: What do you do when the passion isn’t there that day? RP: I think that I have pretty well honed automatic pilot skills. AD: That’s good! I don’t. RP: It’s sometimes sort of sad that I’ve gotten really good at “okay, what’s next on the list? What’s next on the list? Check that off, what’s next on the list?” I remember Grandma Droege after some kind of event that felt meaningful like a baptism saying “Well, check it off !” I had this sense that that was sad because we just had this thing that was supposed to be meaningful and all she saw it as was something to check off her list. That was when I was 24 or something and I thought back on my horror at that and felt like “Oh god, I can totally see it now!” I spend so much of my life in that zone of “Check it off, check it off ” and very little time in the passion mode. Often when that passion comes up, it’s dissonance. It’s not like “yeah! I’m doing it!” It’s like “here it is and I’m not doing it!” It slaps me in the face and gets me to realign which is a good thing but not a fun thing either! So the presence in passion in my daily life is not entirely where I want it to be at all. AD: What do you think is the benefit and the purpose of passion for you? Or the opposite of a benefit? RP: Yeah I don’t even know if I see it as something that has a benefit or something that I have a lot of control over. It feels like something that I can listen to or not listen to, but it comes and goes almost like it has its own will and own life. I interact with it and engage with it as much as I can. But I think as you get older, and I think this is true for a lot of people and not just me, the more responsibility you take on and the more that the daily role of work plays, you get pulled out of a passion groove and into the things that need to get done. So often when you feel the passion again it’s like a reminder and sometimes it’s like a regret of “I missed that track! What if that was it?” There are also times when it’s incredibly affirming and you feel full of gratitude that the work you do and the people you’re with and the life you live do have passion in it and fill you with a sense of meaning and deep feeling. That’s amazing when it happens
RP: Be gentle with yourself in relation to passion. Passion is a pretty harsh and powerful force and it’s like playing with fire. It can lead you to anger and bitterness and it can lead you to joy and wildly passionate action and not having enough of it can make you feel like life doesn’t matter. Passion is really complicated! My friends and I spend a lot of time now thinking about who we ended up with and how we live our lives and the work we do and did we do the right thing and so the expectation of passion can be kind of brutal. So I think being gentle with yourself both in terms of expecting yourself to follow your passion and being okay when it’s not there. I don’t know! It’s something to handle with care. AD: That makes sense! I like that. I think that’s good advice. This is nice! RP: I want to tell you that since I’ve been up in your room for this I’ve been holding this picture in my hand of you walking on the beam with me holding your hand and you’re carrying Nunu upside down in your arms. I love this picture so much! You were such an intense kid, you know. You were all passion! AD: How did that picture remind you of that? RP: I don’t know! You’re wearing rubber boots and a dress with your really short hair and you’re carrying this baby upside down and standing on something dangerous and there’s just all these ways that your intensity is showing up. Your face is really deep! It’s not just a happy little pudgy baby face. There’s a lot going on in there. And I’m standing there holding your hand like it’s not about me but it’s about you and I’m giving you the space to fall or figure out where you’re going. AD: That was a great baby doll! RP: We still have Nunu tucked away in the attic.
moon signs
by anna kucher
Did you go outside last night to stare at the moon? Did you notice the place in the upper right corner where it seemed less round? Did you take a picture and post it online? Why didn’t you send it to me? I want to know what it feels like to be you looking at the moon. The sky was darker than usual. Have you ever seen such a dark sky on a night with such a full moon? What’s your moon sign? You haven’t told me yet, but I asked weeks ago. Do you believe in astrology? I believe in you believing in astrology. The moon was bright through my curtains. I couldn’t sleep. Did you sleep?
kiss and tell
by esther espeland
S
ome people collect nail polish, or rare vinyl records, or old concert ticket subs. I collect three-way kisses.
A rare romantic act, somewhere between first base and a fowl ball, the three-way kiss is cheeky, sloppy, and silly. Not a three-person make out of poly passion, nor a filler act during a threesome, the 3WK is just one kiss, shared between three (or more) people. Three heads gently congregate, get lost in the mess of noses, cheeks, and mouths, and then separate victorious, having completed the least sexy sexual act. My journey began at the tender, sexually confused age of 17. I was nervously drunk at a small party that would end with puke in the sink and an infamous who-kissed-who chart. Anxious about all the other people hooking up in various studies and bedrooms, I was chatting with my two best friends and current romantic interest in a secluded corner. I can’t
remember whose idea it was (probably mine), but we stopped talking about concert band and converged in a sloppy four-way peck. And with a grin on my face, and my friend’s noseprints on my glasses, I had made my group kiss debut. I don’t keep a logbook of kisses with the date, location, and participants, but I keep them in the corner of my mind, a cheeky secret to revisit during a conversation lull, or boring history lecture. I can look across the library and think “yes, I once accidentally licked her nose during a tipsy five-way maneuver”. No matter how skilled the participants are, the 3WK cannot be sensual. There is no sensuality in the 3WK; it’s a fleshy mess of noses, chapstick flavors, and the surprise tongue in the unexpected mouth. I pride myself on being a good kisser (it’s all body-language and fresh breath), and personally have never had a suave ‘n sexy group kiss. But this is its beauty. I’m won’t lie and say I’ve ever had a completely sober three-way kiss, as the fun usually relies on the lowering
of inhibitions; how else would you get two straight kinda-homophobic male best friends to one-third kiss each other?! Obviously, every participant must be willing and able, which excludes overly drunk people, and capable of appreciating the fleeting beauty of a group kiss. Part of the beauty of the three-way kiss is its unnaturalness. First, there’s the awkward proposition: “do you guys wanna three way kiss right now?” Then there’s the silence as all other potential kissers contemplate the mechanics of such an act. Then the kiss. The finally, the immediate bonding that occurs when you’ve accidentally licked someone’s chin. I’ve three-way kissed my best friends. I’ve three-way kissed people I’d never see again. I’ve three-way kissed potential suitors, former flames, eskimo sisters, classmates, bandmates, soulmates. Three way kisses are silly. Three way kisses remind me not to take kissing too seriously. They’re sloppy, saliva-y, and a beacon of unsexiness in a sex-obsessed college culture.
illustration by Maya Zeemont
art by Ilana Hamer
pink and night sky dresses by Mia Silvan-Grau
Pink dresses flap like flamingo wings. I hold your large hands, wings span large. I let the water take me. Salt water up the nose It’s good for the sinuses You bring me above the surf When the waves are too strong I let the water take me Night skies are good to wear to funerals Black curls fall Beard scruff scratches I let the water take me Obituaries sound like you expect them to Newspaper-dry ink on the fingertips Gold-encrusted flowers I let the water take me Feathers bob, oozing Red tint on the surface Staining The white moving gown Salt water in your veins now I let the water take me
W
hile I was abroad in London during the spring of 2015, I travelled to Ireland alone at the end of spring break. I had always wanted to go, and in the words of Hilary Duff, why not? Take a crazy chance! My trip to County Kerry was the first time that I had ever ridden solo like Jason Derulo in a different country. The night I arrived in Killarney, a town in Kerry, I decided to have dinner at The Danny Mann Inn, which was an Irish music pub on the ground floor and a hotel on the top floors. This dinner experience was the first time I had ever gone to a non-take out restaurant, and sat at a table alone. As I sipped my vegetable soup of the day and Killarney brew, I watched the people around me. It was a very social bar, with men in kilts playing bagpipes by the bar and families and groups of friends gathered around tables. Not only was I the only person of color within a 20 mile radius, I’m sure, I was the only person who was alone at the pub; it was clear that I was an outsider. Now, as an avid watcher of sitcoms, romcoms, any com, really, I knew that it was protocol for a beautiful woman eating alone to be approached by some thirsty man. So, I, being the beautiful woman, was overly-prepared to decline any and all expected advances and subsequently pat myself on the back. As I scoped the bar, I spotted a young man with a soft yellow polo with a popped collar. I watched him walk towards me and I mentally prepared myself for my time to shine. The suspense killed me as my imagination ran wild. Oh man, I’m so ready to nonchalantly tell this guy off and sip my brew. But wait-- what if he’s actually great and we fall in love and I bring him back to The States to meet my loved ones? Or better yet-- what if he’s Niall Horan’s cousin? This is my in with the family! WAIT FOR ME NIALL, MAMA’S COMIN! This is it! Here he comes! Here he-- oh… nevermind. He passed by my table to sit with a young white woman with a bleach blonde blowout and a contoured face who’d just arrived at the pub. Behind me, I hear Popped Collar Polo Boy initiate conversation. “I noticed you sitting here alone. How are ya?” As I continued to dine alone and pretended to use my phone that actually had zero internet connection, I regretted the decision to travel alone and resented my impulsiveness to do so. Suddenly, two middle-aged, dadaesthetic, kilted men from Gloucester sat at the table next to me. They asked me to pass the wine menu, and the I obliged. Once the wine was served to them, they asked if
I wanted to come sit with them and have a drink. They clearly extended this invitation out of pity, which they actually made clear during our 1.5 hour chat, when they said, “Yeah, you just looked so lonely and it just seemed awkward that you were alone.” I replied that it was indeed a little awkward; definitely more awkward than I had been expecting. Our impromptu hangout session was really quite lovely; they suggested places outside of London to go to, like Gloucester, where they were from, and Stratford-uponAvon, since I told them I was a Shakespeare fan. I talked about my plans for the future, and how in an ideal world I’d like to act. One of them asked me what my favorite role had been. I said the Third Witch from Macbeth, because I was able to channel all of my weirdness. Both men stared at me blankly in silence, until one of them said, “...yeah, you probably shouldn’t tell people that. That’s just really weird.” The night had already taken an incredibly pleasant turn, but perhaps its highlight was when the live performer that night started playing “The Fields of Athenry,” a traditional Irish rebel tune. Now, it is imperative that I mention that ever since I learned that song at a weekly Thirsty Thursday party in freshman year, my dream had been to travel to Ireland, walk into a random Irish pub, and start singing that song in a crowd of pleasantly inebriated Irish folks, and they would initially be a little confused that a Black American girl initiated the song, but they would soon join in because they wouldn’t be able to resist singing such a classic tune. While it didn’t happen in that fashion, it did happen like this: Performer: *starts singing The Fields of Athenry* Me: *interrupting something one of my new Gloucester friends was saying* OhmygodIlovethissong. Sorry. I just really love this song. Wow. Sorry. Ok. Gloucester friends: Oh. Yeah, ok. And then the three of us sang along with the performer!!! To be quite honest, it was one of the highlights of my life-- not hyperbole. Before we parted ways, one of them said, “Well, if you ever become a famous actress, you can say that you met two boys from Gloucester way back when.” I suppose that’s incentive to become famous. (Kidding.) Hanging out with them was so fun and organic, and it definitely made me remember that I have a strong passion for finding kindred spirits in unexpected places. Unlike Aubrey Drake Graham, I say yes to new friends!
Unlike Aubrey Drake Graham, I say yes to new friends!
I AM too high
for any hand to reach designed
with a certain holiness
gracefully dancing across the sky i move in silence
unnoticed sometimes observing
collecting dreams and ideas keeping secrets i hug the sun
trying to hold it's light i cry
until there's nomore left inside
but an invisible force constantly pushes me along without a particular destination in mind building and rising i am a cloud
drifting along an open sky — Nadia
art by Isabel Leader
Some time ago, there was a big march here in my country to protect women's civil rights against domestic violence called "ni una menos.” The translation of the quote is "We haven't been born in order for you to kill us.” — Carolina, Argentina
b o r d e r
s t u
u d i e s
ph o t o s b y ka ia au s t i n
puppy love :
by zoe de preta
I
don’t have a dog. Anyone who has walked down any streets with me or who has looked at the photos in my phone or who has even met me is at least a little bit surprised by that. Hell, I’m a little surprised by that. But current circumstances (college, no money, etc.) do not permit one, and so I’m left pooch-less. I’ve always known that my passion for puppies is a little bit out of the ordinary. But when I’m sitting by a window and a happy little Pomeranian trots by, how can I possibly be expected to stay focused on what’s in front of me? This past summer, my boyfriend and I were running early to meet someone, and decided to stop at an Italian ice stand. As he ordered, I noticed a little girl and a small terrier standing with their mom, waiting for their order. Naturally and without thinking, I walked over and started playing with it. The little girl walked up to me with a slightly confused look, so I apologized for petting without asking, to which she responded, “Don’t worry, he loves adults.” I stared at the girl. Her order came in, and she walked away with her mom and her terrier. I stood up slowly, looking down at myself wondering if she misspoke, or if
she meant to say it to someone else, or even if she was blind. I’m not an adult. Who’s an adult here? “Maybe she’s confused because my boyfriend has a beard,” I thought. But in that moment I realized that even when I’m doing a childlike activity, compared to her, I am an adult. Everybody around me seems to freak out about growing up and reject it. As a 21 year old junior in college, I’m in this bizarre place where I’m not a girl, not yet a woman (thanks Britney), which is actually kind of awesome. I’ve got plenty of room to mess up and make bad decisions because I’m young and that’s what young people do. I can run up to little dogs on the street and play with them without feeling like a predator. And then I can stand up straight and have a little girl consider me an elder. When I’m older, have my own place, and am supporting myself fully, I’ll get a dog and that’ll be my real mark of adulthood. For now, I will continue to do my thing. If I see a lil pup turn a corner, I’ll follow it and take the long way home just to watch it scamper and do its thing, and that makes me happy, goddammit!
by Keisha Lee
F
or as long as I can remember, fashion has been my one and only. Clothing, fabric, style, silhouettes, sequins and cuts ruled my life. As I grew older so did the obsession, eventually turning into a great desire to create whatever I was imagining. And I thrived making it. I would stay up until all hours of the morning to make an item of clothing — the only thing I would ever consider losing sleep over. It was the small things I loved; the hum of the sewing machine, the sound of the scissors slicing through the fabric and that amazing feeling when you held your new garment up in the awful early morning lighting. I loved it, and looking back, I don’t know why I chose otherwise. By my senior year of high school, it was well-known that I loved fashion. But I didn’t consider myself good enough to allow it to become anything more than a hobby. Once high school finished, I had a decision to make: study business at a good university, or follow my creative craving to study fashion design. I spent all my time convincing myself that I was making the right choice to deny and sacrifice my creative passion in order to reap the rewards of this decision later in life. So I choose the safe option to go to a regular university and study business, with the hopes to later merge it with
passion for fashion
my love for turning a piece of fabric into a wearable item. All in all, I ignored my passion, and I suffered the consequences. I became lethargic, unmotivated and somewhat depressed—the exact opposite of my normal self, a bubbly, happy and incredibly optimistic girl. I hated everything and resented everyone; I cried weekly when I didn’t want to do my accounting and economics homework. I had spent so long working creatively that I had no idea what to do with myself without any type of creative release. But there was a silver lining. I started to create and post my creations online, and it felt as though my life had purpose again. At the end of the year I was again faced with the decision of what to do. Should I continue to ignore my passion of creating, or go to design school to follow my creative passions? I knew the right answer this time. Upon learning from my past mistakes, the next chapter of my life will be spent behind a sewing machine, and I could not be happier. I am slowly becoming the person I used to be, gaining back all the life I had previously lost. Ignoring my passions turned me into a version of myself I never thought I’d be. But through the struggle of the past year, I became certain of what I wanted and only more fired up and determined to be the best version of myself, and to do what I absolutely love—live and breathe fashion.
the devil at the dinner table rachel maclean
every Thursday if he comes home he comes late and gives us
the traffic report it was heavy on the 220 southbound and she says nothing takes his dinner out of the fridge hands it to him and goes to bed my brother and I linger
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an
iel
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around the microwave watching his food reheat go outside and play war
sassy
an original song
I
had my first heartbreak at age 16. In between sobbing into my pillow, watching Bridget Jones' Diary, and eating entire cakes, I processed some of my first overwhelming emotions through writing songs about my musician ex-boyfriend. Along with the completely unpolished piece that follows, I wrote "He's a Tool" and other subtly titled ballads to channel my devastating anguish into something productive. I chose to keep this in its 2011 unfinished form as a time capsule tribute to my past self 's deeply felt passion. It's easy to laugh at my melodrama (and I encourage readers to do so) but I can't help but feel overwhelming sympathy for my sad little wounded self. Dear Heartbroken Hazel, The pain you feel is real. The boy who hurt you is an idiot. This will not be your last heartbreak, but you will get better at coping with it every single time. The passion you feel is powerful! It's just misplaced. You are beautiful and strong and one day, you will actually break some hearts yourself. It's okay! We're all still figuring it out. Keep writing! One day you might have a place to put it. Love, Happier Hazel
What a quality individual you are Writing trying-too-hard ditties on your out of tune guitar Can’t believe I ever thought you were cute Now I’d like to express my affection with a spiked heeled boot Yeah, there’s nothing like dating a hipster who won’t dream Of being anything like Prince Charming, it’s just too mainstream Completely intolerant atheism ain’t exactly classy So I think I’m entitled to get a bit sassy We’d spend hours every night discussing every little thing Thought I’d found my male equivalent, you’d be perfect for some fling I had to poke and prod you for ages to get out the truth (“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not into Frank, I’m into you”) I didn’t see that you were less emotionally mature than Buster Bluth Yeah, there’s nothing like dating a hipster thin as chives At 6 feet, 120 pounds, how do you survive? Starting Industrial Hemp Club ain’t exactly classy So I think I’m entitled to get a bit sassy Thought it was so sweet for you to sing me Happy Birthday But it was just a few lines then your friends started playing Perfect Day A song about me was never really going to happen But I wrote one for you so you better start clappin’ Yeah, there’s nothing like dating a hipster who can’t drive I wasted 6 months of my life listening to your blatant lies Dumping me for my best friend ain’t exactly classy So I think I’m entitled to get a bit sassy You sleep naked, oops, did I say too much? Too bad, you douche, cause there’s tons more, such As the fact that you want to drop out of school Yeah, insulting education, that’s what’s cool And you’d only ever say you liked me in Spanish Now if you tried that crap, your manhood would vanish I’m not superficial, but you’re not remotely attractive No muscle in your body has ever been active Mean to your family should have been a hint Well you’ll be hiding in fear when I’m president Or not, anyway I’ll be more successful than you I’ve got ambition, live by more than a quote from a tattoo And there’s nothing original bout liking Lou Reed Hell, he redid Perfect Day with Boyzone for Children in Need You make ... I hate you!
a pl ay list
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kay guys, I hate how many disgusting, violent, women-hating songs there are about men getting their dicks sucked by women. I am OVER it. They are almost always offensive and violent instead of sexy and consensual. Which is why I love a good song about vaginas getting EATEN OUT! Good old cunnilingus. Eat your heart out: MY NECK MY BACK — Khia / Elle King This song kicks ass. All the raunch of a dick sucking song but 100% more vagina. Both the original Khia track and the jazzy pop version by Elle King never cease to make me stop what I'm doing and sing at the top of my lungs. The ultimate song about lickin' dat puss. QUEEF — AWKWAFINA Listen up penises — it takes two to queef ! Everyone is so freaked out about queefing, and this song turns the queef from an embarrassing vagina fart into a badass trumpet of vaginal amazingness. When I happen to queef (everyone with a vagina will at some point) I think about this song, turn to whoever is around, and say "You’re welcome.” MY VAG — AWKWAFINA This is a better, funnier, smarter, and all around more interesting vagina version of "MY DICK" by Micky Avalon. Although there is some vag on vag competition in this song that I don't promote, the overall message is that vag is better than peen, and I'm down with that. HOW MANY LICKS — Lil' Kim I often find myself contemplating this very question. Also, Lil' Kim—enough said. 8 MILES WIDE — Storm Large Although this is not directly about oral sex, it is my vulva's theme song so it had to be
included. The name itself should intrigue and the song does not disappoint. 4 1/2 minutes of pure vaginal positivity and patriarchal slamming joy. THE TONGUE SONG — Trina This is the greatest, most orgasmic, juicy, nail scratching, lip biting song of all. Don't forget climactic and carpet munching. Thank you Trina, you've made all my orgasms better by playing this song on repeat until whoever is down there gets the job done. LICK IT BEFORE YOU STICK IT — Denise Lasalle The Queen of blues says it all. This song is 1) hilarious, and 2) a guide for men to "keep women happy,” which should be the goal of all men all the time. The song puts dicks in their place, and places importance on (you guessed it) tongues! If you play one song from this list at a party it should be this one. PU$$Y — Iggy Azalea I added this in at the end because we all know Iggy sucks, and has said some f 'cked up things, but also this song is sexy, a straight up clit-licking ballad. The video is also hella hot and I watch it before every Tinder date to get me in the mood. — Hannah Stephanie Lemkowitz