WHAT THE F University of Michigan April 2022 Issue 24 Periodical Your Irregular
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FW Issue 24 April 2022 01 Letter from the Editor 02 Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor 04 Delete Instagram Where Are Your Grass Stains 05 Into the Wishing Well 06 I Am a Little Piece of Movement That Will Soon Change Shape 08 Nonsense Thoughts on Apathy 10 We Only Have So Much to Give 14 A Love Letter to Letters 16 Mirror Mirror 19 A Study in Hypochondria 20 Thank You 22 Call Her Daddy and Other Feminist Illusions 25 ‘Wellness’ Sort Of Ruined My Life 28 Living For the Present, Wishing For the Future 32 Shut the Door and Walk Away 35 Well Wishes From the Seniors 39 How I’m Learning to Be Whole 41 We Can’t (and Shouldn’t) Be Like Naruto 44 What the F is Celebrating 10 Years! 47 Credits funny, fresh, fierce, feminist,fuck! T
The F, your feminist periodical! 1 from the Editor
LetterWelcometoWhat
Dear Reader, Out of all of the issues that could have been my last, this one is just about the best I could have wished for. I’ll start by saying that the staff writers chose this theme–they just didn’t know it. I asked them what they needed the space to write about, and their answers fell into two camps: wishes and wellness. Hence, the Wishing Well was born. I am writing this letter just days after the second anniversary of U-M shutting down for COVID. The longer the pandemic drags on, the harder it gets to stay hopeful and preserve ourselves for the future. How can we plan for the years to come when we don’t know what the community situation will be two weeks from now? What is the power of a wish in the face of a harsh reality? What is wellness in a world that is deeply unwell? Well, I wish I could tell you. But the pages within this issue can. Everyone who contributed their time and talents to this mag took on the challenge of answering the big questions and flippin’ crushed it, and I couldn’t be prouder. As What The F celebrates our 10th year of kicking campus butt, this issue proves that we are still raising the bar and pushing the limits to deliver your favorite irregular periodical. And above all, it proves that as long as there is still water at the bottom of the well, there is light at the end of the tunnel. I guess it’s time to wrap up my final letter to you, dear Reader. It’s been real. When I joined this magazine three-and-a-half years ago as a writer, I couldn’t wait to see my work in print. But as I held the issue in my hands, I realized that the true joy came from seeing my work in your hands. With each successive issue, the effect has been the same. I won’t lie, putting these issues together is a ton of work. But for you, Reader, it’s well worth it (had to get one last pun in the mag). So thank you. You are just as much a part of this magazine as the contributors are. Now, I invite you to look into the wishing well and see what’s waiting for you.
DOCTORMYASKTOAFRIADI’MSH*T
A genetic component also appears to be at play, as the disease often runs in families. Whatever the case, the onset is spontaneous, meaning it isn’t a result of one’s lifestyle and it could happen to anyone. could I have it? As mentioned earlier, roughly 1 in 10 menstruating Americans are estimated to have endo, so it’s not uncommon by any measure. Still, despite its frequent occurrence, it can be difficult to diagnose. Many of the symptoms of endometriosis, such as severe menstrual pain, pain during intercourse, and bowel troubles, are also symptoms of other diseases, all of which are worth getting checked out, of course. Because of that, doctors will often misdiagnose endometriosis as conditions like IBS, PCOS, or vaginismus (which, BTW, endo sufferers often also have), prolonging necessary treatment. In addition, many doctors aren’t knowledgeable about endometriosis and will dismiss patient complaints outright. If you suspect you might have endo (or just if something’s up down there), it would be wise to find a gynecologist or specialist who sees cases frequently. They would recognize the symptoms more easily than a general practitioner. At the by cielle waters-umfleet endometriosis
periods. ugh. If you have them, you have them for a week every month for approximately 40 years, and it’s safe to say that most people don’t enjoy theirs. But what if your period had no way to leave your body and instead built up inside you? For an estimated 1 in 10 Americans who menstruate, this is a painful reality called endometriosis. But for how common it is, relatively little is known about it, even among doctors. This makes finding a diagnosis and treatment plan difficult for those suffering the condition. The effects can be nearly debilitating in the worst cases, yet many of us would struggle to name one person close to us whom we knew had the disease. So, what is endometriosis? Why is it so hard to get a diagnosis? And what can we do about it? what is it? Endometriosis, or endo for short, is a condition in which tissue similar to the endometrium, the inner lining of the uterus (A.K.A. your period while it’s still inside you), grows outside of the uterus, typically on the pelvic floor. This endometrium-like tissue is commonly found on the ovaries, fallopian tubes, bladder, and intestines, although in rare cases it can be found anywhere in the body. Like the endometrium, this tissue thickens and “sheds” with the menstrual cycle; however, because it doesn’t have a vagina to exit from, the tissue simply builds up over time, eventually leading to internal cysts and scarring. The most common symptoms are heavy, painful periods; pain during sex and relieving oneself; and infertility. Many sufferers will also experience symptoms similar to a bad period, such as bloating, nausea, and digestive problems. While most people with the disease will have some symptoms, it’s important to note that pain experienced does not necessarily correspond with the severity of the disease. People who have relatively little endometriosis tissue might deal with far more pain than someone who is in the most advanced stages of the disease, and some people might go years without ever knowing they have it! Occasionally patients discover they have the disease inside a fertility clinic after failing to Scientistsconceive.
still aren’t sure how endometriosis begins, but most explanations boil down to this: Somehow, regular endometrial cells escape the uterus, either through a surgical wound or the small gap between the fallopian tubes and ovaries (DYK? Ovaries are not directly connected to the fallopian tubes!) and lodge in the surrounding area, where they then morph into diseased tissue.
3 appointment, your doctor will ask you to describe your symptoms, their severity, and when you experience them. Unlike some conditions, endo symptoms usually change with one’s menstrual cycle. Typically, the days closest to and during one’s period are the worst, and symptoms ease for the rest of the month. If your doctor then suspects you might have endometriosis, they will do a pelvic exam, which involves feeling your lower belly and inside your vagina. This allows the doctor to feel for areas of swelling and where the endometrial-like tissue may have built up. In order to make a definitive diagnosis, though, the doctor will have to take a biopsy. In a procedure called laparoscopy, the doctor will insert a long, thin tube under the skin and collect tissue samples to examine under a microscope. After that, you’ll know. To prepare for the appointment, endo veterans have some suggestions. First, write down your symptoms, and be detailed! Make a journal of what you experience and when so you can have something to refer back to when the time comes. This also makes it much more difficult for a doctor to minimize or dismiss your symptoms. Some degree of period pain is a reality for most who menstruate, but when it becomes debilitating, it’s highly concerning. Next, it may help to bring a trusted person to the appointment, such as a close friend or relative who sees you often. Having someone to reaffirm your symptoms to the doctor goes a long way, plus they can help you digest difficult information from your doctor. But most importantly, survivors stress advocating for yourself. As common as the disease is and as obvious as the signs can be, far too many doctors dismiss symptoms and refuse to perform further testing, as if endometriosis could be controlled with a few extra Midol. Speak up, ask questions, and request further testing and treatment. Your doctor may have an MD, but YOU are the foremost expert on your body. I have it... now what? If your test comes back positive, unfortunately, there is currently no cure for endo. That being said, a range of treatment options are available. Some people find birth control and over-the-counter pain meds to be enough to function. Others may opt for stronger methods, such as artificially inducing menopause (something that can be easily reversed if a sufferer wants kids). Often, though, patients need surgery to remove the endometriosis tissue build-up. This can be done by excising tissue with surgical sharps or through an ablation, which is a controlled burn of Onetissue.ofthe biggest factors to consider with endometriosis treatment is fertility, or moreover, infertility. Endo is one of the leading causes of anatomically-female infertility, and while people with endo can and do carry pregnancies, it can be risky. Endo causes infertility in multiple ways. Endometriosis tissue can produce its own sex hormones, messing with the body’s natural balance and cycle. It also causes swelling in the reproductive tract, which could make it nearly impossible for sperm and eggs to meet and implant. If having kids is part of your life plan, your doctor will help you make the right decisions so as to give you the best chance to conceive and carry. conclusion Despite the severity of symptoms, one of the biggest challenges for people living with endo is a lack of awareness, both from doctors and the general public. Even though it’s relatively common among people who menstruate (not to mention hard to ignore), it takes an average of seven years for a typical sufferer to receive an accurate diagnosis, all the while having their disease progress. And medical knowledge about the disease remains limited. In fact, the stages of endo were originally created to reflect a patient’s likelihood of becoming infertile, not how impactful symptoms would be in daily Whatlife. we can do to change this is listen, learn, and stand up for ourselves and others. Every endo journey is unique, and every story is valid. Chronic pelvic pain isn’t normal, and doctors shouldn’t write it off just because it centers around a uterus. By learning and educating, we can help more people receive timely diagnoses, critical in preventing lasting organ damage from endometriosis tissue. one day, we may finally see an end to endo.
I think wellness is being unforgiving and a bit of a bitch and not just holding your ground but also scooping it up and cradling it in a cool sparse room of just you and you and the you to come. I think wellness is money which is blunt and not poetic in the slightest but I think wellness is finding the poetry in everything and there is no poetry in poverty. I think wellness does not belong only to me and so I don’t go home as often as I should when I’m tired. I don’t want my mother to worry. I don’t think I’ve met me yet is what I thought 3 years ago and I was half right (half wrong) Except I was completely right because even the right-wrong is whenwrong-wrongmetwiththe wrong-right (the new) I’ve met me there is no time nor place I am Schrodinger’s [ ________ ]
DELETE INSTAGRAM WHERE ARE YOUR GRASS STAINS
byHudaShulaiba
Empty spaces are not empty when in wait Two boys who are boys in the way only boys can be. Your neighbor’s wind chimes on a partly cloudy June day when the breeze carries you over to wave to Mr. Jerome call me uncle Jerry the dollar store man who gives you an orange push pop and red hot barbecue Better Made chips because you only turn 6 and 23 days old once. Carrying fourteen worms to safety and throw ing firefly funerals and inhabiting a world clearly meant for roly-polies and very little else. When water is turquoise NOT blue. Flipping off the cabinet wall under the kitchen counter. Crying when you break your arm even though everyone says you’re overreacting because you know when to recog nize it hurts. The plush piggy bank valiantly won at a Chuck E. Cheese makes you think you won’t ever need the rubber-banded stack at the top of mama’s closet shelf. Your journal says dear diary the corn stalks in Ohio and driving along the edge of the Appalachian which is maybe why you developed that fear of heights in the first place. upon reading the dictionary the summer before entering the fourth grade you learn that sometimes definitions double as direction. WELLNESS/TO BE WELL: enjoying the wait and knowing when there’s nothing to wait for.
____________________________________________________
The edge of a wishing well is both the most dangerous and comforting place for her to reside. So, without fail, she always returns, taking the risk of leaning into her emotions so far she may lose her balance and tumble over. At least curiosity would be the force pushing her too far. There is no regret in self-discovery.Wishingwell, she wishes you well. You hold her on the surface and allow her to disturb her own peace as her past versions do to her current self. She wishes them well, all of the infinite spirals of waves around the coin’s splash. A disruption to see the truth. Blue, but only by the reflection of a bright sky above. The ripples settle. The coin is resting on top of the past tosses at the bottom of the well. Together, the coins help to create a reality for which really only the girl above is responsible. She is left to see the still image once more. They smile at each other—harmony. They are just one once more. The other faces have combined to create one past, looking directly at the present. And they hold each other in solidarity for the future. The water rests like this. This calm state continues to exist until a coin transports her to the girl at the bottom of the wishing well again.
She has always wished to be the girl she sees at the surface of a wishing well. Blue, but only by the reflection of a bright sky above. But when she tosses in her coin to wish her well, she breaks into many different faces, each a different version of herself, moving in and out of each other with the ripples of the toss. The image is broken; she knows she is not that girl. She wishes her well, that cohesive image of a girl so put-together. When the peace is disturbed, she is able to see who the girl really is, composed of many variations of the same soul. Through the waves, she sees the facial features move. Illusions of different faces belonging to different people. In a way, they are all different people. She hasn’t always been the same—whole. She is now only cohesive when combining past versions of herself. Versions of herself she once wished to drown out. But now, she extends much deeper than the few inches of stagnant water in the well. The water is still, but her feelings are mixed. Washing over her like waves of the deepest emotions. Who is she really, if not the face she can see when looking back at herself? There is appreciation but not always love. There is resentment in who she sees once the surface tension breaks, but there is recognition for who these different people have allowed her to be. After all, they have all led her to stand in front of this mirror and reflect honestly. If nothing else, there is a friend there to console her and listen to her vulnerable thoughts. She wishes her well. She wishes she would remain in one piece through the waves she will endure in the future. These desperate coin tosses are an integral part of her fate. Here she can wish on what will come in the future rather than wait to see it staring at her in the eyes as she does now. The still expression she holds becomes warped with each move of the water, confusing her smile with a frown, and they lose the confident eye contact previously held. The eyes hold many truths, like tidal pools of their own. Filled with pain that reveals a little more than she would originally wish to share, but the kind that fills a silence with comfort. Here, she can plan a future for the girl stuck at the bottom of the wishing well. She is in control when wishing for her peace. During these moments, she sees the pain reserved for this well only, existing underground, buried. There is no room for regret at the edge of a wishing well: only a few inches’ difference means falling over the edge, slipping into the water so dark it can only be viewed as a mirror from where the light shines. A well shows her layers a mirror overlooks. The edge of a wishing well, where a possible future becomes a reality as the weight of a coin shatters the twodimensional display of a girl in her current state–misrepresentative of the experiences that have led her to this moment of hope.
by Dimitra Colovas Into the 5 WishingWell
I guess I have been falling up for 19 years That is not a very long time but enough To notice that some wind has rushed past my ears
You know the feeling? My father has been falling up forever longer than me I imagine the day he realizes the air around him I imagine he might look right past it to see me My father asked me what was wrong And I did not know Instead I remind him “It is weary to be patient”
And very suddenly I am a little boy My small sticky hands wrapped neatly together and pressed like fresh laundry over the folds of his neck
My itty bitty forehead burrowing fiercely and intentionally against a relentless shoulder My teeny face squinted desperately tight and begging to become a wall Body coiled and cold and so heavy
The way one’s body is always heavy when held up by a savior the sun has set and I am in my room again and I am watching old youtube clips to avoid thinking about the fact that tomorrow morning I will swallow a pill and what has been a cloud will become a line and I am wondering why a friend told me that she just knows I will cry at the end of multiple worlds surely this one?
i am a little piece of movement that will soon c hange shape by Sam Aupperlee
i am walking and I am wondering how the cement underneath my feet is made and I am wondering how long it takes dextroamphetamine to work its way into my brain and I am thinking about the $34.49 I just spent at the prescription desk in walgreens which is definitely more than I have ever spent at walgreens before and I am imagining the look on the pharmacists face when she told me I could go to jail for sharing this with a sibling or a friend or a classmate and I am wondering why this feels like my last day on earth
11 7
You’re gonna get yourself killed. Words I heard at least twice a week growing up. Get myself killed, get myself killed. Barefoot steps, too close to the tracks, men at the mall, stepping off the curb. I have a scar that forms a check mark across my right knee. It didn’t hurt when it happened. I turned and saw my window shattered and then a leg that couldn’t be mine because it was all flesh and pink and nerve and bone glinting through between a knee butterflied in two. I hadn’t known my bone would look like that. It kinda looked just like the pictures. And what a magnificent color we are on the inside. I thought that I wanted to paint my room that color. I fell into the window trying to put glow-in-the-dark stickers on my ceiling. The doctors later told me that if the glass had cut me by another inch, it would have sliced an artery, and I would have bled out and died. Is there a real difference between fearless and careless? Am I still a child because I need someone to tell me when I stop being excused? I cross the street without looking both ways. I jog alone in the dark and leave parties without telling anyone I am leaving or where I am going. I smoke with a quiet hope. It’s a guilty hope, before you start calling me a bad person, but I think that having hope at all probably makes me a bad person, anyway. At my last check-up, my doctor felt a mass in the side of my neck— an activated lymph node, she suspected. But probably best to get it checked out, anyway. And I thought, I don’t want to die. But I also thought, selfishly, it wouldn’t be so bad. I would be excused. And I thought, I don’t really care, either way—activated lymph node or a ball of hyperactive cells in my neck.
I could chalk myself up to an impulsive and dramatic teenage girl who, after losing a man, feels she has lost her life, but the problem is that I’ve never been able to float. I know that I am light without substance inside. I knew this before a boy and before anything else at all. My father is in love with love, this I know. But I am not sure if some people are easier to love than others; I think they are because I’ve never known anyone as easy to love as him If I had answered your text, I would have asked you how to become someone who is easy to love.
On New Year’s, you texted me saying that you hoped I was doing well and that you would love to start sessions back up with me whenever I wanted to. I considered that you had been thinking of me and had genuinely been moved to reach out, but therapists have to make their money somehow, and certainly checking in with old patients is easier than finding new ones. The text above yours was from me, explaining that I wanted to take a break from therapy. I was doing well and the meds were working. You never responded, but you stopped calling and stopped setting up appointments. I am a firm believer that anyone can benefit from therapy, regardless of their perceived mental state or past experiences, but I think that I, narcissistically, believed that I was not somebody who could ever get anything out of therapy. I lied often in therapy sessions, withheld information, disregarded the advice that forced me to have perspectives I didn’t want to have. Could you tell, when I lied to you? I want to tell you that the concept of your job is weird to me. Like, I’m paying you a lot of money to listen to me talk. Except most of the time, I didn’t talk, so that was weird. And maybe a waste. And the people you talk to must hate you all the time, or I did, at least. But I hated you like a parent, like you disappointed some expectation I had of you. I thought parents were mythic because really, how is a person supposed to raise another person? I thought you were mythic, too, because how do you fix someone else if you’re still patching up yourself? I cried about him during one of our sessions, and you told me that when you were young, you were engaged to a man who left and married another woman a month later. You told me that you had accepted that this was through no shortcoming or fault of your own—that sometimes things like this just happen. And I still think you were lying to me.
Dear Ex-Therapist,
Nonsense Thoughts on Apathy
I don’t think you can do either, raise or fix, without fucking up. I hated you for no reason other than I disappointed my expectation of myself, too, for not being someone who could emerge from therapy slicked up with blood and placenta and amniotic goo. I don’t mean that as a good thing or a bad thing, only as a new If I had responded to your text, and if I had been willing to try, I could have told you that on New Year’s, all I could think about was how I’ve never been able to float. I was so heavy, always, in water. I blame my mother and my mother’s mother and probably my mother’s mother’s mother, but I never knew her well enough to really believe that. I blame them for choices left unmade and regrets and men who couldn’t love anybody but themselves and every way their lives didn’t end up how they thought they would. I hope you can decipher this to understand that who I really blame is myself. Who teaches you how to float? My father is in love with love— this I know. But I am not sure if certain loves are innate, like that my mom will always want me. Do you remember that night?
When I thought that I had used that love up? How foreign I am to myself in those moments. I almost want to laugh because I am small again like my first time at the beach when I was picked up by a wave and no one was watching. I wasn’t supposed to be by the water alone, anyways, which I knew. And I couldn’t float. How pathetic I am to myself in those moments. How pathetic to gasp and sputter and choke and bang my fists on the floor, digging crescent moons into the space between my thumb and first finger. I stopped trying to get up after getting hit by the first few waves because it was starting to sting my face, and I liked the feeling of being lulled and rocked. Almost floating.
by Claire Gallagher
through this period of time. But I’ve never been able to float. And I think I just feel too guilty to talk to you about this anymore. And I know I’m not in any place to ask you for anything, but I really do need you to tell me what I feel and how I feel and what to like and what I should be doing more or less of and whether or not I am excused. I need you to explain everything about myself to me. Isn’t that your job? This is why I hate you sometimes because you would never just tell me. Would you please? I anxiously await your response. ClaireBest, I would tell you that I still measure everyone else against him. Like before I move, I wonder if he would recoil and by how much. Most of the time when I’m talking, I’m thinking of whether or not the things I am saying would warrant a response from him. I sometimes worry I am betraying him in feeling something for another, but this is wishful thinking. I can only hope that I will feel something for another that warrants worrying. But here I go again, being impulsive and immature and young and selfish. I need you or someone else to tell me how to do everything and what to think about everything. I want to tell you that if I were a bird, I would be flightless. I want to tell you that my hair is leaving oil stains on the sheets, so no wonder he didn’t want me washing his feet anymore. I sit and pull knots and tufts out of my hair, twisting and twirling strands that fall like dandelion puffs around me until I am left with nubs that will no longer grow. I think that I am guilty of so much, and I’ve tried kneeling again, but everything that I have ever thought, including this, has been selfish, and what is a selfish woman to God if not made-for-man? Most of the time, I am paralyzed by fear. I am afraid of reaching a number of sexual partners that make me no longer desirable, and I am afraid of never having been desirable at all. I am afraid that I am the reason my father drinks, and I am afraid that everything that has ever been said about me is true. I am afraid that I never learned the things I am expected to know by now. I am afraid that I will wake up and find that my skin has been peeled off but underneath I’ll find only more skin, and I have to stop thinking so much about what is under my skin. I saw it, but sometimes all I can think about is seeing it again.
Is it normal to sometimes wish to be sicker? I practice what you told me to practice. I draw and pick at my nails and find new music and sharpen my nails. I work on my breathing, so I don’t have to pull over on the side of the road while driving as much anymore. And I said the meds were working, which they are, but not in the way that I want them to, which is being greedy because I understand that moodstabilizers were aptly named. My mood is stable, as in, my mood is a straight line that stretches and sprints and does not break its path and refuses to tell me how to feel about anything. He used to tell me what he did that day, and I considered it like sun on water. And I knew how to feel about everything when I had him. But I’m doing it again, trying to dismiss this away by relating the depression to him, so that when I’m over him, I’m over the word, too. You kept repeating that this was temporary, that I wouldn’t have to be on medication forever, that I just needed some help to get
9
We Only Have So Much To Give BeiterTessby
All wells eventually run dry. It’s an eventuality, a reality we all accept when we dig in search of water. We think, maybe this won’t last long, but for now I suppose it’ll work. At this point, the hole has already been dug, so why search for a new water source when the one sitting right there is still flowing? So, without further consideration, we lower our buckets and refresh our thirsty mouths. But something I’ve noticed is that no one ever takes the time to ask the well how it feels about this arrangement. How exhausting it must be—it’s constantly drawn on, commanded day after day to complete tasks and give up its precious and finite supply of water. It can only replenish itself so quickly, after all, and sometimes it simply can’t keep up with the demands. The well is forced to watch as it is slowly drained and its water levels sink lower and lower. And what can the well do about that? It has obligations. It has people it must satisfy, buckets it must fill, and wishes it must Thisbestow.was why it was created, right? To consistently give and give of itself and never expect thanks or even acknowledgement? To sit, passive and submissive, as its patrons call on it time and time again for it to dole out its precious contents? Sometimes, society asks far too much of the well. There reaches a point when those buckets drawing from the well hit rock bottom. There reaches a point when those grasping hands who visited it for months on end come up empty, turned away by that cruel well with nothing to show for all of their work. They complain, furious at its seeming indifference. That damn well! How dare it subvert us like that? It’s never needed a break before, so what’s so different about now? After all, they essentially built this well up from its infancy. They’ve been so polite this entire time, and it’s not like the well ever said anything. Or at least, they’re pretty sure it hadn’t. Had it been their intention to drain the well dry? No! They just wanted fresh water in easy reach, and what's more convenient than a well?
11
1 Tess de Rooij, “Dress Code”, This is Gendered (2022).
The well is just being selfish, demanding time for itself to “recuperate” and “find itself” and “avoid spiraling into a mental breakdown.” It’s useless and worthless and acting like a total psycho bitch. The well hears the insults, dripping like poison from their mouths, and begins to worry. What if they’re right? After all, once recovered, it has plenty of water. It does need some to survive, but it can do without the rest. Perpetually doling out its time and energy is exhausting, but the well really does want to help. Does it really need to take time for itself? Of course not! And so, once again, it opens itself up to the public. They flock back, pretending like nothing was wrong—something was wrong? I hadn’t noticed!—to keep drawing from their precious and tireless well. If any of this sounds familiar, if any of it strikes a chord deep within you, then I am truly sorry. An apology from me won’t fix things, but unfortunately, I don’t think society will be apologizing to women anytime soon.
2 Claire Cain Miller, “A ‘Generationally Perpetuated’ Pattern: Girls Do More Chores”, The New York Times (August 2018). So no, it’s not their fault and it never has been.
It’s no secret that society expects far too much from women. The double standards placed on us from young ages are both heartbreaking and infuriating. Dress codes are often designed to impact girls and feminine-presenting individuals the most, particularly students of color, restricting them from their freedom to express their individuality.1 Women are essentially conditioned from childhood to shoulder more responsibilities; in fact, recent studies have shown that daughters worldwide are assigned significantly more unpaid housework than sons. And sadly, this trend persists into adulthood. Regardless of working status, women in heterosexual marriages spend an average of twice the amount of time on housework than their husbands.2 Western society has extended this burden from manual labor to emotional labor as well. It’s becoming crystal-clear that, due to being taught that emotions are a “feminine” matter and therefore “lesser”, men are widely rejecting their emotions and projecting their problems onto the women in their lives. The widespread toxic masculinity that tells men to suppress their
This societal flaw has been perpetuated for so long that it has become a norm, and its damaging effects are insidious and widespread. Women are more likely to develop depression, anxiety, and deal wwith chronic stress than men, almost certainly due in part to the unfair division of domestic and interpersonal labor.4 This normalized burnout has crept so far as to impact mental wellbeing on a societal level and in many unfortunate cases, leads to death. While men have higher rates of death by suicide, women have disproportionately higher rates of suicide attempts.5 This suggests a level of strain and discontent in women that, quite literally, could be the death of us. And women, like wells, only have so much to give. There’s only so much of our time and energy that we can give to others before we crack. There are only so many wishes we can bestow and jobs we can perform before we collapse. There will be times where we need to take time for ourselves and others will refuse to see reason if we dare to inconvenience them.
3 Melanie Hamlett, “Men Have No Friends and Women Bear the Burden”, Bazaar (May 2019).
4 Nicholas R. Eaton, “Study Finds Sex Differences in Mental Illness”, American Psychological Association (2011).
It’s incredibly difficult to break free of the roles we were conditioned into, and societal change won’t happen overnight—but the process has already started. It started when each of us put our foot down and demanded more than the self-fulfilling prophecies everyone thought we were destined to Itbecome.started when every person that society took for granted refused to be drained by the endless stream of thirsty mouths that come upon us. We all deserve the world, so let’s reach out and take it back. “I want the term ‘gold digger’ to include dudes who look for a woman who will do tons of emotional labor for them.” –Erin Rodgers “Part of what the research on this shows is that women’s increased propensity to engage in emotion work is not related to their sex but really their gender and the position that they have served in the family and in friendship groups, in society.” –Jessica Collett “I’m tired of having to replace another broken bedside table because he didn’t realize he needed to talk about his feelings.” –Lindsay Johnson
5 Aislinné Freeman et al., “A cross-national study on gender differences in suicide intent”, BMC Psychiatry (June 2017). But we aren’t wells, are we? We don’t have to stand by passively or submissively, constantly exhausting ourselves at the behest of others. While it certainly is a virtue to help others, it should never come at the cost of our own wellbeing. Despite what society would prefer we think, women and femininepresenting individuals have voices, independence, and the ability to call out the bullshit of those who exploit us. And maybe that will look different for everyone, so pick a small area in which to start. Stop apologizing for taking up space, or anything that isn’t your fault, and begin consciously taking well-deserved time for yourself. Accept that, despite your internalized desire to help everyone, you simply can’t. Gently clue in the people in your life when they’re causing you too much strain and kindly refer them to an actual therapist. It isn’t your job to fix other people’s problems—believe me when I say that you do not need to be anyone’s absolution besides your own. It isn’t fair for anyone to place their burdens on you, regardless of if they reciprocate. Be loud and unapologetic and blissfully, undeniably you.
Society is not kind to women.
feelings, isolate themselves, and not seek help is deeply affecting women and forcing them into therapist roles within their relationships. They are consistently burdened with the tasks that take trained psychologists years to master on top of the stress they may already be facing. As Lindsay Johnson so bluntly (and accurately) stated, “Men drain the emotional life out of women.”3 Based on my personal experiences, this statement hits uncomfortably close to home—and I’m willing to bet that it does for far too many others.
Through letter writing, we are able to communicate so much depth in our conversations that is often lost in text communication. To illustrate, the resurfacing desire to “pen pal" has filled my TikTok feed this past year. As you may have seen from those pen paling TikToks or images on Pinterest, the thought and effort that goes into communicating
I hope you're doing well! I really, really mean it. I think. I always end up starting my handwritten letters with hello and “I hope you're doing well." This is a reflex of mine, but why? Why is it that, even here, when writing a letter, that I wish you well? A reader whose eyes I've never seen and traits I've never known? Well, the simple act of writing out a letter on paper, on my good stationery, with my name and nice flowers on the edges, changes the implications. As the ink begins to flow out of my pen, I have to carefully consider every thought. I have to investigate the permanence of my words. What I put into a letter can be inspired by my desire to hear friendly gossip, get to know a stranger, or simply to update my grandmother on the newest book that I've read. Letters can serve so many purposes, but, through all of them, one consistency is the desire to maintain connection. I write to you today in the hopes of inspiring you to pick up the pen and paper, and go to the post office. You see, we, as individuals, as a society, as members of the past, present, and future, are missing out on what it means to write letters. Postcards are a lost art form. Pen pals have stopped communication. The trip to the post office and purchase of a 53-cent stamp is too much effort in an age of instant gratification. So, what does it mean to send a letter in 2022 when handwriting takes too much time and feels like an ancient practice? Throughout my years at summer camp (elementary school to high school graduation), I begged my friends to send me letters, although I very infrequently received any. The disappointing pattern repeated during my first semester at college. I felt disappointed in the knowledge that they gave us a mailbox, and every time I checked, it would just contain letters to past residents or generic coupons. After writing to high school friends and old teachers, I expected some response. So, why? What's stopping my cousin, my camp friend “Guac", and my high school penpal from writing? What's stopping us from writing letters? When the nostalgia of the past sets in, I still pick up my special Muji pen and write to my nonna or my favorite high school teacher, but I often do not hear back. Our technological advancements make it easy for us to reach out to anyone at any time, and yet we feel more disconnected than ever. The ease of sending a text to someone without having to consider the waste of ink or the size of paper limits our own mindfulness when sending those texts. We no longer consider what we really want to say and instead find our vague thoughts filling up the notification channel of our friends' phones. When I text someone, I feel that the conversation gets away from me. Inevitably, someone has to walk away from their phone while waiting for an inane reply. This can go on for long enough that the conversation ends and texting just becomes another unnecessary form of phone tag-calling someone to no response, only to miss the next call from them.
TitteringtonPaulinaFrom:
Paulinaxoxo
letterstoletterloveATo: 15
with others through letters can be beautiful. Seeing images of unique stationery with cursive handwriting, a nice drawing in the corner of the paper, and a wax seal stamp to finish it off, is, quite honestly, inspirational. I was fortunate to have a pen pal for a short time, during which we wrote letters back and forth. From questions such as, “What college are you thinking of attending?" to simple facts about our favorite hobbies, there was a beauty in getting to know one another through only the medium of letter-writing. Little details, such as a small drawing, in their letters made me grateful for their communication. Even further, I was able to reflect upon myself with a series of getto-know-you questions. I had the ability to conceal or reveal myself in letters as much as I wanted. For a new pen pal friend, I might filter my favorite music to minimize the top-40 pop songs and instead emphasize my cool love for Russian punk just to stress the more interesting parts of myself. And for letters to my old high school friend, I would write in even more detail about my recent romantic endeavors or the problems that I keep finding myself surrounded by. The filter of letter-writing almost enables anonymity between friends. I would write about my life without worrying about an immediate reaction, and I found joy in detailing the shows, classes, and dates that had recently filled my life. I wrote of my own life in a way that was filtered, yes, but I also got to share my favorite parts with new friends. Simply through the act of letter writing with those who were once strangers, I shared a unique account of my life that is not featured on my Instagram feed. As some of you may know from the Jenny Han book and movie series To All the Boys I've Loved Before, letter-writing can be a declaration of love. The protagonist, Lara Jean, writes love letters to each of the five boys that she had loved at different points in her life, although she does not intend to send them. So, what happens when they get sent without her knowledge? The story of Lara Jean through Jenny Han's novels illustrates the impact of sending such love letters. These uncovered letters not only ignite the source of the story's conflict, but also allow Lara Jean to express herself and her emotions and reveal weighty secrets freely. When reading this book, my own desires for both communicating my feelings and letter-writing grew. In such a sense that letter writing frees us, it provides an outlet to express our true thoughts without the fear of sharing intimate feelings in person. While Lara Jean writes love letters specifically, I believe that any form of letter writing can be considered a love letter, since letter writing shares our intimate thoughts and desires to the intended recipient. Love letters exist as a physical manifestation of thoughtfulness, dedication, and deep affection that simply cannot be achieved when sending a text. As we may also see from To All the Boys I've Loved Before, Lara Jean has almost no intention to send her letters. In writing them without the actual act of delivery, she shows some of the selfishness that goes into letter-writing. As with all altruism, there is very rarely an action that is truly selfless. All good deeds provide some benefit for us, whether within karma, or just feeling good about doing something good. Letter-writing is similar such that it allows us to share our innermost thoughts. Letters are similar to journaling: you articulate all of your thoughts and emotions to someone else in a way that allows you freedom of expression. This action of writing is selfish. However, making the choice to send the letter and share this part of yourself with your friends is an act of love. Writing letters can be selfish, but taking time to consider someone else and share your thoughts with them is Allselfless.Iwant is to open my own mailbox to a handwritten letter. While receiving anything in the mail gets me a little excited, I don't feel the same joy when receiving bank statements and store magazines — handwritten letters are unique. How else can I experience the love of novels, the stories of Sue and Emily Dickinson; how are these discoveries forbidden to me? The art of letter writing is not lost to us. For how can we forget the joy received when getting a postcard in the mail? A letter written just for you? While I do understand that Grandma's birthday cards are not very exciting, besides the money or check in the card written next to “Happy Birthday! Love, Grandma,“ letter-writing is different. It is the act of consciously putting people forward in your mind. It is the desire to let others know that you are thinking of them and you hope they are thinking of you. Letter-writing is selfish, sure, but sending a letter is not. Sending a letter puts the message in someone else's hands. So, I beg, please write more letters. Dedicate yourself to communicating. Allow yourself to put time into writing to others in a thoughtful fashion. Take the time and dedication to pull out your “special occasion" stationery and really wish a friend well.I hope you're doing well! (I really, really mean it.)
For context: Mom is a stay-at-home parent with a knack for healthful cooking and an eye for fashion and interior design. She refuses to step out of the house in sweatpants or with wet hair and has a low tolerance for people who do. She gets hives at the sight of stray socks on the floor or an unmade bed. She’s terrified of airplanes, sunburns, and simple carbohydrates; loves British history and classic movies; and always smells good. She swears up and down that she’s never smoked or ingested marijuana. She hates tattoos, the children’s book “Rainbow Fish” (apparently it’s a metaphor for communism), bumper stickers (they’re basically tattoos for cars!), and dog people. I’ve only seen her cry a few times in my 21 years, and I’ve never seen her sweat. She’s only ever seriously dated my dad, and they have the most stable and loving relationship I’ve ever seen. If I were to describe her in a word, it would be I,“composed”.however,am a biology student who spends Thursday mornings dissecting a myriad of disgusting creatures. I’ve been known to eat tortilla chips off the floor and Nutella by the spoonful. I patented the “bucket” room organization method: one bucket for clean laundry that I haven’t folded for days, one bucket for dirty laundry that I let accumulate for too long before I wash it. I go to class with sweaty, frizzy workout hair. I often smell like garlic (and, on Thursdays, formaldehyde). I burn everything I cook. My conversationfavoritetopics are reality television and sex, and I spearheaded a
sloppy,Sandler—likelookmybiggerpersonalitybecause“hurricanefamilyoftenthey’rewomen,of,mothervariousdisappointmentsnever-endingdatingmildlyinolderAshavesinglebirthday.partystrip-club-themedforafriend’sIcryeveryday,whetherIareasontoornot.akid,Ikickedanrelativesquaretheballsbecauseheupsetme.Mylifeiscurrentlyaseriesofwithwomenthatmydisapprovesnotbecausethey’rebutbecause“trashy”andnotJewish.MyreferstomeasRachel”ofmybigandevenemotions.Inmind’seye,IandsoundAdamMirror
Yesterday was a pretty average Sunday. I drank my first coffee with almond milk. My second coffee with almond milk. I slipped into an overpriced athleticwear set, headed to barre class, and solved the daily Wordle. I showered, performed my elaborate skincare ritual, and curled up on the couch with a book. It was only when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, underneath meticulously applied purple eyeshadow and a pair of reading glasses, that I saw my mother staring back at me. Shuddering, I chugged the glass of white wine in my hand, leaving a lip gloss stain on the rim.
chubby, spewing potty humor—when compared to my chic and pulled-together mother. What I remember the most about my teenage years with my mother is the amount of scrutiny my appearance was subject to. Mom signed me up for pilates classes at the ripe age of 10, presumably for my posture. I was only allowed to watch television on a school night if I was walking on the treadmill in our basement. (My mother values education as much as she does looking one’s best.) When I got my ears pierced in third grade, Mom drew dots on my lobes in purple Sharpie, ensuring they were perfectly even—she didn’t trust the piercer to do a good enough job. When I was recovering from my cosmetic rhinoplasty, Mom switched out my bandages and tenderly wiped the dripping blood from my bruised and puffy face. My developing body, a cash cow for
ByRachelTroy
Mirrorloud,abit
WatchersWeightfromthemomentIstarted puberty despite being in perfectly good health, was shrouded in beautiful-but-matronly outfits that covered every lump, edge, and curve. Name a dressing room in Westchester County or on the Upper East Side—I’ve probably cried in it. The bulk of my weekends, from ages 11 to 18, were dedicated to ripping or singeing every follicle of thick, dark hair from my skin. As my various nooks and crannies were getting waxed or plucked or lasered within an inch of their life, Mom sat in the room with me, telling the aesthetician exactly what to do. I dug my nails into the palm of her hand and winced, only for her to respond, “Gimme a break!” and pull her hand away. Every time I come home from college, I pinch and prod the ten extra pounds I’ve gained over the pandemic in a futile attempt to get rid of them, and I ultimately resort to swaddling myself in old sweat suits three sizes too big to hide the softness of my body. I scrutinize myself in the mirror and pick at my normally blemishless face in an attempt to smoothe over microscopic bumps, leaving red, oozing craters in their wake. I let my hair become greasy and limp. I wrap myself in a fleece blanket and dissociate to the sounds of some sitcom playing from my laptop for hours on end. I binge-eat gummy vitamins, the only thing that can satisfy my sugar withdrawal in a kitchen completely devoid of sweets or snacks. I refuse to clean my room and slowly fester in it, surrounded by mess and burrowed under the covers of my twin bed. Mom and I fight incessantly over the griminess of my room, my freshly pockmarked skin, my refusal to wear an underwire bra, the knotty bun in my hair. She voices her disapproval of the situation, I blow up at her, and, defeated, she retreats to the kitchen or the green chair in
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her some unsolicited advice: “You could be really pretty…if you lost 15 pounds.” Dad also recalled a time when my mother’s greatgrandmother was severely ill and refused to go to the hospital without putting on her girdle first. Even in the face of a dire medical emergency, looking thin was the first thing on her mind! Considering the people who raised her, my mother’s vanity is a result of several generations worth of baggage rather than an inherent character flaw. I haven’t even touched on the effect my mom’s parents had on her self esteem, but I’ll spare them in this essay because I would like to continue using their indoor pool. In the process of trying to become a wellrounded and independent adult, I wrongly robbed my mother of her humanity and inner life. I overlooked our shared love of books and art and sitcoms (because we’re too anxious to watch anything scary). I completely forgot that Mom has a killer sense of humor until I eavesdropped on her cracking up her college friends on FaceTime. I turned this woman— who used to put on ABBA’s greatest hits and dance with me, who has a competitive streak and jokingly blows raspberries in my face when I lose a game of scrabble, who leaves my favorite celebrity gossip magazines on my bed for me to find when I come home from school, who blow-dried my hair and did my makeup before every bar or bat mitzvah, who only thinks the girls I date are “trashy” because they don’t always treat me well, who sends me a Valentine’s day gift every single year—into a Icaricature.don’tnecessarily want to inherit Mom’s views on beauty or femininity, but it’s time for me to retire my fear of turning into her. And sometimes, when she’s in her Michigan sweatshirt with her hair in a ponytail, or loudly and shamelessly giving my sisters and me The Talk in a crowded restaurant, or makeupless and eating a chocolate chip cookie from the hidden stash behind her desktop computer, I even see a little bit of myself in there. the living room where she likes to read. After wallowing for a bit, I apologize sincerely only to be met with the silent treatment, and then I become exponentially louder and ruder. Once I lose my voice begging to be heard, I sulk back to my room with the gray blanket, reeking of body odor by this point, trailing behind me like a fuzzy bridal veil.
Sometimes I wonder why I let myself go when I come home. Is it a rebellion against the primping and plucking and pinching I was subjected to as a kid? Depression? A rejection of heteronormative beauty standards? Regression to my closeted high-school self? Pure exhaustion from the immense pain and time and effort that is needed to maintain acceptable femininity and beauty? Jealousy that womanhood seems to come more easily to my mother? Perhaps (honestly, probably) all of the above. But I took all these negative feelings, which should’ve been directed at society or the difficult process of coming of age or the fashion industry or men, and placed the burden on Mom’s narrow (but freakishly strong) shoulders. Mom, despite being a mother, is still a woman, and even more shockingly, a PERSON, who received the same messages about beauty and femininity and thinness that I did. A person who I ironically resemble a lot and whose bodily insecurities most likely mirror mine. I think it’s time for me to forgive my mother for wanting me to look my best in a society that values women primarily for our looks as defined by men, especially since that’s all she was Once,taught.when
I was particularly frustrated with a comment my mother made regarding my weight, I called my dad in hopes of finding someone to commiserate with, since he’s often the subject of her comments, as well. Instead, he told me an anecdote. When my parents had just gotten engaged, they attended a family event together, and Mom was excited to wear a new dress she bought. She felt especially beautiful that day, until her grandparents pulled her aside and gave
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Thank you for showing me that level of utter disrespectThankyou for forcing me to see what I truly deserve, because it is so much better than you I pity the next girl that makes the mistake of being your next sidepiece But thank you, Thank you for being disgusting and rude And self-centered and stubborn and manipulative Thank you for the perspective you gave me Thank you, babe, for the self-respect Thank you, pumpkin, for the standards Thank you, honey, for the lessons, although they were so painful Thank you, and I hope the next girl you prey upon has better judgment than I did. (yes, I said thank you for everything) Thank you for permanently changing how I see men For teaching me that the only way to a man’s heart is through his unwashed cock But you weren’t much of a man, were you? It feels disrespectful to real men to call you You were a disgusting, selfish pig You took what you wanted, and I could never give you enough
ByNikkiPallante Hey honey, pumpkin, babe, sugar pie, Thank you for everything you gave me Thank you for being my only friend for a andtimefor giving me what I thought was loveForalways saying you wanted to make me feel good; it’s the thought that countsAtleast that’s what I would tell myself. Thank you for being what I thought waskind and respectful and gentleFor bringing some inkling of joy to my lifeAnd thank you for being mineThank you even more for showing me theother side of you, The one that screams and cries whenwe disagree and shuts down when I tryto really talk to you, And for only everwanting to be “intimate” with meThank you for showing me exactly what itmeans to be used and manipulatedAnd or giving me the worst experience ofmy life 1 24 3
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ThankYou
By Claire Gallagher When I first started having casual sex in high school and the term “hookup culture” was coined, I thought I was living a feminist, girlpower wet dream. My junior year, I was introduced to the podcast Call Her Daddy, and I was hooked. Call Her Daddy in its original form was a sort of advice podcast run by two women in their twenties, Alexandra Cooper and Sofia Franklyn. They conceptualized their podcast as a modern take on feminism through a reversal of gender roles in sex and relationships. There was something entrancing about their tight-knit friendship, their unabashed confessions of crazy sex stories and of manipulation tactics in relationships. Their podcasts were filled with references to their exciting lives together in New York City and promises that life would not always be as dull as the one I had at my 400-person high school. There was admittedly a certain shock factor; I had never heard anybody talk about sex and men in the way they did, especially not young women. They were unapologetic in their sexuality and they assured that their advice guaranteed control and power in your relationships. Their methods were tried and true. These girls had dated professional athletes and millionaires. They had men flying them out every weekend to California and Hawaii. They were also thin and beautiful and funny and charming and had a certain Manson-esque way of convincing you that you were one of them, like their listeners were a family. I ran through past episodes in days, and I followed their weekly episode postings religiously. I re-listened to old episodes in the space in between until I could recite every story, every trick, and every sex position they talked about. I
DaddyHerCall IllusionsFeministOtherAnd
Translation: You’re going to be cheated on, so you might as well cheat first. If you’re a five or a six, die for that dick.
REAL THINGS THAT I ONCE WROTE DOWN ON PAPER TO REMIND MYSELF ABOUT THIS ONE GUY: evidence that I was in fact internalizing the podcast’s messages and not in fact believing the podcast’s genre of comedy.
2. Do not text him within 24 hours of hooking up unless he texts you first
3. Always remember that you are not the only girl and you are never an exception
knew, surface-level, that a lot of what these girls were preaching was problematic. I defended my obsession with the podcast by saying that it was a self-proclaimed comedy podcast. They didn’t really mean everything they said. But comedy or not, I internalized every word. I repeated their mantras like prayers: You’re just a hole.
made me feel like I had some sort of secret “in” or like I knew something that other girls didn’t. I wanted to be like the Call Her Daddy girls, unattached, desirable, unattainable, and in control. I focused on their surface-level promises of turning the tables and reclaiming my body because they told me that “there are two kinds of people in this world: those who finesse and those who get finessed. You decide who you want to be.” I internalized their heteronormative sex advice, the constant encouragement to see myself the way men see me, and the strong implication that if you’re not having constant casual sex, you’re boring or ugly or stuckup. I convinced myself that I was in control, like I was fucking Joan of Arc paving the way for female empowerment, one faked orgasm at a time. Short disclaimer, I am in no way saying that having and enjoying casual sex is wrong whatsoever because it’s not. But being manipulated into feeding into whatever patriarchal bullshit that has convinced women that having any emotions or feelings about sex is crazy and wrong is not the empowering shit that it is made out to be.
5. Always give him head when you hook up (Thank you, Sofia and Alex!)
6. No nicknames or pet names
7. Do not initiate cuddling
Translation: If you’re not considered conventionally attractive to men, you have to be sluttier, nastier, dirtier, crazier in bed to prove your worth. Why would a man want you otherwise? If you’re not sucking your man’s dick, someone else is.
Translation: The only thing men see you as is a sexual object, and you have to accept that to survive in the world of hookup culture. Embrace it. See yourself that way so you can be more desirable in their eyes. Cheat or be cheated on.
4. No physical affection after sex and especially not when you or him are saying goodbye
ListeningSelf-explanatory.tothepodcast
1. NEVER sleep over unless he asks you to stay
8. You’re just a hole (*sigh* Thank you, Sofia and HadAlex.)these been things I wanted to do, I think that writing down a list of boundaries I wanted to enforce would be perfectly reasonable, not including numbers three and eight because I’m not sure how those could be interpreted as being a choice. If you hate sleeping over at someone’s house, don’t. If you’re uncomfortable with physical affection after sex, totally fine and understandable. If you are having great sex with someone and sex is legitimately all you want from said person, you’re golden. But I wrote this list about a boy with whom the actual sex alone was mediocre, as in, not once in our months of sleeping together did I finish. But I had feelings for him, and so I loved sex with him because I loved him. There’s a difference. In one standout episode of Call Her Daddy, titled “Slut Camp,” Alex and Sofia take listeners through tips and training to convince a man that you’re virginal, innocent, and pure to increase your appeal. The “camp” is for “sluts” who must mask their past experiences and sex drive to prove to men that they are “wifey material.” Besides the glaringly obvious issues behind perpetuating the demonization of 23
female sexuality, this episode represents one of many contradictions present in hookup culture. Have casual sex—as in, do not be clingy or annoying; do not ask to hang out before the hours of 12 to 4 AM; do not expect or want anything out of your sexual relationship other than sex, which will likely be unfulfilling sex at that because in no way can your emotions be involved in sex. But also, don’t be a slut. Wifey material girls don’t give it up before the fifth date, but you’re fucking crazy for expecting us to go on real dates. Wifey material girls are not sexually experienced, but if you can’t give good head, it’s a dealbreaker. Wifey material girls are not promiscuous or horny, but you should always want me. Wifey material girls don’t dress like that, but you would be so much hotter if you did. Freud coined the term “penis envy” to explain his idea that young girls go through a period of psychosexual development in which they essentially wish they had a penis. I think that pretty much the only thing that girls can be sure of is that having a vagina is their only guaranteed claim to value, so fuck off, Freud. But! I do envy penis-havers for their ability to have value beyond fuckability. The contradictions are endless.
I wonder how many hours my friends and I have spent asking each other, why are we only ever good enough to sleep with, and never good enough to date? And now I can’t differentiate between which of my actions are of my own volition and which ones are just things I think I should be doing. What I mean is, do I never sleep over at a guy’s house because I don’t want that sort of intimacy after sex? Or do I never sleep over at a guy’s house because that could mean that I’m clingy or needy, and that’s the worst thing a woman could be? The idea of a podcast hosted by women with the goal of being sex-positive and normalizing women liking and enjoying sex is a great idea. It rocks! I love sex! I don’t know if it’s our Puritan roots or what, but seriously, something about the subject of women’s sexuality just really makes us Americans uncomfortable. Look at debates over women’s right to birth control, for example. But that intention backfires when you dedicate every episode to explaining how to ignore your feelings to keep a man. They like to say that they’re not saying any of their advice is healthy— instead, they’re only teaching you “how to play the game.” I thought this was the most insightful shit I had ever heard. It made sense to me; just because I don’t like “playing the game,” doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. I had only two options: to finesse or be finessed, to play the game or get played. And then I realized the reason why “the game” is always going to exist is because the game is literally just sexism. Hookup culture restricts female agency in that decisions about the boundaries of the relationship are not typically thought of as being mutual. Sure, I felt as though I were reversing the roles. I felt like I was doing the manipulating and the lying and the unattachment and the not-caring, so why was I still so deeply unhappy with my sexual relationships? Because this “reversal of roles” was still a tangible effort to be viewed as attractive and desirable and “not like the other girls.” In my effort to reclaim my sexuality, I had simply found a new way to cater to Allandrocentrism.ofthisistosay that hookup culture is just one more cultural product designed to make women compete with no way to win. There is never going to be a specific way to have or to not have sex in order to combat patriarchical confines; the idea that enforcing terms and conditions on female sexuality encourages female sexual agency is an ignorance we cannot afford to internalize. Rather, we can work to eliminate the cultural double standards that restrict female sexuality. There is room for both empowerment through choosing to have casual sex or choosing to not have casual sex; the point is that empowerment will come from choosing for yourself. Your sexuality and how you choose to express it should be just that: yours.
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Ruined
Needless to say, my first full-on attempt at a total body makeover was my last. Oh, how wrong I was, to think that an eating disorder was a forceful step off a cliff and not creeping slowly, slowly down a landslide until you’ve slid so far you can scarcely recognize yourself.
By Payton Aper Ispent the first half of my teenage years feeling deeply uncomfortable with myself and my body. I don’t recall having a problematic relationship with food as a child, but by the time I was in middle school, it was, well, less than ideal. I survived the emo Tumblr phase of 2013 and somehow managed to dodge most of the pro-eating disorder content that was online, mainly because it was so obvious in its messaging, and I wasn’t trying to get an eating disorder, anyway. At some point, I thought, eating disorders must require a conscious decision. And in true toorfashion,internalized-misogynistIwasn’tlikeanorexicsbulimicsbecauseIdidn’twantbeskinny—Iwantedtobe strong. I wanted to do pushups on my feet and maybe ignore the fighting going on at my house and my sexuality while I was at it. But I didn’t want to lose weight. In fact, for the entirety of my eating disorder, I never once stepped on a scale.
That last statement isn’t to invalidate disordered, deliberate weight loss—rather, it's to highlight that eating disorders don’t always manifest in the most obvious ways. It’s easy to find mainstream YouTubers talking about scraping the cheese off pizza as a healthy choice or making “Mother Nature’s cereal” instead of just having Special K. Few of these influencers look as if they had an eating disorder or veer outside the realm of “self-love”; some even admit to beginning their journeys “overweight”. Therefore, what would be telltale signs of an ED in the “right” kind of patient become normalized and even heralded for victims that don’t fit the mold. At 15, I was following a league of vloggers in their twenties and thirties because I wanted to look like them. They had glowy skin, nice makeup, and big friend groups. They were strong in that they had a six pack yet were still petite enough for brand deals and calorie deficits. Somewhere along the line I had, like these influencers, begun to conflate the word “skinny” with “strong”. This seemingly harmless change in vocabulary kickstarted my wellness journey, which was really an eating disorder in sheep’s clothing.
There’s a sixth-month period of my life that’s an absolute blur, where I felt like I was underwater. Reality had been distorted, and I could either thrash for air or dredge one foot in front of the other as if walking on a pool floor. I had dissociated so badly that I became a third party, watching myself perform daily activities over my shoulder. The only hobby I bothered with was soccer, a form ‘Wellness’Sortof My Life
In a way, my eating disorder was a last-ditch effort to demand the respect and peace I had been denied for years—and it sort of worked. I genuinely believe that I could have equated recovery to a sort of reset button. Instead, I am learning that, no matter what, I do not need to be sick in order to deserve love. I do not need to work myself into the ground in order to rest (which I still struggle with as a college student). Any recovered person could tell you that there is a fine line between exercise and exercise addiction, between a diet change and a diet outright. And I never want to cross that line again.
When I was a kid, my family had a “beach” (a glorified patch of sand in our yard) that I weeded as a chore. The weeds were stubborn
I DIDN’T REALIZE HOW MUCH I WANTED A LIFE WITHOUT OBSESSION AND COMPULSION UNTIL IT WAS RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME. of exercise, and the only time I felt energetic was when hyperfixating on my disorder. I’ve never experienced drug addiction, but I reckon my exercise addiction was pretty similar. I snuck around on school property, ditched plans, threw food in a tampon receptacle and did crunches on the floor of a bathroom stall. The girl I was a year prior would have been horrified; meanwhile, I was beyond the point of self-help and miserable to be around. I told myself it wasn’t disordered if I still ate three meals a day or if I was getting stronger (which, eventually, I wasn’t). I googled terms like orthorexia— an unhealthy obsession with exercise and food—as if they were somehow a lesser evil than anorexia. In retrospect, the idea of quantifying my own mental health is as amusing as it is sad. The death grip that the wellness and fitness movements had on me was even sadder. I don’t believe that diet culture was the sole cause of my eating disorder, but it became a means of justifying my behavior. My actions were at first in the name of wellness, then to prove that I wasn’t a quitter, and eventually because I had forgotten how to live otherwise. It took an anorexia diagnosis to make me admit that I actually had an eating disorder, and admittance alone was not enough to spearhead my recovery process. I argued with my parents and doctors for the first few steps of recovery and reverted to disordered eating and exercise several times before my relapses finally started to decrease in frequency. My willingness to recover coincided with finally being ‘weight-restored’, or back to the weight range I’d had before my disorder. In emerging from survival-mode, my body dredged up a lot of old emotions with it. The world was bright and loud and cruel, but it was wonderful. I didn’t realize how much I’d wanted a life without obsession and compulsion until it was in front of me. My recovery involved a combination of physical and mental practices to repair the relationship I had with food and my body. I made monthly visits downstate to see a therapist and psychiatrist, who worked together to create a recovery plan for me and prescribe me with antidepressants for my anxiety. I avoided nearly all forms of exercise and can say with confidence that I’ve tried a blended form of every Ben and Jerry’s flavor. Another thing that no one tells you about recovery is that developing acid reflux is pretty common and pretty awful when you finally just want to eat. But I was privileged to have access to healthcare, parents who could drive me four hours to see a specialist, and a mother who refused to yield to my disorder. This isn’t the case with everyone in recovery, and without these factors, my recovery may have gotten postponed or never Incompleted.asicktwist of logic, I finally got what I wanted during recovery. My parents stopped fighting because they were worried about me. I finally finished puberty and was praised for it by the same people who bullied me when I was at my lowest. Prior to my eating disorder, I’d been struggling with emotional trauma, bullying, an identity crisis and all the other lovely parts of middle school, and they had taken their toll. I'd also struggled to numb my anxiety rather than confronting my emotions head-on, which I had long since grown tired of doing.
When we talk about wellness, it is paramount that we tell not only the glories of fitspo and meditation but also of the people who fought for their lives with mental and chronic illness, and won. We need to acknowledge forms of wellness that go beyond the corporeal and the “cute”. We must applaud those who practice them, those that try, and those that fail. There is so much more to life than the way we look living it, and I wish we would all remember that.
and gave me calluses, and it was tempting to just move on to the next plant whenever I finally pulled out its top. If I did, however, the weeds would come back with a vengeance sooner or later. And so I learned to extract the roots as well from the soil, to transplant them to a compost pile where they could grow on their own. Recovery doesn’t end when a doctor or parent tells you it can. It ends when the roots are gone– and to remove the roots, you have to start Oncedigging.Iwasweight restored, I began to address the childhood trauma and personality traits that had made me susceptible to an eating disorder in the first place. Some of that trauma continued until I finally moved to Ann Arbor, so I’d be lying if I said I’ve processed it completely. It’s easy to procrastinate healing when you’re a full-time college student and a workaholic, and I’ve had disagreements with my therapist over how I should even go about it. Part of me believes that healing is going to take time: time to set boundaries and build friendships, which I’ve done, and time to unlearn self-hatred. I still have to actively manage my anxiety at times, and I’m not always satisfied with my body. But the days of hating it, of letting food and movement control my life, are over. They can come to an end. I promise. I understand why people make wellness into an aesthetic— it’s incredibly motivating, and sometimes you just need to make an iced coffee or take a fire mirror selfie to pick yourself up. But mainstream wellness tends to reek of privilege and obsessive personalities. It reminds me of how vulnerable I was as a kid and how vulnerable others may be to pro-eating-disorder messages. I learned at sixteen that recovery would never be Instagrammable and aesthetics weren't going to save my life. Wellness wasn’t just going to SoulCycle, drinking a matcha smoothie, and all the other emblages of the white bourgeoisie. It wasn’t lighting a candle in my room or a juice cleanse. Wellness was eating drive-through fries even though I was terrified; it was calling my therapist instead of compulsively exercising; it was seeking help for my anxiety and finally getting my period back. When I began to see my eating disorder as something conquerable and took my life back, I felt stronger than I had in years.
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Oh, Snow White. If only it were that simple. When I was a child, I believed in the power of wishmaking thanks to fairy tales, Disney movies, and bedtime stories. Part of me still holds onto the whimsies of wishmaking from my childhood, too. I no longer dive for the “lucky penny” on streets, but I still cast wishes on fallen eyelashes, shooting stars, and birthday candles. And, when my father asks, the occasional wishbone or two. It can’t hurt, right? But the real power that wishing holds is its connection to us in our everyday lives. Unlike the Disney princess stories I grew up with, there is no guaranteed happy ending for us in the real world. In this sense, wishes hold a different significance in our lives. They are an extension of our desires, our needs, and our aspirations. We wish for things both in and outside of our control, and sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. ~ I wish I had more time. Often, my college years seem like a blur, and they aren’t even over yet. Sometimes I wish I had met more people or taken different classes. Sometimes I wish I studied something different altogether. But at the end of the day, I wish I had let myself have more fun. I established relationships with professors, consistently took almost, if not, the maximum number of credits, and always held a job, checkmarking the boxes of things they tell you that you need to do in college in order to succeed. The only exception, the summer of 2020, put everyone in the same boat when nearly all study abroad and in-person internships were canceled. But what even happened that summer? To time and college in general? games with friends. If not, I could be found working one of my part-time jobs, because I soon learned that life is expensive and I wasn’t as wealthy as many of my peers at U-M. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t necessarily regret those nights spent in the East Quad lounges. Hard work paid off in the form of good grades and personal satisfaction, and some of my best memories consist of laughing long into the night with friends in dorm common spaces. And I did have my fair share of fine arts performances, extracurricular activities, and bubble tea adventures. But if I could wish to do something different, I would’ve gone out more. I didn’t drink, and I let my fear of awkwardness prevent me from going out to parties. I wish I wouldn’t have been so stingy with money and gone out to eat more often. I wish I would’ve gone to more sports games besides football. I wish I had used the gyms more than the handful of times when a friend dragged me with them—even now, I still never use those recreation centers, even though it could be good for me and not doing so is a waste (got to love all those added tuition Amongfees).
all those wishes and regrets came the excuse that I had two more years to do all of those things. I’d work really hard to figure out my major and career goals my first two or three years and then go out with a bang, at least for my senior year—or at least, that was the plan. No one could’ve predicted a pandemic. This is where balancing “wishing,” “doing,” and “waiting” comes into play. For the first half of my college career, there was desire but a lack of “doing.”
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Then, in the second half of my college career, I’ve had a drive to do things but a compulsion to wait until it’s safe. Now, with different variants like Omicron popping up yet a prevalent desire to carry on with our lives, my last semester is in a weird in-between period of life forging on, masquerading as normal. As much as I would really like to go to Skeeps, Rick’s, and all the other Ann Arbor college bars and party staples, I’ve also felt obligated to wait for cases to go down. My by Elizabeth Schriner
~ There are so many wishes one could have. To gain fame and fortune, better health, happiness and positive feelings. I’ve wished for all these and more throughout my lifetime. Occasionally, I still revert back to my middle-school daydreaming and wish that I were a famous movie star or a character in a book I’m reading. Sometimes, I worry that the wishes I discussed have become too big a part of my college self, but I’d hate to live in a world where it’s a sin to make a wish. In the process of thinking about what I need to do to
wishes to make up for lost time and simultaneously make the last few months count aren’t helped by the pressure of the clock winding down. If you’re reading this, it’s highly likely COVID-19 threw a wrench in your college plans, too. What have I been doing to compensate for all those lost wishes besides complaining? I’m still working, taking 18 credits (so many classes, so little time!), and otherwise being pretty darn busy. But I’ve also made it a priority to spend more time with friends and simply enjoy myself. Even though I didn’t make much of an effort to attend sports games other than football in the past, I’ve now attended seven different sports—nine if you count the difference between men’s and women’s teams—and hope to go to a few more. I’ve enjoyed snowball fights with friends, gone to a few outdoor bars (even if I didn’t drink much in comparison), and visited some Ann Arbor restaurants I had been wanting to try. I have plans to attend arts events, throw themed birthday parties for friends, and at the end of it all, attend all the different graduation ceremonies I can. Plus, at this stage of my college career, my classes are mainly those I elect; besides a statistics class, I’m basically pursuing two passion projects (senior theses) and get to make music and art this final semester. I don’t think I’ll ever stop wishing I could have done certain things in college differently, like cherishing the present more instead of stressing out over grades so much. It’s imperative to work hard toward meaningful progress and our long-term goals, but now I understand the futility of using the bigger picture as an excuse to constantly bypass the little joys in life. While I can’t necessarily make my wish of reverting time come true, I can take action to make the most of the time I have remaining. Where does that leave me and my wishes? Well, I wish I knew what my future had in store. Grad school? Perhaps, but I’m not 100% sure on what to study and how it would benefit me long-term, or really even what different tracks in graduate school are all about. I also don’t want to go further into debt before I’ve figured it out just so I can go back to school, as much as I love it. A job? Of course, that’s the next step, right? Except working full-time means the start of planning how to spread out those 10 vacation days across the year yet still have things to look forward to. Goodbye, winter breaks. Hello, saving for retirement.
Graduating from college is often viewed as an accomplishment—and it is—but the anxiety that comes with leaving school and entering the “real world” is tangible and pervasive. I know I’d like to travel, eat lots of good food, and overall make my parents proud, but how do I get to that point? Drowning in uncertainty, it’s easy to go mad over worrying about what the “right” choice is, be it a career path, graduate school, or whatever other future opportunities are presented. In my case, I had a choice, albeit a difficult one: spend a few years living and teaching English abroad, or accept a position that offers security and a way to start paying off those student loans. As much as it pained me to turn down the former, which had been my goal for some time, accepting the latter is action towards my long-term career trajectory and wishes for the future: stability, and the happiness, healthcare, and means for a family that it can help provide. I never imagined ending up where I am, but I’m hopeful that the growth I will make, skills I will learn, and people I will meet will make it all worth it.
TRIGGER WARNING: SHUTDEATHTHE DOOR AND WALKAWAYBYLOGANBROWN 33
I was sitting at lunch one day with my mom about a year ago when she told me something that I never wanted to hear.
Forgiveness is something that I never focused that much on; it was never something that I thought one could lose the capacity to do. But, the more I’ve thought about forgiveness in connection to my own experiences, the more I’ve realized how my anger led me to cut empathy out of my life in full. I don’t know what I looked like from an outside perspective, but I know I became unhappy with who I was. The deeper you dive into the chasm of resentment and hatred, the harder it is to climb back out—and at this point I was standing at the bottom looking up at all the work I had to do. This advice from my mom was my first step into wondering what my life would be like if I just gave up my anger. What if I just wished my past well? Moving forward with my life through the act of wishing my past well meant to me that I was to put myself first. My mom’s advice wasn’t to say my anger wasn’t reasonable but rather to prompt me to give it up because it was turning me into an unhappy person. That which torments someone into hatred—in my case, the untimely death of my friend and a failed relationship—almost never deserves this act of generosity in the form of wishing it well, but to wish something well is not to forgive in the common sense of the word but rather to move on with one’s life without what’s weighing one down. This act of wishing what one hates most well serves to save oneself from the hatred that would otherwise consume them. When I was battling with this hatred, I lost myself and instead focused on everything that was wrong with my life. There is the common saying to forgive and forget, but I think the braver thing to do in place of that is to wish someone well. Wishing well gives someone the footing they need to fight for what they deserve. In drawing a distinction between forgiveness and wishing well, forgiveness is enacted when you still have one foot in the door, but wishing something well is for when you’re already outside and waving goodbye.
Of course, my mom is perfect at telling me what I refused to see and needed to hear. She told me that I should forgive for no other reason than to save myself from who I was becoming, that forgiveness this time wasn’t for the person or thing I was necessarily forgiving, but that it was for me
I was coming up on half a year of grieving the death of my friend, which turned me into someone who was always angry with the world. The smallest annoyances would set me off, I cast friends out of my life, and I swore that the trajectory of my life had been altered for the worse. I shut myself in my room for days on end, not only because I was grieving but because I was mad that these were the cards I was dealt. I was upset with my life and was unsatisfied to the extent that nothing mattered anymore. I became unsympathetic towards those around me as there was no way anyone could be having as hard a time as I. How dare someone complain about how stressed they are when they knew what I was going through? I was bitter, insensitive, and a bad friend.
At this point in my life, I also had a relationship that turned sour. At the time of my grief, I was holding on desperately to someone who should have already been in my past. Our relationship had already been withering away, but the second I started grieving the death of my friend, it turned toxic and hurtful. I then spent half a year chasing after something that I thought would fix my sorrow, when all the while it was what was tearing me down. I became cold, distant, and belligerent that I had to go through this on top of the death of my friend. I felt my love was taken for granted and used against me, something I thought was Iunforgivable.wasalwaysa realist, but the death of my friend and the events that followed turned me into a person who would pick out the worst parts of something in my life and focus on those instead of the good. The realist in me had become embittered into a pessimist, but I reasoned with myself that this was okay because now I understood how horrible the world was. I had finally seen that being pessimistic was being realistic. “You don’t look like yourself anymore, Logan,” my mom said to me that day at lunch. I was shocked and bit back the urge to lash out. I hated her for this because she told me what I was always trying to ignore. I argued that this was who I was now, that I was never going to be who I was before because so much was stolen from me. I made excuses and exceptions for my hatred because it was all I had going for me at the moment. I thought it was my fuel, but it was debilitating me.
I urge everyone to replace forgiveness with wishing whatever you are fighting to forgive, well. Walk away and don’t look back. This may be uncomfortable, but growth stems from this discomfort. To wish someone else well is to wish yourself well in turn. To do something you never wanted to do but needed to do is powerful. To give up this shield of hatred is to let yourself open up to a world of acceptance. To wish someone else well is not for them, but for you. In a world of hatred, be resistant. And then in the world of resistance, wish people well.
How can I wish my circumstances well when what happened will never be okay? The answer is it will never be okay. I don’t have to say it’s alright that this happened because it’s not. It’s natural to feel this hatred because to feel this strong emotion is to acknowledge that what you are angry about means something to you. This is the hardest part about moving forward because as much as one wants to right the wrongs, there is no use trying to fix the past. I can’t change my past—I can’t change how my relationship ended or that my friend is dead, but I can look into the future and carry my lessons from these things with me. To me, wishing well means walking away when one doesn’t want to because often that’s the moment it’s most important.
Wishing well is something one does to move on, for they will never forgive and forget. They might never be okay with their experience, but they are walking away because it’s what they need to do. Wishing well isn’t about one forgiving and accepting someone’s wrongdoings to let them back into one’s life—it’s accepting how this will always be the past and that what’s best for them in the present is to move on. Wishing well is understanding that one can’t change what has happened and that they deserve to move forward.
Resenting someone who will never change doesn’t make someone a better person; it just makes them a person who is constantly fighting with the past. It’s commonly said that one can’t change the past, but they also can’t change someone who is stuck in the past, or alternatively, stuck in their past. If one still fosters resentment towards something, they can never truly move on and grow—they will always be focusing on what was wrong and what was right. This will never change, but they can. No one can ever change what has already happened—no one can change the person who wronged them or the events that are frustrating them, but they can change the energy they put into these wrongs. Wishing well the thing one hates most can be powerful in that one is putting oneself first and refusing to let their anger overpower who they are. I desperately want to change what happened my senior year of high school, but that is now beyond my control—what’s done is done. We are always told to be the bigger person, but in this act of wishing what one hates well, one isn’t necessarily being the bigger person but rather is being selfish in the most liberating way possible. How powerful is it to put yourself first, when understanding you deserve better? Refusing to focus anymore on the negativity allows someone to instead focus on the positivity they want to see out of their life. The moment someone stops focusing on how their friend betrayed them is the moment they can spark new friendships with those who matter.
I don’t dwell on the past and instead use my experiences to equip me with a more compassionate viewpoint for the future. I smile at strangers again and meet new people with an open mind, and when I step in a puddle, I don’t complain that this is just my luck but laugh it off. Holding in my anger invited it into every aspect of my life, but now I see it draining away. This past year, I hid myself from any more pain and found different ways to cope with my hurt, but wishing my past well has turned me into someone who isn’t scared of getting hurt again but one who knows she can handle it. It’s impossible to simply choose to be happy, especially when one goes through something so difficult, but I have found so much power manifesting this happiness in my life by letting go. Wishing the things I hated well has not been a one-stop fix for all of the problems in my life, and it certainly hasn’t ended my anger at the world, but it has given me the tools to move forward graciously and gratefully.
Wishing well in the face of resentment also means looking critically into what I lost and to understand in turn what I have gained. I have lost a great deal: I have lost someone I love who I will never get back, I lost my childhood and what it meant for her to be in my life, and I lost who I was before I went through this immense grief. Wishing well, however, is not to focus on all that I lost, all that failed me, or all that hurt me, but rather, it is to look at that loss and understand that I have come out of this process strong and resilient. I have learned about myself and how to provide support for others immensely. I have learned that I need to love those around me while I still have them. I have learned how I deserve to be treated by those in my life. While bittersweet, this is what I have gained. In my own experience, wishing what I hated most well meant that I needed to stop fixating on what went wrong because focusing on the past was holding me back from the necessary healing I needed to do. Moving past the problems of my relationship was easier for me than wishing the death of my friend well, which I think goes without saying. When looking into my past relationship, I find myself no longer angry and hateful about what happened, not because it was okay, but because I know that moving past this resentment is the most liberating justice I can give myself. In looking towards the death of my friend, I know I can never just walk away from my past with her, but I can walk away from hatred I got out of my grief, and use this to look towards my future. Wishing well is not the same in these two aspects of my life, because walking away from them means very different things with who I am as a person. Hatred and resentment is a lot of times justified, to a point where I can’t tell everyone how to deal with these emotions. I will never say to forgive your abuser or to be okay with your interactions with your bully—but I will speak from my own perspective that when I finally let go of this resentment I had built up inside me, my world got that much lighter.
We
Well Wishes From The Seniors wanted to take a moment in this issue to talk to the seniors of What The F. It’s been a crazy four years, but What The F has kept pushing through it all. In the next two pages you’ll learn all about our
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Ariana: Audre Lorde Audre Lorde is a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet” and a leader in intersectional feminism! She is one of the most renowned intersectional feminist leaders of the 20th century, and her writing truly dives in and interrogates social injustices across race, ability, class and sexual orientation. Her most notable works include “Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches”, “Zami: A New Spelling Of My Name”, and “The Cancer Journals”. Her contributions to feminist theory and social justice more generally would be spread further if she was Hayleigh Proskin B.S in MinorsEconomicsinMathematics, Art & Design
Graduating: Winter 2022 Livvy Hintz Earth and Environmental Science Minors in Writing and German
Hayleigh: RBG For someone to be featured on a coin in my opinion, they must have done something that made the world better. RBG fought her entire career to right multiple injustices and was a lifelong advocate for women’s rights and for women in leadership positions. One of my favorite quotes by her is “Women belong in all places where decisions are being made. It shouldn’t be that women are the exception.”
Graduating: Winter 2022 Ariana Shaw BFA in Interarts Performance Graduating: Winter 2022 Hanna Smith Psychology & Women’s and Gender Studies Graduating: Fall 2022
Elizabeth: My Mom (Cheribeth TanSchriner) My mom is a badass. She probably wouldn’t approve of my use of that word, but she is. She is an immigrant from the Philippines who grew up relatively poor, but she earned scholarships to pay for tuition at private schools, ultimately working her way towards a PhD. She’s lived a pretty adventurous life, with experiences like working as an English instructor in refugee camps and working as a language teacher for U.S. Peace Corps volunteers assigned to the Philippines. Long before me, she protested the military dictatorship of Ferdinand Marcos and taught people how to protect their ballots during his corrupt and repressive regime. Oh, and did I mention how she beat cancer? Or how she is a senior research scientist? There is too much to say and too little space, but my mom is simply the smartest, kindest, most amazing person I know.
Graduating: Winter 2022 Kendall Lauber MinorChemistryinGender and Health
Cielle Waters-Umfleet Creative Writing & Literature Minor in Graduating:SpanishWinter 2022 Phoebe Chase Communications and Media Minor in Creative Writing
Graduating: Fall 2022 Elizabeth Schriner Sociology; Creative Writing & Literature Minors in Asian Languages & Cultures
Graduating: Fall 2021 MEET THE SENIORS: Who do you think deserves to be on a coin? Why do they deserve to be on a coin?
Cielle: Gloria Steinem In the ‘60s and ‘70s, she was one of the most outspoken feminists in the US, along with her partners such as Dorothy Pitman Hughes. She fought in support of making birth control widely accessible and against the “traditional” marriage ideal. She was also one of the founders of Ms. Magazine, a publication that aimed to teach women how to live feminist lifestyles (sound familiar?). And actually, I heard her speak at the original Women’s March in D.C. in 2017. Admittedly, I don’t remember what she said, but I was in awe to see a prominent figure from my history textbook standing in front of me, still leading the fight at age 82. As a writer and someone who needs birth control to function, I owe a lot to those who came before me (and are still here!) who paved the way for me to live and work as I do.
Hanna: Greta Thunberg To remind us that intersectional feminism must include environmental justice and vice versa. These are not mutually exclusive movements—they are necessary to sustain each other and to collectively enact changes on a structural level.
Kendall: Toni Morrison Toni Morrison was an incredible author and orator who spent her life writing about the experience of being a Black woman in America. Since she wrote so much about American history I think it would be especially fitting for her likeness to be put on a coin, as currency is such a recognizable symbol for a nation. While she didn’t publicly identify as a feminist her work has long been considered revolutionary, which is why preserving her memory for future generations should be important to all of us. I first read one of her novels, Beloved, in a high school English class, and it was certainly the only reading-as-homework book I have ever enjoyed and appreciated so thoroughly.
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eternalized on a coin.
Phoebe: Lindsey Welch Growing up in a big family, I was shy (still am sometimes!), but my godmother Lindsey always encouraged me to stop holding back, and she always left a wave of perfect chaos in her wake. After switching degrees and career paths to pursue art and design, Lindsey started her own successful graphic design firm. She became a mentor for me as I wanted to learn about graphic design, and she showed me the ropes by taking me on as an intern. I wasn’t confident and felt under-qualified, but her mentorship reminded me not to let imposter syndrome sit in the way of gaining new experiences or developing new skill sets. This February, Lindsey passed away after a difficult battle with adrenal cancer, and she deserves to be on a coin as a constant reminder to be silly on your own terms, and to lean into your interests despite self-doubt. Livvy: Rachel Carson Rachel Carson was an environmental scientist and author who changed the world through her book, She exposed the environmental impact of fertilizers and pesticides, which resulted in a nationwide ban on DDT and other manmade chemicals. Her grassroots environmentalism and powerful activism through writing is what inspired me to choose the environmental field, and continues to inspire my activism for both the planet and human rights.
Hayleigh: I wish for an end to all forms of bigotry and hatred (maybe a tad too ambitious but a girl can dream, right ?)
Ariana: It has been an honor and a joy to serve as a leader in this organization this year! I am so excited to see what you all accomplish when we’re gone! You have all of my love WTF! <3 Phoebe: I’m moving to New York City in July!
Elizabeth: I wish for good health, happiness, and good fortune for myself and for my loved ones. They deserve the world. <3 Ariana: My wish is that our readers and our wider feminist community can continue to find a safe space in What The F for years to come! Hanna: For us all to show ourselves and each other grace, because these are hard times <3 Cielle: Did you know that the first anatomically complete model of the vulva was made in 1995? People have written and speculated about the clitoris for millennia, but we’ve known for less than 30 years that it’s about four inches long and shaped like a wishbone. I wish that bodily structures weren’t considered shameful but normal and natural. We deserve to know how our fleshmobiles operate! How can we expect to make any real progress if we don’t even understand our own bodies? “Vagina” is a funny word but never a dirty word. Phoebe: My wish is that our readers stay curious, never settle for less than what they deserve, and find peace with who they are. Livvy: I wish that regardless of the inevitable impacts of the climate crisis, I can continue to find peace and stability and love in nature for the rest of my life. I wish the same for others. I also wish that those in power recognize the importance of the environment and take the progressive measures needed to protect it <3 Kendall: I think the last time I wished via well was when I played the Webkinz minigame as a kid, so I’ve got a lot of time to make up for! While there are a million and one important things I could wish for, at this moment I’d wish that my dog’s hurt leg heals well. As she gets older it’s harder and harder for her to play so much frisbee! What is your wish, and why?
Livvy: I want to shout out The Dot Org for their incredible accomplishments with advancing menstrual product accessibility in Ann Arbor. After four years of fighting for free access to period products, especially on campus, we finally can say we did it. And now we can replicate our activism elsewhere! Kendall: Hi to my lovely WTF family! I’m looking forward to starting grad school in the fall, although I’ll miss you all! Make sure to give your layout staff friends some love today <3 Anything else we should know? Special achievements you’ve earned? Plans for next year? Just saying hi? Ariana Shaw & Jessica Burkle, seniors and WTF 21-22 Co-Presidents
By Mara Logan
Bojack Horseman, one of the main characters is a workaholic pink cat named Princess Caroline. She’s a Type-A control freak who’s great at her job—which, as an agent, is caring for others—but also totally dependent on it as the source of her fulfillment. When we first meet Princess Caroline, she appears to be happy: She’s successful, polished, and energetic, if a bit stressed. But as the seasons progress, we see her patterns with a simple, but haunting,
something. Whether it's buying flowers or making dinner, gifts are ways of demonstrating that we care for other Butpeople.how much are gifts about the way we’re making the recipient feel, and how much are they about the fulfillment (and distraction) we gain? I love giving gifts, but I am also guilty of giving love and care to others to disguise the love and care I couldn’t give to myself.
How WHOLElearningI’mToBe
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How many of us, especially women, resonate with this? We are socialized from a young age—by our family, our teachers, our media—to put care for others before care for ourselves. Then, when we do grow up, caring for others can become a coping mechanism so we don’t have to face the care we do not or cannot give to ourselves. I’m guilty of this to an extreme. For years, I overcommitted myself not only to extracurriculars but to people. Staying busy was a way for me to avoid confronting myself, to the point that when I was forced to pause and spend time alone (thanks, COVID), the floodgates opened. I spent so much of my life focused on and caring for other people so there wasn’t enough for me. I am (or was) Princess Caroline. How many of us are? Most of the time, this isn’t the fault of the people we’re giving to; they didn't ask us to sacrifice our wellbeing to care for them, and if they care for us, certainly they don’t want that sacrifice. Still, we have to recognize our cycles of harm and set boundaries around friends and family to protect ourselves and prevent our patterns. In the same way much of the care we give to others isn’t about them but our own toxic patterns, neither are the subsequent boundaries we set. Here are five strategies I use for setting boundaries and breaking patterns.
2Don’t commit out loud. If you want to do an act of service for someone, like baking them cookies or writing them a letter, then great, but keep acts of service to yourself before you do them. Once you share your intentions with other people or use others to keep you
4Draw the line and tell others where it is. You have to start by putting yourself first and then by setting firm boundaries. Setting boundaries is an essential part of preserving your health, but it can feel incredibly difficult because of the relationships we have to navigate with other people in order to set said boundaries. Still, it has to happen. Begin by trying to understand where your boundaries are and then work to communicate them to the people in your life so that they can work to respect them.
3 You always come first. This is the bottom line: No matter what someone else is going through, you have to prioritize your own health and wellbeing. This is a fine line to walk when supporting friends or partners, but it is always true. You can’t fill others’ cups if yours is empty.
accountable in a following through, a gesture of kindness can quickly become an obligation. If you have the time and energy in the moment, more power to you, but don’t make commitments your future self can’t keep.
1Consider who you are investing your time and energy in. As you change and evolve, you will grow out of friendships with people who “preferred you when you were smaller.” On her podcast, Exactly., Florence Given explores the idea of growing as “stepping into ourselves and our power.” She acknowledges the fear associated with change and stepping into ourselves but maintains that the fear we feel isn’t fear of our own power, but of other people’s reactions to that power. Surround yourself with people who support not only who you are right now, but who will encourage and support the person you want to become.
5 Spend more time with yourself, for yourself. Take time to do things you genuinely enjoy, alone. Walk, sleep, paint, play music, stretch— do the things you’ve always wanted to do but have never had time for. Make the time, and do them alone. Learn to cherish time with yourself exploring your creativity and pushing your I’mlimits.still far from the person I intend to grow into, even with using these strategies over the past year, but I am spending more time with myself than ever before. I look back to high school or last year or even last semester, and it amazes me that I used to survive the way I did, that I could derive validation—however short-term—from the places I did.
Now I sleep, I create, I cook, I write, I bake, I explore. It is not perfect, and I am not perfect, but now I am intentional about how and where I give my energy, and I am no longer sacrificing my time and energy for people that prefer me when I am not my whole and truest self.
We All Can't (and Shouldn't) Be Like Naruto
by Morgan Anderson
Approximately one week ago, I finished all 500 episodes of Naruto. Yup, 15,840 minutes, 264 hours, or 11 full days (12 if you include the movies). Mini spoiler alert, the last few episodes of the series made me bawl my eyes out. I actually had to pause mid-episode of the last Sasuke-Naruto epic fight scene and run to knock on my roommate’s door, a fellow fan, to vent about the enormous flood of emotions I was feeling in those final moments. I discovered in the course of watching it that you can fit a lot of wisdom in a 30-episode-long fight between two rival characters. Despite being “just” a kids’ show, Naruto’s lessons on friendship and life pack a punch. For example, I shamefully came to understand that I shouldn’t judge a character by his first appearance or description (sorry, Itachi). But most importantly, I learned about the power of a wish—the goals and desires that drive the characters throughout the series. Unfortunately, I used to be that kid who wasn’t even allowed to watch SpongeBob growing up. Due to my parents’ efforts to shield me from violence and inappropriate humor, I also happened to miss out on watching Naruto as a child. My early twenties, however, offered a perfect time in my life to catch up on what 10-year-old Morgan missed out on. Shows like Naruto, Avatar: The Last Airbender, SpongeBob, Chowder, iCarly, etc., defined many of our older-Gen-Z childhoods, and they continue to influence us even now. Through my college-age lens, I feel compelled to ask, what can we learn from childhood shows with our new, profound wisdom of “adulthood”?
One of the most powerful forces in the Naruto series is the desire for friendship and the complementary acceptance and acknowledgement from the friends one respects and loves. Naruto isn’t powerful just because he masters a bunch of super cool ninja moves but rather because he gains strength from his friendships and mentors that he loves so deeply (and they, him in return). When Sasuke (Naruto’s BFF) leaves the village to hone his mighty ninja skills, he also attempts to cut all ties with his friends, as they made him weak. To Sasuke, to achieve true power and the vengeance he lived for, he has to be heartless and drown in hatred. Sasuke, upon leaving the village and accepting hatred in exchange for love, causes Naruto a lot of pain, anguish, and feelings of helplessness. To Naruto, if he can’t even save a friend from such an ordeal, how can he be the greatest ninja ever? Despite these feelings of hurt and frustration, Naruto continues to reach out to Sasuke to coax him back home, all because he truly loves him and wants the best for his best Throughoutfriend. my life, I, too, have both wished for and worked towards true friendship, which I define as a friendship in which we both feel safe to be ourselves and always ofthewassometimesreciprocated.true,hasn’tandfashionother.ableunderstand,support,andaretogrowwitheachInasimilartoSasukeNaruto,mywishalwayscomenormyeffortsButmywishgrantedeveninmostunexpectedtimes.Duringmy
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freshman year of college, I was nervous I wouldn’t find a niche group of friends that truly accepted me for who I am, supported me, and always pushed me to do and be better (read: they would call me out on my bullshit when necessary). Throughout multiple friendships in my life, I would often push aside my own emotions and wellbeing to ensure my friends’ happiness was prioritized–even if it came at the cost of my happiness. I often did this in fear that advocating and sticking up for myself would frame me as a bad friend, as if opposing a friend’s (sometimes hurtful) actions and words was like breaking the “girl code.”
Somewhere along these contradictory journeys of being rejected and accepted in my search for genuine friendships, I became lost. How could I balance my inherent human need for friendship while simultaneously respecting another’s (and my own) boundaries, cultural factors, and expectations? (All of us eldest daughters out there feel this one, for sure.) Why do I correlate my own emotional wellbeing with the emotions of others, which I know I have no control over? Even though I can acknowledge my lack of power over others’ feelings, I still struggle with feeling responsible for how people react when I express my own thoughts. This emotion is especially exaggerated when it results in them being upset with me. And at what point is it justified for me to “give up” on a friend because they hurt me in the process of their own self-discovery journey? Naruto never gave up on Sasuke, even when Sasuke caused him pain, because Naruto knew that Sasuke was hurting, too. As his friend, he didn’t want him to be alone and continue to drown in hate. But man, as much as I aspire to be like Naruto, it’s fucking hard (and kind of Howunrealistic).doIbalance
this aspiration to be the most loving and supporting friend like Naruto while still taking into account my own wellbeing? Last week, I attended a group therapy session. We were asked to journal our own definition of “worthy” and if it correlated to either positive or negative wellbeing. We also noted aspects of our pasts and identities that made it difficult to feel worthy. I wrote about my seemingly too-high bar when it comes to romantic relationships and how it has made me (at numerous points in my life, unfortunately) think that maybe I just wasn’t worth someone’s love. I wrote about how my past mistakes, like putting others’ perspective of me and emotional wellbeing over my own, have damaged my definition of worth by making me feel less-than and undeserving of someone’s (or even my own) effort, patience, and love. During this journaling time, however, I also relished in the fact that I feel rejuvenated when I am crafting, drawing, or rearranging my sweaters while listening to music. Most importantly, I recognized that I feel the most worthy when I am with those I Whenlove. the group reconvened after the journaling exercise, we came to the consensus that perhaps our definition of worthy is forever a work in progress. That being said, when we shared our work aloud, each of the definitions communicated common themes of having space to freely express our whole selves, to harness the ability to love and be loved, and to know that we are all inherently worthy just because we exist on this earth. Essentially, worth— and the definitions and boundaries that come with it—is complex. Damn!!! Way to make it even more complicated, right? Perhaps, however, more harm and pain come when we try to ignore these nuances. As humans, we inherently try to make sense of complexities, like worthiness, and boil them down to something that is simple and easier to approach. By doing this, we allow ourselves to easily categorize what is worthy to us (and of our time, of our effort, etc.) and what is not. What I’ve come to realize, however, is that worthiness is something that is always shifting, molding, and adapting. And
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maybe that’s where I was getting Naruto wrong. I thought I had to be this person who allowed others to hurt me and my self-worth because my definition of a worthy friend or person was rigid. Previously, I thought a “worthy” friend was someone who refused to give up on helping “friends”, no matter one’s own circumstances, and that letting someone or something go meant I was weak and a bad person. Maybe instead the real truth of Naruto is perseverance and will. I originally thought Naruto’s perseverance to “save” Sasuke meant that good friends must persevere through the pain and hurt their friend may cause. Perhaps, however, Naruto exemplifies what it means to preserve in the face of complexity—for the sake of yourself and those who genuinely love you. Naruto perseveres through his friend’s hate because he wants to challenge the notion that one isn’t worthy just because someone else doesn’t deem one worthy of their time, effort, and friendship. He teaches children and adults alike to continue to work on personal acceptance and selfworth in order to help both oneself and others in the long run. As I stated previously, I recently felt lost on my self-worth journey, given my tendency to equate my emotional wellbeing with the feelings of others. While watching Naruto, I became inspired by his ability to be such a forgiving, relentless friend who refused to let Sasuke be absorbed by hatred—even if it meant going to extremes (like physically fighting him multiple times, even to the point of death). That being said, I also felt even further conflicted on how to balance my personal wellbeing with my goals of being the “golden” friend that Naruto exemplifies. I began tackling this difficult balance of prioritizing my wellbeing by being more conscious about and comfortable with saying “I feel upset” when necessary. I also began to think about and reevaluate my boundaries and how they create space to both love myself and others.
My tarot card teacher recently said, “Ignorance is a tomb,” and by choosing to be ignorant of my own feelings and boundaries for the sake of others, I only continued to entomb myself in my own thoughts, doubts, and questions that undermined my definition of self-worth. Through many conversations with myself and with loved ones, I’m just now starting to find my way back to the path of finding and evolving self-worth. It takes work. A LOT of hard work. It isn’t easy for me to sit at a table and cry in front of my friends about how I feel, but hearing my loved ones question the negative manner in which I talk about and see myself was the fucking brightest sign that I needed to (re)direct me towards this other self-loving path in my life. So, I highly suggest for y’all to rewatch those comfort childhood series, or take a chance on a classic you still haven’t watched. The unique joy of rewatching shows that we loved as children—or as adults, in my case—is not just understanding inappropriate jokes that previously went over our heads or learning where our love for bad boys originated. To me, at least, it’s uncovering the strikingly deep and important lessons embedded within each episode that we can only decode as we grow, evolve, and enter the clusterfuck journeys of adulthood. Thank you for reading my synthesis of Naruto, a quarter-life crisis, and the journey of defining self-worth in the midst of discovering true love and friendship. And so, for each and every one of you, I wish that your self-worth journey is one full of love and compassion from both yourself and others, reflection, true friends, childhood TV shows, and inevitable evolution.
WHAT THE F IS CELEBRATING 110 YEARS! Issue 11 Launch 1 Issue 10 Launch4
45 2 3 WTF Co Founder, Haena
As I processed my loss of confidence, I decided that I needed to take a gap year, to be alone somewhere and work a small job and recenter myself. I found a book by Olga Tokarczuk, The Lost Soul, a short illustrated book that resonates with me on many levels. The book’s premise is that souls move slower than bodies, so a man who has lost his soul goes to a cottage in the woods and waits for it to eventually catch up to him. That’s how I felt for a while, and maybe I still do a bit. I’ve read that book repeatedly in the past several months. While at first I thought that it meant that I needed to isolate myself and get back to the basics, I’ve realized that it really means that I need to get back to my basics. It’s not about being alone—it’s about being purposeful in what is important to me. I’ve spent the school year spending a lot of time with friends, both old and new. I call my mom; I try to call my grandmother regularly; I send letters occasionally; sometimes I write letters that I never send. I wake up in the morning and make myself tea and breakfast. I clean my room, something that used to be too tiring for me but now feels centering. I turn in my assignments—I research and learn and push myself to create things that will make me proud. I cook for myself and let myself go to bed early. I prioritize rest in a way that I never used to. My life has felt slower recently, more purposeful. My coming year is still a blank, but my faith in myself becomes a little stronger everyday. I can take care of myself—I can make my goals reality. I’m making wishes again—I’m reconnecting to what I want. I’ve spent so much of my life wanting, longing, yearning—I want my life to be strictly for living, experiencing every day to its fullest and feeling centered. I want my soul to be firmly planted in my body.
WuerkerMariabybyMariaWuerker
OFEVOLUTIONOFEVOLUTIONAWISHAWISH
I lost faith that I could accomplish them.
A wish is such an inherently hopeful concept. We attempt to will our desires into existence with only the power of our wanting. For as long as I can remember, I have been an avid wisher, capitalizing on eyelashes, birthday candles, and every 11:11 that I managed to notice. I often stare at a clock in the minutes approaching 11:11, itching to make my wish. I have experimented with strategies, saying “I wish” 11 times over in my head, working out the perfect phrase so that the universe will understand what I want and not nick me on a technicality. In middle school, my best friend and I came up with the idea of making our own fairy dust—we mixed together multicolored sparkles until we each felt that we had the right ratios of hues, and then we wrote little poems to use as an incantation while we sprinkled the fairy dust over ourselves. For years, I used that fairy dust every night before the first day of school, wishing for a good year. I still occasionally pull out the little glass bottle before a big event, making a wish and hoping for the best. Wishes have been a form of ritual, or at least, my way of at least attempting to bend the universe to my will. I think my wishes used to be bigger, more specific, more straightforward and plain. Last year, one of my biggest wishes came true: I fell in love for the first time. For a while, it felt magical, as if I had willed this person into existence. In a way, maybe I did. It was longdistance, and never officially anything, but it was also one of the most formative relationships that I have ever had. I thought that what we had transcended distance, but it turns out the distance was what was sustaining us. In person, the many ways we were incompatible were much more apparent. My first heartbreak was jagged. I was blindsided by a situation which I hadn’t accounted for: We were in the same place, but he chose someone else. It turns out that wishing can also mean you project your hopes onto another person. When he turned out not to be who I thought he was, it hurt. A lot. I became less sure of myself and of my judgment. How had I been so willfully blind? The emotional fallout left me reeling. My goals became blurrier, less-defined shapes in my mind that I couldn’t quite pin down.
I think my goals have shifted in the past year. I’m trying not to wish for other people or places to want me; instead, I’m trying to be more purposeful about the people and places that I give my time to. I’m wishing to build a life that I love, one in which I am self-aware, in which I am surrounded by people and projects that make me feel inspired. When I graduate this year, I’ll pull out my jar of fairy dust, sprinkle some over my head, and wish for the best, whatever that is.
COVER Art by Hayleigh Proskin stand-alone art piece Art by Olivia Nolff Endometriosis Art by Olivia Nolff Delete instagram where are your grass stains Art by Cammie Treiber into the wishing well Art by Sofia Tosi I am a little piece of movement that will soon change shape Art by Hayleigh Proskin Nonsense Thoughts on Apathy Art by Lila MacKinnon We only have so much to give Art by Ava Berkwits stand-alone art piece Art by Olivia Nolff A love letter to letters Art by Catherine Hwang mirror mirror Art by Lucy Bernstein a study in hypochondria Art by Molly O’Brien thank you Art by Sivan Ellman 47 whatthefmagazine.comWhatTheFMagazineWhatTheFMagWhatTheFMag Keep the conversation going! Call her daddy and other feminist illusions Art by Tessa Krajewski ‘wellness’ sort of ruined my life Art by Hanna Smith Living for the present, wishing for the future Art by Charlotte Lee stand alone art piece Art by Cammie Treiber shut the door and walk away Art by Morgan Anderson well wishes from the seniors Art by Hayleigh Proskin how I’m learning to be whole Art by Eva Ji we can’t (and shouldn’t) be like naruto Art by Hayleigh Proskin what the f celebrates 10 years! Art by WTF Art Team Evolution of a wish Art by Noe Conahan
funny, fresh, fierce, feminist, fuck!
