University of Michigan
November 2018
WHAT THE F Your Irregular Periodical Issue 15
Staff Paige Wilson
President
Lia Baldori Ally Owens Maria Marginean Maya Reyes Tessa Rose Sona Raju Anjali Vaishnav Cielle Waters-Umfleet
Editor-In-Chief Assistant Editor Website Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer
Anna Herscher Elizabeth Feldbruegge Kate Johnson Maggie McConnell Ariana Shaw Jessica Burkle
Art Director Assistant Art Director Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist
Srishti Gupta Lindsay Calka Emily Cutting Kendall Lauber
Design Manager Designer Designer Designer
Emily Spilman Caylin Luebeck Sophia Jacobs Katie Slajus Jessica Jamaica Madison Murdoch
Campus Coordinator Events Director Events Coordinator Events Coordinator Events Coordinator Events Coordinator
Chase Chapman Lindsey Hentschel Caroline Slack Willa Hart Mia McCrumb
Finance Director Finance Staff Finance Staff Finance Staff Finance Staff
Adriana Kusmierczyk Alexandra Niforos JJ Wright
Social Media Coordinator Social Media Staff Social Media Staff
What the F
is a non-partisan, non-profit publication operated by students at the University of Michigan. What the F’s purpose is to encourage discussion on significant issues of campus, national, and world interest. The magazine, the executive board, and our sponsors do not endorse the ideas presented by the writers. We do, however, support and encourage different ideas in our community and in campus discussion.
November 2018 Issue 15
FUNNY, FRESH, FEMINIST, FIERCE, & FUCK Keep the conversation going! whatthefmagazine.com WhatTheFMag.tumblr.com WhatTheFMagazine WhatTheFMag WhatTheFMag
01 02 04 06 08 10 14 18 20 22 25 26 27
Letter from the Editor Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor Not a Quick Fix Dear Skeptics The Sexualization of Space The Worry Stone Re-tales: Overthinking Being Unpaid Stand Alone Art Piece Diet Feminism Pop Quiz And The Bees I See Black Sheep In My Dreams Credits
Letter from the Editor Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical!
Aaaaand we’re back! It’s been seven months since you’ve held a fresh one of these babies. How’s it feel? Personally, I wish we could be reuniting under better circumstances. Brett Kavanaugh’s Supreme Court appointment put a sickening twist on the beginning of this school year, and that was only the cherry on top of a summer defined by mass shootings and children in cages. And now trans rights are on the ballot. All of this and more after only two years under the Trump administration, and we’re afraid of what the future holds. If you find yourself skeptical of our reason to fear, flip to page 6. There’s a special letter for you there ;) It can be pretty depressing to be a feminist magazine in today’s political climate, but my year-and-ahalf on staff has taught me that What the F is a labor of love. Every word in this magazine was written with the hope that someone else might read it and feel understood, inspired, and/or (ideally) a little better. In these trying times, the most important thing we have is community, and I’m glad for this opportunity to share some of ours with you. As per usual with the first print of the school year, writers and artists had free reign with Issue 15, allowing a sort of cornucopia of stories, poems and graphics to take shape. Perfect for harvest season. You may not be able to draw parallels between anal sex and systematic oppression in the retail industry, but rest assured you’ll come away from this magazine having learned something new. Or at least having learned about my experience with cervicitis (shameless plug...see page 24). Assuming you haven’t already bypassed this introduction, before I hand Issue 15 off to you I want to express my gratitude. Not in the spirit of Thanksgiving, a “holiday” that glosses over the mass genocide of indigenous people under the guise of “family time,” but in the spirit of solidarity. What the F strives to shed light on marginalized voices, and we can’t do that without an audience. So thank you. For taking the time to listen. And thank you in advance for taking the time to hand this issue off to a friend, or at least recycle it when you’re done. We only have one planet. I’ve loved every minute of working on this magazine. Hope you enjoy reading it!
Lia Baldori Editor-in-Chief
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fleet
rs-Um le Wate
by Ciel
Most kids are taught that there are two things you never talk about at the dinner table: sex and butts, and certainly not sex involving anuses. However, we’re not children, and dinner’s over. It’s time to break the silence. We’ve all got rectums, don’t we? According to PleasureMechanics.com, the external anal sphincter holds one of the highest concentrations of nerve endings in the human body, and anal penetration can stimulate the prostate or G-Spot. In other words, there’s something for everyone interested in exploring down there.
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Bear in mind that, just like with condoms, no sexual activity is one-size-fits-all. Physical sensation varies from person to person, and no one is abnormal for having preferences. External and internal anal play can be a great way to have fun with yourself or a partner. You know the old college-try method—nothing is certain until you give it a go!
FAQs What exactly is anal sex? Anal sex, like other forms of intercourse, has both a traditional connotation and a fine print. The more “commonplace” definition involves a penis being inserted into a partner’s anus. Pretty straightforward, but in its simplicity this description neglects a world of potential pleasure. Fingers, hands, mouthparts, and sex toys all fall under the anal umbrella. If something’s not to your liking, there’s plenty of room for exploration. Can pregnancy occur from anal sex? In short, no, but unprotected anal sex runs the risk of semen spilling into the vagina, so some form of birth control is advised. While chances of pregnancy are slim, all sexual activities hold potential for health concerns, so keep reading. Does anal pose any health risks? Contrary to popular belief, when done correctly, anal sex should neither weaken your sphincter nor change your rectal structure. However, the rectal wall is thin and prone to micro-tears, which gives bacteria and viruses an all-inclusive pass into the bloodstream. Condoms are highly recommended to prevent against STIs. If that was not enough to convince you, condoms also combat friction, which reduces your chances of hemorrhoids and “rosebudding.” Otherwise known as rectal prolapse, this condition is when the colon loses its structural integrity and falls through the anus. That, of course, mandates a trip to the hospital. Scary as these scenarios may sound, as long as you practice safe sex and communicate comfort levels with your partner, anal sex has virtually no side effects. Casualties are completely avoidable if everyone takes adequate steps to prepare. Which brings us to the fun part:
Preparation Tips: Confront the issue of the anus’s non-sexual functions. Both partners should be prepared to come into contact with trace amounts of fecal matter. That said, waste is stored in the colon, and the majority of anal penetration takes place in the rectum. If you listen to your body, you aren’t likely to end up with a mess on your hands, but experts on hygiene and common sense alike advise washing the area with soap and water first. If that doesn’t ease your nerves, you can use an enema to flush out the interior, but take caution in doing so. Anal douching can strip the protective mucous lining of your colon, so moderation is key here.
on that (water-based) jelly to your liking, and then it wouldn’t hurt to add a little more. Using lubricated protection can also ensure less friction, which ultimately makes for a safer ride. Planned Parenthood recommends using latex or female condoms, cutopen condoms, or dental dams. Lucky for us Victors, Wolverine Wellness offers all kinds of free contraceptives, so you can stock up on your next visit. Remember when your parents told you never to wipe from back to front? Well, they’d tell you the same thing about sex. Colonic bacteria can hitch a ride on the penetrative object with the potential to cause UTIs, yeast infections, and worse. If switching from the anus to a mouth or vagina, it is important to clean the penetrative object in between, use a new condom, or at least remove the old one.
What to look out for: Like any sexual activity, anal sex comes with risks and possible consequences. Light bleeding and mild discomfort aren’t unusual the first time you have anal intercourse, but if continuous, they may be signs of underlying colorectal issues. If the discomfort is keeping you from enjoying what’s happening, talk to your partner. Ask them to slow down, be gentler, or even change the activity altogether. Pain is a sign that something isn’t right, so pay attention to it (unless you’re into that stuff.) If anything feels out-of-the-ordinary, see your doctor. They don’t care if you’ve been bumping uglies; they just want you to be healthy and safe (and if you feel like your doctor isn’t being supportive or receptive, that’s not okay. This is another conversation altogether, but just be aware that a doctor should not make you feel bad for sexual activity).
In Conclusion: The most important part of having a safe, enjoyable experience is full disclosure. Always discuss comfort levels with your partner. Anal might be a little awkward at first, but it should never be downright painful. Furthermore, pain is not the fault of the receptive partner; the insertive partner should match their actions to suit you, so let them know what feels good and what doesn’t. If they don’t cooperate, they aren’t worthy of your time. Remember that you deserve control over what happens to your body, and anyone who does not respect that is committing a crime. Armed with the facts, you will be able to make healthier decisions regarding your sex life. The bottom line: with open communication and a respectful partner, anal will have you feeling on top.
The insertive partner, just like any other hot date, should trim their nails before engaging in anal activity. This is not only for the receptive partner’s comfort, but also to prevent the spread of bacteria. First and foremost, take some time for foreplay. The anal sphincter is a complex muscle that needs to relax before penetration, and skipping ahead can damage its integrity. It is recommended that beginners start with butt plugs or a finger (or two!) before moving on to larger objects. While the popular idea is that the inserter is in control, a safer method is for the receptive partner to ease themselves onto the object of choice. Lube is your best friend. While the anus bears many parallels to the vagina or mouth, self-lubrication is not one of them. Slather
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Not a Quick Fix: THE PROBLEM WITH SEXUAL ASSAULT RECOVERY IN UGANDA by Anjali Vaishnav
Although today we hear these stories often, that does not make them any less devastating. Stories of women being being taken advantage of. Stories of women ignoring their pain, convinced that their words would not be believed if put up against a man’s. Now, what if these same stories lay amidst myths that say having sex with young girls is “good fortune.” Imagine sexual assault cases where children are taken to a remote island so that their screams of terror can only be heard by their perpetrators. Imagine young girls, so scared of returning to their families after being raped that they decide having no home is a better alternative. These haunting scenarios are a reality for many of the over-9,500 Ugandan children who are sexually abused or trafficked annually. Less than 400 of these cases are actually reported. Cases of sexual abuse are normalized in this region of sub-saharan Africa, often perpetuated by the close friends and family members of young girls. These familial relationships complicate disclosure, and most children keep their stories of abuse secret for years after the incidents occur. In a region where it seems that these extreme challenges and disparities surrounding child sexual abuse are around every corner, immediate solutions almost come naturally. These solutions, however, often stem from a desire to see instant change. She sustained severe bruises and is sick? Take her to see a medical professional. She can identify the person who abused her? Take her to talk to the police. While certain issues like these should be addressed sooner rather than
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later, constantly looking for these “quick” fixes leads people in the region to ignore longer-term problems that may eventually destroy the victim’s mind, body, and future. Consequences of sexual abuse in Uganda such as psychological trauma, disclosure to family and friends, and returning to school and the workforce are prolonged and complicated. Since many of these sexual assault cases involve family members abusing other family members, victims do not disclose because they will see their perpetrator again. If their story is not believed, re-victimization by the same family member who “got away with it” the first time is likely. Furthermore, other “shameful” consequences of sexual abuse, including premarital pregnancy and HIV/AIDS contraction, are not discussed, which leaves survivors alone to deal with the aftermath. Devising solutions to these aforementioned issues requires altering Ugandan social norms—something that is neither quick nor easy. As a result, these long-term problems continue to be dismissed, and victims of sexual abuse cannot return to the lives they led before. In an effort to address these stigmatized long-term consequences, a non-profit organization known as the People in Need Agency of Uganda launched Roof and Equip Winnie. Project Roof and Equip Winnie is a plan to construct a one-stop rehabilitation center that provides survivors of sexual abuse the resources, attention, and skills they need to recover and revitalize. This center will be established with both medical and psychological resources, as well as
opportunities to gain basic life skills training, such as tailoring, farming, and computer education, so that these young girls can provide for themselves. Most importantly, the center will provide a safe space for these girls to stay while addressing the long-term consequences of sexual abuse that are otherwise overlooked. Building this comprehensive center is no small task, and will not happen right away. However, the beauty of long-term solutions is that you can still devise shorter-term solutions in the meantime. PINA Uganda continues to advocate for those who cannot through regular conferences, workshops and media outlets. As they consistently and insistently bring out the issues that underlay various injustices in the region, advocates at PINA bring their country one step closer to breaking the norms that have scarred victims for too long. Sexual abuse in Uganda is not unique in its battle to strike a balance between long and short-term solutions. Yes, it is important to solve issues with “simple” fixes right away. However, we cannot chose to ignore the issues that are complicated and may be uncomfortable to address. Instead, we should promote programs like Roof and Equip Winnie that focus on empowering individuals, not just temporarily “fixing” them. With this newfound mentality, we will be able to educate others to seek long-term justice and subsequently change the landscape of our generation. If you are interesting in learning more about Roof and Equip Winnie or People in Need Agency Uganda, please visit https://pina-ug. org/roof-equip-winnie/.
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by Cielle Waters - Umfleet
Nothing gets a feminismskeptic’s gears grinding like the MeToo movement, and nothing grates an exasperated woman’s ears more than a man playing devil’s advocate to a crime that robs people of their dignity. For me, my breaking point came one night when I was on Hour Two of arguing about social justice with a particular male relative. The topic switched from one odious argument to the next, at that moment something about “how males and whites aren’t actually privileged anymore because of Affirmative Action” or what have you. Once he had exhausted his complaints about college admissions and job hirings, he dropped the kicker: “If a woman wants to ruin my life, all she has to do is falsely accuse me of rape, and I’ll lose my job!” Two weeks of frantic packing and mounting anxieties about starting college, as well as my omnipresent feminist rage, burst forth in the form of my response. With a quivering voice, I replied, “I don’t give a damn about false rape accusations until we can punish real rapists in this country!” My cheeks and forehead boiled as an uncontrollable flood of tears sprang from my eyes. The scene blurred as I tried to comprehend his ignorance. Visions of the sexual assault survivors I knew, even from high school, flared in my memory. One had been drugged at a party. Another, physically forced by an upperclassman she knew. A third, due to her trauma, nearly attempted suicide. “If a man wants to ruin my life, all he has to do is actually rape me.” “No, I agree, rapists should be punished,” he offered from the safety of the couch. “What I don’t like about all this MeToo stuff is that accusation equals guilt. Men are losing their jobs and having their careers ruined over accusations that turn out to be false! I believe a person is innocent until proven guilty.” And so do I. Sexual assault cases in this country should follow the same precedents and procedures as any other crime. However, I also believe women (and men; everyone’s pain is valid) when they come forward with their stories. Why? Oh, it might just have something to do with the fact that no more than 8% of rape accusations are estimated to be false according to the FBI and possibly as little as 2%. In other words, 92-98% of accusations are true. And that’s just what is reported to authorities. While we can never know the actual number of rape and sexual assault cases occurring every year, a Stanford University article estimates that only around 40% of cases are reported. Based on the figures, that means out of all the rape cases in the world, somewhere between .8% and 3.2% of them are false accusations. And we still think most survivors are lying?
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Relative of mine, I don’t remember much of what either of us said after that, or even if I could speak at all. All I remember is trembling, sobbing, and wanting to vomit out of frustration. Sure, it’s your prerogative to play devil’s advocate, but understand that this isn’t some mental exercise for me. At the end of the day, you can go to bed believing you’re in danger for being male, but I have to continue living in danger for being female. Your precautions involve giving women their space and holding back risqué comments; mine involve scanning for blue phones and texting my friends my location every time I’m out past nine. I know I probably wasn’t making cohesive arguments that day, but here I am, of level head this time, returning to say what I wish I would have then. Dear relative, this is what I wanted to say to you: First and foremost, a movement dedicated to empowering sexual assault survivors should not feel oppressive to you. This is a time of lifting up, of shedding chains, of breaking the silence. Nothing about that aims to undermine anyone. If you feel oppressed and endangered by women speaking out about men who wronged them, I can’t help but wonder why. Why would you be afraid of women using their voices? Except, perhaps, if you have wronged women in a way that would cause them to come forward against you? Now, I’ve known you my whole life. You always used to tell me and my brother as children how you’ve never thrown a punch. I can say with near certainty that you personally have never assaulted a woman. However, I also know your arguments aren’t original. Someone else put the idea in your head that you’re somehow suffering for the MeToo movement. As for them? I cannot say whether they have been in situations involving a power imbalance or unclear boundaries, a wandering gaze, a wandering hand. Perhaps those men have a reason to fear. Or maybe I’m reading into this too much. Do you really just believe that you could lose your job undeservedly due to a woman crying wolf? I suppose that’s fair. Unfortunately, it does happen, and it’s tragic when it does. While the chances are extremely slim that, first, you would be falsely accused, and second, that consequences would be implemented on you, I can sympathize with that worry. Let me guess: you feel powerless, unable to control what happens to you. You feel like the quality of your future is in the hands of someone else. Maybe you feel like you don’t know who to trust anymore, don’t know who might one day snap. And you know what? I feel the same way. Every time I go out alone, especially after dark, I assume some risk. I can’t predict what might happen to me, nor can I know if I will be able to fight anything off. I’m not weak, but what if he’s strong? What if there are more than one of them? What if they have drugs? And most terrifying is that, statistically, I’m more likely to be assaulted by someone I
know than by a stranger. I trust my male friends, colleagues, and relatives; at the same time, so have millions of assault survivors throughout history who were violated by someone close to them. I can trust them in groups, but can I trust them alone? I can trust them sober, but can I trust them drunk? I can trust them happy, but can I trust them angry? It’s an irritating little mind game that strains so many women’s relationships with the men in their lives. No one wants to think that someone they love could turn violent. This, too, is where our situations differ. If someone assaults me, I will lose my sense of security and privacy, and I’d be lucky to suffer only that little. If someone accuses you of assault, you may not lose your job. First there’s the fact that many organizations do not take sexual assault seriously. Schools are especially notorious for expelling plagiarizers while merely suspending rapists, and the story repeats itself in office buildings nationwide. Now I understand, relative, that in your specific profession, a sexual assault allegation, founded or not, may be the death of your career. In that case, you have more of a reason to be concerned. Still, speaking more generally, men continue to live consequence-free far more often than not.
Do you see now why I couldn’t keep my composure that night? Do you see why I broke out in tremors and heavy sobs at your comment? Do you see why I uphold that women struggle more than men time and time again? It’s because the threat of sexual assault is an inescapable truth for me while it’s at worst a nagging uneasiness for you. In short, the MeToo movement affects one of us, and it’s not you. Our argument is in the past now, but the issues aren’t. The need for societal reform is still pressing. But I’ve wiped my eyes and blown my nose. I’ve gotten a nice drink of water. I’ve pulled myself to my feet and brushed off the dirt. I have bigger fish to fry.
Let’s assume it goes to court. This might actually be a blessing for you, as sexual assault cases, even real ones, are exceedingly difficult to prove in U.S. courts. Our philosophy as a nation is that you must be proven guilty almost beyond all doubt, that sufficient evidence and numerous witnesses must be presented. Well, many sexual assault cases involve only the perpetrator and the victim, eliminating the possibility for suitable witnesses. In addition, physical evidence may be difficult to collect and nearly impossible if the victim does not immediately go to the ER after the incident. Furthermore, most of the time, that physical evidence can only prove that a person had sex or engaged in some sexual activity, but it cannot prove whether the act was consensual. Next, after what evidence exists is assembled, it follows typical courtproceedings: a judge, two lawyers, and a jury of one’s peers. Here, too many otherwise-promising cases shatter under the pressure of unfair questioning and disbelief: What were you wearing? Were you drinking? Are you sure you didn’t want it at the time? All of this leads to the vast, vast majority of (real) rapists never serving a day in prison for their atrocities, let alone those who were falsely accused. Your chances of actually facing consequences for a crime you didn’t commit are so infinitesimal that one could render them null. For me, on the other hand, my chances of being sexually assaulted are about 1 in 5, just for being a woman on a college campus. In other words, I fear a troubling reality while you fear a pussy-hatwearing bogeyman.
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The Sexualization of Space by Martina Potlach
We occupy buildings every day. They are our safe places, where we cry, laugh, eat, and make love. Though we may not always be aware of them, our spaces narrate how we socialize and carry ourselves. Spaces can be charged with energy, the push and pull felt with every meander. They can hint at satire, power, and sensuality. The structure of spaces dictates who gets to see what, and often, this view is patriarchal. Misogyny in architecture? You bet. In “Split Wall: Domestic Voyeurism,” Beatriz Colomina addresses gender hierarchy within the architectural discourse, unveiling the sexualization of space. Colomina takes us on a convoluted journey through the Muller, the Moller, and the Baker homes, designed by architect Adolf Loos. Loos’s attitudes toward women in the private dominion epitomized nineteenth-century gender norms. He radicalized this temper in his designs. Realizing this gender asymmetry is crucial to understanding Loos’s architecture and his twisted legacy. Loos was famous for highlighting that, similarly to a movie set, architecture should act as a framework for the narrative that takes place inside. In the Muller house, the sequence of spaces, articulated around the staircase, entails an increasing sense of privacy from the drawing room, to the dining room and study, to the “lady’s room.” Here we get a sense of the layout intended by the architect: to spiral the home from public to private in a palpable way. The space “Zimmer Der Dame” (see plan) overlooks the drawing room and is designated for Dr. Müller's wife. It is elevated up high and separated by a fretwork screen. Her space is no less splendid than her husband’s, clad in lemonwood, the raised sitting niche and the day-bed silk upholstered with seductive flowers, but the room’s location at the innermost part of the house implies that she should stay hidden and protected. The secrets divulged here will remain. This architecture was meant to reinforce the hierarchy of the dominant male figure as the manipulating factor. Why, then, would the “lady’s room” be the room with the most intense and mediated sense of control? This question can be reinterpreted by analyzing the way Loos used his architecture to elevate the male gaze. The architecture of the Moller house also subtly facilitates who can and cannot be seen, but in this case the structure serves to put women on display as objects. In a footnote, Colomina writes, “... Silvia Kolbowski pointed out that the woman in the raised sitting area of the Moller house could also be seen from behind, through the window to the street, and that therefore she is also vulnerable in her moment of control” (82). While Loos heightens the woman by giving her the most intimate, private space in the house, he simultaneously elevates the male above her by creating a sense of vulnerability through the male gaze. This structure throws the woman off her own pedestal.
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A similar instance can be observed in the house Loos built for Josephine Baker. The swimming pool inside the house is where this hierarchy takes place. “The swimmer might also see the reflection, framed by the window, of her own slippery body superimposed on the disembodied eyes of the shadowy figure of the spectator, whose lower body is cut out by the frame. Thus she sees herself being looked at by another: a narcissistic gaze superimposed on a voyeuristic gaze” (90). Josephine Baker’s role as a visual object represents the threat of castration posed by visual hierarchy. This idea is prevalent in Loos’s work, “the other” being a “shadowy figure” or the “intruder.” This architecture sets a narration of sexualization and creates a pyramid of power within the home. The female figure sits, vulnerably, at the bottom of this pinnacle. Cracking out of this dark architectural time capsule and landing in 2018, it is important to visualize how this problem has shifted, and how traces of it have manifested into other situations. While we don’t necessarily have thousands of Loos-like psychopaths designing our buildings today, we should pay attention to misogyny in the construction of our spaces. How do we interpret hierarchy in office buildings, where the CEO sits comfortably in his thirty-first floor, 360-degree state-of-the-art office? Why were there far more men’s bathroom stalls in the architecture school at U of M just some decades ago? Spaces dictate our relationships, an art that Loos was able to master. Realizing how current structures adhere to the patriarchy will allow us to design buildings that hold their inhabitants as equals, setting the foundation for a future of inclusivity. Interested in learning more about misogynistic architecture? Stay tuned to our website for Martina’s film, “Redefining Loos: Architectural Misogyny,” where she juxtaposes Beatriz Colomina’s analysis of Adolf Loos with modern scenarios to narrate the social interactions that take place within a late 19th century apartment in the beating heart of Barcelona’s Gotic.
The subject of Loos’s houses is a stranger An intruder in his own home
At the intersection of the visible and invisible women are placed as the guardians of the unspeakable Beatriz Colomina, “Split Wall: Domestic Voyeurism” in Beatriz Colomina, ed. Sexuality & Space. (New York, N.Y: Princeton Architectural Press, 1996). 73-128.
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This piece requires a content for describing sexual assault.
warning
That’s why this essay isn’t about Will Dodge. It isn’t about the 60 or so minutes that changed me permanently. It’s about what came afterwards. Not immediately
WTF believes these stories need to be told, though we are conscious of the emotional distress it may cause readers. We remind our readers to take care of themselves.
afterwards, but at that point down the road where you think you should have gotten over it, but it still gets to you almost every day. It’s about my own healing that I’m more confident is possible every day, it’s about my future as a whole, complete person. One who can live with this pain because there’s no point in pretending that it’s possible to go back to a time when it wasn’t there.
The
Worry
Stone
●●● 5 years ago, I classified Will Dodge as one of my best friends. We spoke everyday through our mutual membership of our high school’s ski team. He also called and texted me incessantly and would become very agitated if I didn’t respond. I was always a little scared of him. I was never sure what he was capable of, so I usually went along with the things he wanted to do, even if they made me uncomfortable. He was very jealous of my
By Liv Velarde
other
friendships,
even
though we were never in any semblance
of
a
romantic
relationship. I had always felt a lot of guilt about that Fiona Apple once gave a quote
situation because I felt it must
in an interview that has always
have been my actions that led
stuck with me. When asked
him to believe he had more importance in my life than he
whether she writes songs about
actually did, therefore justifying
the rape that she endured at 12
his possessive behavior.
years old, she stated, “It’s a boring pain. It’s such a fuckin’ old pain that, you know, there’s nothing poetic about it.” That’s how I feel dredging this up. This trauma is a worry stone in my pocket that I’ve
By my count, Will sexually assaulted me 3 times, each escalating in severity until I decided never speak to him again. I could not count the times he sexually harassed
gone over and over again with my thumb, so many times
me if pressed. There were an avalanche of red flags in our
that the depression could be an ancient inkwell used to
friendship that I had always been taught to get over. These
write on papyrus with a reed pen. The pain feels equally
sorts of behaviors were “cute” and “trivial,” the only way
as ancient, even though I had lived most of my life before
that men knew how to communicate their strong feelings.
it happened. It’s something that I’ve screamed about so
Will was just one of many boys in my life who felt entitled
much, written about so much, blamed myself for so much,
to my time and body.
that there’s nothing poetic about it. To be quite frank, there never was. It was a boring pain before the blaming
I don’t want to get graphic, so I’ll explain what happened
and the screaming and the tears. It’s a pain that’s been
in the simplest way I can: on the night of my senior prom,
woven into my life in a million different ways because
Will forcefully penetrated my mouth.
there’s not a woman I know who doesn’t feel it too.
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I had to take a break after writing that. I already knew the
on a pontoon boat dressed in red, white, and blue. The
words that I would use, but took me three days to have the
two were Cordelia, the younger sister of one of my best
courage to write them down. I was afraid that on paper, it
friends, and her newly social-media-official boyfriend:
wouldn’t look that bad.
Will Dodge.
I initially found my assault hilarious. I woke up in a smelly
I felt trapped and useless. Responsible, but helpless.
basement, rushed to a tennis tournament still drunk and
I felt a lot of things at once, but mostly desperation. I
thought, Wow, I can’t believe I hooked up with Will. I
was desperate to stop the relationship from progressing
was so set on not doing that.
any further, to keep her from spiralling into something
Then I realized what that meant. Denial really can be the
harmful that she couldn’t get out of. Cordelia had just
most powerful drug.
graduated from high school and was heading to Wayne State in the fall. I was afraid that another young woman
I panicked and blocked Will on everything. I shut down. I
was in the process of being sucked into a man’s toxic
was afraid of backlash from our friends, and I was afraid
sphere of power and control.
of being anywhere near him. I knew I wouldn’t be able to control what he would tell other people, but at least I could
Her sister Selene, my friend, had left a comment on the
control his access to me. I knew immediately and forever
post that implied she was supportive of their relationship.
that I’d never be taken seriously by my friend group, and
I turned my desperation into frustration toward Selene,
I never considered going to the police for a single second.
sending her an angry text that made it seem like Cordelia
It was a “party rape”—it was prom night, and alcohol was
was a pomeranian that she could send through hoops on
involved. At no point did I think that telling someone else
command rather than her autonomous younger sister. I
would help me get through it.
assumed that Cordelia would never have started dating Will if she knew what he had done to me, and I put that
Throughout our friendship, Will habitually encouraged
responsibility on Selene. My mind was racing. How
me to use and supplied me with drugs and alcohol until
could Selene watch them and not tell her sister what had
I was intoxicated to a level where I was “easy” to take
happened? She was my best friend, she was supposed to
advantage of. His actions that night fit into a pattern of
believe me. She was a survivor of sexual violence herself.
coercive behavior that he had always exhibited towards
How could she not tell Cordelia? Did she really not
me. I don’t believe what he did to me on prom night was
believe me?
an accident, or a mistake, or a miscommunication. It was a malicious attempt to take what he thought he deserved
She responded five hours later that she didn’t want to
from me.
invalidate anything that I had said, but she wasn’t going to be able to talk to me today. It turned out that she wasn’t
I have not spoken to him since that night, but I know
going to be able to talk to me for a very long time. When
that he vehemently denied that he did anything wrong.
we did talk, Selene didn’t seem very interested in working
Will has texted lots of my friends since then, making it
things through with me, and even less interested in coming
clear that he thinks I need to grow up and talk to him,
between Will and Cordelia, asking me, “Why should Will
that I am being overly dramatic, that he’s sorry that I
carry the label of “rapist” for the rest of his life?”
misunderstood what happened that night. I never sought an apology because I knew I wouldn’t get one.
Most survivors would say that their assault haunted
●●●
them for the rest of their lives, so why should Will get
Three years and three weeks after prom, I was in the
to hide behind the facade of miscommunication? A better
backseat of my dad’s crammed Jeep Wrangler on the
question is, Why do we think that sexual predators deserve
way home from a fun weekend on the lake. I was sitting
peace more than hurt women deserve a voice?
next to my elderly pet, holding my nose out the window to avoid her lake-dog smell when I saw an Instagram
Part of the reason that I was so angry with Selene was
post that made me feel physically ill. It was a picture of
because she had always claimed to support and live by the
a classic Memorial Day in Michigan, featuring a couple
tenets of feminism. It was a part of her social media
11
persona, and she always told me that she wanted to
getting her Associate’s Degree in December after a lot of
do more for women. I felt that her choice to condemn
transferring and roadblocks. I told her a bit about the time
abusers from a distance while supporting Will Dodge’s
I spent abroad over the summer. At that point I couldn’t
involvement with her sister was hypocritical. And I
tell when we would talk about why we were there. Since
told her so.
Selene is non-confrontational to a fault, I thought I would ●●●
be the one to bring it up, but she surprised me.
It’s been four months since the original confrontation with Selene. She lives on the other side of the state, so
She took a deep breath and told me that she had never
it would have been easy to stay out of touch. Sometimes
doubted my story, regardless of the words that she put
I felt that cutting her off would be the only thing that
up in defense of her actions. In my heart I knew that
could possibly make me feel better. There were certainly
was true. I saw that she felt serious remorse, and in that
points throughout the summer when I resolved to do
moment I took her hand.
just that. I thought there was no way she could remedy the situation because Cordelia would continue to date
When I was angrier, I had planned to bring up the
Will, and I couldn’t have someone in my life who was
insensitive things that she said when I had provoked her.
intertwined with my sexual assaulter. I was determined
I no longer thought that was necessary. I had planned on
not to empathize with Selene; I couldn’t even entertain
describing in detail what had happened to me so that she’d
the thought that the situation might be out of her control.
feel guilty and ashamed that she had ever questioned my legitimacy. As soon as I got there, that fight went out of
Eventually, I got tired of being angry. You can’t be an
me. What would it have accomplished? I could make up
American and not know about #MeToo. You can’t be
with her without proving some moral high ground. Why
a citizen of the internet and avoid the never-ending
take out my anger about something I can’t control on a
revelations about your previously unproblematic fave.
woman who genuinely cares about me and hurts every day
Articles outing sexual predators flood my timeline every
from the same pain of this patriarchal mess that we’re all
day and not one of them has surprised me. I’ve known
living in? Approaching this topic in black and white might
too many women nursing this same pain to think that
make me feel righteous, but it wouldn’t help me heal.
famous men are any more morally upright than the ones that I know personally. If you can avoid this barrage, I
I’d say I was already ready to forgive her, but forgive isn’t
say shame on you for soaking in bliss while I envy your
the right word. I don’t think that I was all that fair to her
ignorance privately. It feels hard to be a woman, but it’s
in the first place, and to say that I’ve forgiven her implies
even harder to feel like nothing will ever change. I decided
that I was in some sort of higher position. I took my pent
that I needed to reevaluate, swallow some of my pride,
up anger out on the wrong person. It was just another
and see if healing can start with mending a friendship.
situation in which Will had made me feel helpless. I was
●●●
angry that no one had helped me, and I’d be damned if I
Scheduling 24 hours to drive to western Michigan proved
didn’t try to help Cordelia. But there isn’t really anything
easier than I thought it would be. All the logistical barriers
that I can do. Selene talked to Cordelia and advised her
that I thought had kept us apart were not that challenging
to have her own conversation with Will. Unfortunately,
to overcome. If the both of us genuinely wanted to see
I don’t think I can ever be sure that that conversation
each other, we could make time. I was planning to drive
happened. That’s just how things are. I have to let go of the
out there for a school assignment, and I knew that it was
idea that I have any control over what people do. If there
my moment. I texted Selene and said that I wanted to
was a time where I could have him punished, it passed
see her while I was in town. She meant something to me
a while ago. I don’t know if I have the responsibility to
and we were not going to drift apart because neither of us
call him out or write a #MeToo essay with his real name.
wanted to go headfirst into confrontation.
Right now the only thing that I know is that I want to be happy and whole.
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I was nervous that she’d bail up until an hour before we
●●●
had planned to meet, but Selene stuck to her word. We
When I got to campus three months after Will assaulted
started off with the regular updates. She talked about
me, I decided that I would join the Sexual Assault
Prevention and Awareness Center as
●●●
a volunteer. It was the best decision
A year ago, I would not have been able
I’ve made during college. I’ve
to write about this, although it has
dedicated a lot of time and energy
still been difficult. Not because it
to combating sexual violence on
permanently changed the way I view
campus. That’s definitely been
relationships, the way that I feel
fulfilling, but there’s one thing
about my body, the way that I fight
that’s common to a lot of us
for change, or the way that I cry
in this group: Most of us are
constantly because I can’t remember
survivors and none of us have
a day without a new #MeToo story,
answers. We seek healing and
but because I feel like no one gives a
comfort in various ways, but
shit. I feel bad that I’m subjecting my
our motto is that only survivors
classmates to reading about a trauma
know what is best for them in their
that no one really cares about. I feel bad
individual cases. This makes sense;
taking up space when there are people
no one should tell another person the
who were hurt worse. As soon as I start to
right or wrong way to deal with trauma.
write about my feelings in depth, I quickly
But I’ve always had this suspicion that we parrot this line not because we believe in the inner compass of every individual survivor, but
feel that I’m being melodramatic and that it wouldn’t have that much power over me if I simply stopped thinking about it, stopped giving it power. But
because none of us has ever found a satisfying answer.
speaking out takes power away from my assault. Defying
Telling survivors to search within themselves and find
shame is the only way to make it go away.
their personalized solutions is easier than admitting that there isn’t a straightforward path towards healing.
I want to heal more than anything, but I can’t see a
●●●
straight path towards it. Instead I oscillate between
The list of people I know who have been sexually assaulted
recovery and anger until I land on apathy. I always
and/or harassed is much longer than the list of people
thought that I would either need to forgive or forget Will
who have not. It would be a longer list if it weren’t so hard
in order to become my whole self again, but I see that as
to see. Every one of my best friends is a survivor of sexual
an incomplete perception of healing now. Healing doesn’t
violence, my mother was never the same after childhood
mean that I will be able return to the naive 18-year-old
sexual abuse, my best friend’s mothers were never safe in
I once was. There was a part of me that was shattered,
their own homes. Sexual violence permeates every single
and even though something shattered can become whole
day of my life, and it is exhausting.
again, it will always be tender and I must always be gentle with it.
The most insidious part is that it’s not always committed
●●●
by the scum of the earth and the definitively sociopathic;
After our lunch, Selene and I shared a smoke on her
it is codified by the difference in how boys and girls are
terrace. I felt so comfortable, like no time or harsh feelings
raised. The problem of sexual violence isn’t something
had passed between us. It felt so easy to talk about nothing
that magically pops up once someone hits puberty. I
with her, and we felt stronger because of our falling out. I
can pinpoint moments where rage filled up and flowed
will never forget my assault, but rekindling my friendship
over because I was acutely aware that boys had a certain
with Selene helped me realize that in order to move
range of acceptable behavior that forced me to absorb
forward, I need to cling to the bright spots worth fighting
their consequences. The pattern of coercive behavior that
for rather than clinging to my trauma. The depression in
Will fit into didn’t come about because of anything that I
my worry stone will never flatten out, but now I reach
did or any feelings that he had about me. It was present
for it less.
because he had been a little boy who had always been told that he could get away with small violations, so what was stopping him from getting away with bigger ones?
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Re- : $ e l a t
14
Overthinking being . d i a p r Unde wens
by Ally O
Typically, by March, it is customary for college students to have some semblance of what summer will hold in store for them: landing an internship, going abroad for school, traveling for leisure, or even visiting family. By March, the only news I had received were emails from Indeed that Fogo de Chao was hiring in my area. But hey, I can’t say that nepotism wasn’t on my side. While my peers’ connections brought them in New York City or Los Angeles, my family’s landed me in khaki shorts and a hand-me-down shirt that was three sizes too small. A camp counselor? How naive of you to think that my form of torture would be that cliche. Fate had something much better in store for me. My mother, someone who has known me since birth, thought it would be a swell idea to negotiate a job on my behalf (and without my consent) at a daycare. Me. Someone who treats children with the callousness of a Disney villain. It truly was a match made in heaven, which is why I quit (read: stopped showing up) after working a cumulative sum of 11 hours. I was broke. My mother was pressuring me to find a job as though I had been on the unemployment line for eight years. And with my only other option being the zoo they tried to pass off as a daycare, I had reached a point of desperation. So, I headed to the mall, expecting an uphill battle. Turns out, all you need to be hired in retail in under a day is: 1. Be white. Or use your white voice over the phone to secure the interview. (***If you’re tired of this joke, do something to change the culture in which this joke exists.) 2. Casually slide in (who am I kidding?) RAM into the conversation that you attend the University of Michigan. They’ll probably ask you for clarification of which school. Reply the one
with blue and yellow. Then they’ll know. 3. Describe yourself as “adaptable.” Utilizing this lethal combination, I managed to come away with two new jobs: sales positions at both Bath & Body Works and Soma Intimates. Initially, they seemed to be decent enough. I was going to be paid higher than Georgia’s minimum wage of $7.25 per hour (I heart my red state,) and because of what the stores sold, I would face minimal interaction with creepy straight, cis men. I was, dare I say, hopeful, for these new opportunities. That ended quite swiftly. While I never set my expectations too high for retail, the dystopian nightmare that I experienced is too hilarious not to share with others. In fact, there is a lot that happened over the summer that, in my immense boredom of selling candles and bras, I realized could be considered a microcosm for a lot of the broader ills we experience as a society. So yes, I took the jobs to make money, and even though that remained my sole motive up until...well... I started writing this paper, why can’t I pull a Gloria Steinem and expose the shit I saw while I was on the clock? From me, to you: this is re-tales.
“It’s no secret that women in service jobs are subject to harassment from men who lack the capacity to differentiate between obligatory friendliness and sexual attraction.” It’s no secret (but evidently not important enough to warrant real action) that women in service jobs are subject to harassment from men who lack the capacity to differentiate between obligatory friendliness and sexual attraction. I worked at Chick-fil-A when I was sixteen. I am well versed in the art of men screaming obscenities at girls from cars. However, what distinguished Chickfil-A from Bath & Body Works was that I never expected my superiors at Chick-fil-A to have my back. After all, my managers were conservative15
leaning white men, who, if off the clock, would most likely be screaming the obscenities themselves. At Bath & Body Works, all of my managers were women. Further, 90% of the customers who entered the store were women. In the off-chance that a man did enter the store and make someone feel uncomfortable, I had the utmost confidence that my bosses would have my back.
The week preceding Mother’s Day is the only time of the year that the crowd in Bath & Body Works could be considered co-ed. Dead-beat sons from all over the metro-Atlanta area flood the store, all buying the same two $12.99 candles for their (probably soon-to-be disappointed) mothers. Thirty minutes until clock-out, I was approached by two men. It would be too kind to compare their attire to the pimps from Norbit, so I’ll leave you to imagine what two adult men who go to the mall at 1pm on a Wednesday dress like. Already robotically ringing up his items (can you guess what he was buying?), I quickly realized the situation that I was in. The sad reality of womanhood is developing the double consciousness that in addition to being looked at, you also have to act as though you are unaware of the surveillance. Over time, you associate looks with signals. Their looks were a clear signal of disrespect approaching on the horizon. Normally, I’d avert eye contact. I’d keep walking. I’d try to get through the transaction as fast as possible with the hope that I could stuff his receipt in his face before he could say anything that would make my blood boil and my vagina dry up. That day, cowering didn’t seem to be on the agenda. Seven hours on my feet and the gut feeling that I had backup support gave me license to be combative. Too deep inside my own mind 16
(preemptively planning a comeback), I missed the initial purposeless question he posed to me. I ignored him. As he leaned on the counter, I bluntly told him his total. He asked me how old I was. Nice. A classic. I asked him if he had coupons he would like to use. He pressed me again for my age, then asked if I liked coffee. I told him flatly that there was a line I needed to get to. The sole customer standing behind the men looked puzzled as to how she became involved in the tift. Somehow still thinking that I was game for unemployed, mall-rat dick, he said in the corniest tone possible that he just wanted to get to know me because I was beautiful. Fighting the urge to question what he could possibly want to know about the person ringing up his items, I opted to smugly tell him that if he couldn’t afford the $24 tab, I could keep his items on hold. Realizing that I was not willing to be patronized (and thus must be destroyed), his friend piped up and asked me if anyone ever told me if I was a bitch. I grinned. “Every. Single. Day. Of my life.”
“His friend piped up and asked me if anyone ever told me if I was a bitch.” He told me that he could see why. Sick burn, man. They left their items on the counter in a huff, and I took a breath, thankful to be rid of them. I rang up my next customer without issue, and then went over to a coworker, Amanda, who I considered a friend an ally the best assistant manager on duty at the moment, prepared to vent to her about what had just happened. Her reaction was stern. A stark contrast to the time when she forced me to watch her (homemade and terrible) music videos on the sales floor. Before I could even finish my thought, she cut me off and told me that the men had already come over to snitch on me. In vain, I tried to re-explain the story to her. She cut me off again, this time to
ask me whether or not they had completed their purchase. I told her no. “We really can’t afford to be rude to customers.” Bug-eyed and taken-aback that she didn’t immediately take her employee’s (and her fellow woman’s) side, I attempted to re-explain the story. She condescended me, telling me that she knew that I was “new,” but if I was ever caught in a scenario like that again, I needed to entertain the comments. Every transaction counted, and we really needed to make conversion that week. Making matters worse, she called over the general manager, Ellie, who gave me a similar “talk” and also threatened my position at the store.
little things like what happened to me at Bath & Body Works can escalate. From my mundane situation, the stakes only increase. The power structure only becomes more unbeatable. Allies become more and more scarce, and complacency becomes more commonplace. We need to take the little things seriously, so that they do not reach the point of no return.
“We need to take the little things seriously, so that they do not reach the point of no return.”
Neither asked if I felt OK, but both asked me if I could stay for an extra thirty minutes past my clock-out time. Apparently, men twenty years my senior making me feel unsafe in my place of work is not as important as converting customers to sales. In addition to being horrendously capitalistic, this situation also proved yet another example of women being made secondary. I am supposed to be OK with men leering at me so that some CEO can make more money off of shitty lotion. Worst of all, in my situation, and probably a myriad of other women’s scenarios, this norm is being perpetuated by the women in-charge. Thankfully, my workplace spat came with a safety net. I have the privilege of my parents’ financial support, so I did not have to rely on that job as my sole source of income. We act as though all women hold this privilege, but really, we know better. Are lower-income women supposed to be complacent in their oppression simply because they literally cannot afford to challenge the system they exist in? No one should have to decide between standing up for themselves or keeping their lights on. My managers told me that I didn’t understand the politics of the workplace because I was new. But the thing is, I’m not. My nineteen years have allowed me to observe how 15 17
18
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DIET FE In the last few years, feminism has entered the mainstream and been picked up as a part of pop culture through celebrity endorsements, product advertisements, and clothes with catchy slogans. I can’t go a day without seeing a shirt or a laptop sticker decorated with a feminist slogan. A personal favorite of mine is the laptop covered in a mosaic of stickers overlapping each other, a mysterious allure surrounding the half obscured feminist sticker. Said laptop-owner has exercised enough care to both purchase and place the sticker, but only enough to leave the femi- portion visible. Though these trendy products often make me roll my eyes, seeing these symbols everywhere is empowering because it reminds me that other people are aware of the injustices in this world and are taking some small step to fight against them. This popularization, however, has also made me stop and think: how does this “trendiness” actually impact the feminist movement as a whole? In some ways I think it helps introduce more people to feminism by making it a common household term. At the same time, I can see how it waters feminism down to empty slogans and moves the focus away from what feminism really is. As a result of feminism being portrayed in a very vague and broad manner, the concept of intersectionality—the recognition that individuals face oppression from multiple different aspects of their identity—is often overlooked. The merging of feminism with pop culture has helped to create “diet” feminism: Feminism Lite™. It’s like feminism but more palatable and commercialized than the original!
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Shirts with slogans like, “Feminist,” and, “This is what a feminist looks like!” are all the rage, as are flashy laptop stickers and buttons. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing inherently wrong with buying and wearing these products if they are ethically manufactured. The true problem arises when this merchandise is used as a substitute for activism by performative feminists, “feminists” in name only. Easy access to symbols of the feminist movement allows performative feminists to gain a bigger footing in the movement while maintaining a comfortably low level of understanding and involvement. Performative feminists toute the slogans and merchandise but none of the values, thus skewing what it means to be a feminist and misleading others into thinking that this shallow level of involvement is something to be applauded. It’s almost like they’re social justice tourists—making stops at different booths, buying a couple of shirts, then returning home and telling everyone that they saw sooo much of the country and learned all about the local culture. Wearing those trendy shirts makes people feel good about themselves, and this quick self-validation often stops them from educating themselves further and becoming true allies; they feel they’ve done their part by repping the brand. This increasing focus on how we outwardly present our support of feminism takes focus off true intersectionality, thus moving the term “feminism” further away from the root of the movement.
MINISM by Sona Raju
On top of the merchandise with feminist slogans, advertising campaigns have started using “female-empowering” themes and imagery to create the impression that they support social issues and marginalized groups. Some campaigns make an actual impact by partnering with charities and nonprofit organizations who give back to the community, but this is not the case for majority of businesses. Their ultimate intention and goal is to make money, and they co-opt the feminist movement to help them do so while giving very little back in terms of social action. This move to the mainstream also allows people to be selective in their feminism, producing a culture where performative feminists feel supported and validated. They are seen as feminist simply because of how they present themselves, allowing them to ignore intersectionality and instead focus only on issues that impact them. Because this validation is so easily given, people don’t feel the need to educate themselves further and learn more about feminism, giving rise to white feminism and other problematic stances. Commercialized feminist products make it easy to fall into this trap of only addressing issues that apply to you, because the products you consume are often just about you. When the products around you are focused on just one issue, it makes it easy to ignore other equally important issues. When these products get thrown under the banner of feminism it’s also much easier to miss how said product may be exclusive toward certain groups. For example, the infamous “Pussy Hats” commercialize vaginas as the
defining symbol of womanhood, excluding transgender women and gender nonbinary people in the process.
Stickers and shirts are ways of aesthetically showing off your personal brand, but listing feminism as a special skill on the resume that is your laptop is hardly impactful or meaningful. The simplest way to avoid being performative in your feminism is to educate yourself. If you appreciate that quote or image enough to wear it or stick it on your laptop, don’t stop there! Find out who that art is by, read and learn about more of their work, and explore some ways to support their cause. Your next steps could be trying to inform those around you. Authentic feminism is all about investing in feminism by educating yourself and using what you learn to contribute back to the movement in whatever way you can.
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Pop Quiz
by Lia Baldori It’s 8am on a Monday, and I’m waiting to take my first exam of the semester. Question 1: “What brings you to University Health Services today?” (It’s a pelvic exam.) I swallow and crane my ears, trying to gauge the permeability of the cubicle walls that surround the UHS secretary and me. Next door I hear a boy describe the quality of his nasal drippage. I decide that I am in a cesspool with no social boundaries and prepare to tell DANIELLE everything.
“I mean, I was careful this summer and from my understanding he was too. I guess I’d rather just be safe than…” The Professor nods, unfazed. “Makes sense.” I should never have doubted her.
“Um, I think I might have a yeast infection?”
Question 6: “Can you get your feet in the stirrups?”
Question 2: “Could you describe your symptoms?”
I groan inwardly. I wouldn’t mind these exams if it weren’t for the...what’s that thing called?
I am irked by this question. Was “potential yeast infection” not specific enough? What more do I have to spell out in this paper-thin cubicle? It feels like I got rawed by a cactus, DANIELLE. Despite the hours I spent lining my underwear with Greek yogurt yesterday, the sensation has not gone away. (Thanks for nothing, DIYNetwork.com.) “Just...especially sensitive since yesterday, I guess. I’ve never had one before, so I figured better safe than…” “Gotcha.” DANIELLE collects the rest of my information, jabbing it into her keyboard with her coffin-shaped acrylics. She tells me the Women’s Health Clinic is technically full today, but she can request for someone to see me if I’m willing to wait in triage for an indeterminate amount of time. I consider the cactus and accept, following the point of her manicure to the room next door. After the first forty-five minutes I begin to worry that my examiner has reported to the wrong classroom, but she arrives within the next half hour. She is waifish with mousy brown hair, but she carries herself like Conor McGregor. I trust her immediately. She will be referred to as The Professor from this point on. Questions 3, 4, & 5: ”Are you sexually active? How many partners have you had in the past 9 months? Do you or your current partner have any history with STIs?” I knew these questions were coming, as they do with every gyno visit. Still, I feel a little insecure explaining that while I’ve been seeing someone for a few months, we took a mutually-agreedupon hiatus from the “exclusive” aspect over the summer. I try to make it sound as practical as possible while scouring The Professor’s face for signs
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of disapproval. I know doctors are supposed to be unbiased, but I’ve met gynecologists who are a little more...honest about their opinions. A slightly-downturned-mouth here, an eyebrow-raise there. Women helping women and whatnot. Or trying to.
“I’m just going to insert the speculum.” Right. Wikipedia defines them neutrally as “medical tools for investigating bodily orifices,” but I am convinced that speculums are a cold, metal result of the patriarchy’s infiltration of our medical system. Whenever I experience one I hear the cartoony, rubbery noise of a balloon stretching to capacity in my mind’s ear. The Professor takes a look, then a feel, then utters the words you never want to hear when you go to the clinic thinking you have a yeast infection. “That is NOT yeast.” My head is light. I can’t feel the speculum anymore. In fact, I might pass out with the damn thing inside me. “What?” “I’ve seen plenty of yeast in my day. This, isn’t.” She goes on to explain what “this” is. It appears to be cervicitis, a general term for inflammation of the cervix. Causes range from too much soap to too much sex, but are often STI-related. Regardless of origin, The Professor tells me that my next step is for everyone involved to get tested and treated. “It’s not that big a deal, really. I’ve seen cases of it in monogamous couples before. No STI, just random bacteria. You’ll both take antibiotics to be safe, abstain for two weeks, and move on. Men can carry it, they just aren’t likely to experience symptoms…” Sounds like God’s way of punishing women for mortal sin, I think. “...so you need to call your boyfriend and tell him to come in for testing. Just for good measure.”
Boyfriend? I open my mouth to correct her, then catch myself. I don’t want to break it to The Professor that “dating” is too strong a word for whatever I have with #. Come to think of it, so is the word “with.” In classic hookup culture fashion, we are affectionate friendswith-benefits. Also in classic hookup culture fashion, over the past few weeks I’ve begun to realize I want more than that. I wonder if I can kill two birds with one stone. Dear #, I wanted to tell you I love you, but instead I have to tell you I have cervicitis. I shudder. Can’t imagine that going well. The Professor leaves to file for my prescription. While I wait for her return, I think about the “monogamous couple” she so kindly told me about. I wonder if they’re still together. I bet they got over it, no question. I bet they spent two weeks watching Netflix and flying kites and taking their antibiotics side-by-side. When they were able to “make love” again, they agreed that it was transcendent. I bet cervicitis is a mere blip on their radar at this point. I hate them. When she returns, The Professor tells me to head up to the lab for more tests, but before I go I can’t resist pressing the matter of blame. “So, I’m just curious, really I know it isn’t a big deal, but…. this could be from bacteria he picked up, right?” The Professor shrugs. “It’s possible.” “Or maybe it happened when I swam in the river last weekend? Or something?” “Wouldn’t rule it out.” “I just mean, I mean this feels immature but usually the person who tells the other person...you know, I just feel like telling him will make me sound responsible, like I gave him something, and I’d just really like to avoid that because I already feel like an underdog in this situation and-” “You’ll be fine.” In the lab, a purple-haired phlebotomist leads me to a chair and instructs me to roll up my sleeve. Her tattooed finger is a divining rod on my forearm. She’s looking for a vein. “Now make a fist. You’ll feel a little poke when I insert the needle. ” Ouch.
“There we go. The worst is over, now we’re just waiting for you to fill this tube.” “Done! [Question 7:] You ready to give a urine sample?” My trip to the bathroom is the first time I’ve been alone since I became aware of my condition. I look in the mirror and envision a low-quality television PSA, the kind you might see on a local news channel. This is the face of cervicitis. I wonder again how to go about breaking the news to #. My initial impulse is to send a “We need to talk” text and schedule something for in-person, but the suspense of that phrase combined with its cliche-factor is an immediate turnoff. A phone call seems like the better option. I begin to sweat. I wonder if I would feel this nervous if we were in a committed relationship. Probably not. A rational side of my brain tries to remind me that, officially together or not, at this point we’ve probably built a bond substantial enough to withstand this. Furthermore, if he abandons me over a medical condition, he’s certainly not worth my time. So I have an inflamed cervix. I’m still ME. A knock at the door makes me realize I’m sitting on the toilet. Preoccupied with thoughts of love and STIs, it appears I went on autopilot and peed as one normally does, saving none for the sample container. “fUHck.” I stand up. Sit down. Envision a waterfall and manage to eke out a little more.
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Back in the lobby I pick up my prescription, then head outside, phone in hand. Before I can overthink it I dial and hold it to my ear, then reconsider.
Wednesday: Nothing.
Maybe I should hang up and call back from a place where I have some privac-
Thursday. Nothing.
Nevermind. Pleasantries ensue, but I’m quick to get to the heart of the matter.
This is the longest we’ve gone without communication since we reunited in early August. My mom was right. I am 16 again, my expectations too high for men boys who only care about me for as long as my body is useful to them. It’s an old sentiment, but the reality of it still stings.
“So yesterday something didn’t feel right with my, um...” I fidget. People are passing me on the stairs outside of UHS. “Sorry, this is kind of tough because I’m outside. Anyway my downstairsmixup didn’t feel right yesterday...”
On Friday I wake up with an email from UHS. My exam results are in. I open them to reveal a string of negatives. I passed with flying colors; I have half a mind to print it out and stick it to my mini-fridge.
I explain. He listens.
The two most important things I learned this week are:
“Hey, what’s up?”
“...so, while I don’t have reason to believe it was caused by an STI, you should get checked out anyway, just to be safe.” He’s quiet. I know I don’t owe him anything, but I feel compelled to apologize anyway. “Sorry I had to tell you like this. I couldn’t think of a better way.” Question 8: “Wait-hey uh. Will you...text me the name of that. Thing you have?” We hang up. I feel hollow. After I send him a message with the necessary details, I think about my mother, who, upon realizing I was sexually active, spent my later-adolescence trying to save me from heartbreak with gentle reminders like: “Just because a boy likes you with your clothes off doesn’t mean he likes you. He doesn’t think you’re special, he doesn’t care about how smart you are. They will say anything.” My phone buzzes. My heart lifts a little. Maybe this is where I get some kind of reassurance that we’re good? Question 9: “Wait so is it caused by an STI?” Question 10: “R u sure you didn’t have unprotected sex with anyone this summer?” Question 11: “Could u have had something before we first hooked up?” Not the sympathetic follow-up I was hoping for. I could pick a fight with these questions. Instead, I reply with “Not always,” “Yes,” and “No.” Here is a synopsis of what I hear from # as the week goes on: Tuesday: Nothing.
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His silence on my cervicitis is deafening.
1. I do not have (and have never had) an STI. 2. I am not (and have never been) in love. With timing that can only be described as uncanny, I receive a text from #. (Extra Credit) Question 12: “Any news?” I’m a little hurt that my well-being still hasn’t been addressed. Then annoyed at myself for caring. Regardless, he’s entitled to know I’m in the clear, so I tell him. He’s relieved and excited and wants to see me soon, but the message I’m composing in my head is different now. Dear #, I wanted to tell you I love you, but then I had to tell you I had cervicitis. I wanted to tell you I love you, but then you did not hesitate to blame me for having cervicitis, which, by the way, is a two-way street and I wanted to tell you I love you, but I’m glad I didn’t. Prick.
And The Bees a bee would not sting the girl — she is dead, asleep. i was stung by you
only picked by chance you ripped me from where i grew now i have thorns
by Lindsay Calka
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I See Black Sheep in My Dreams My doctor dispenses birth control pills like candy One Twix a month for me Two more M&M’s for my best friend Jamie And a Red Vine for my sister and her friends too When Jamie was eleven she was diagnosed with a sweet tooth. Still, the doctor prescribes her with more gumdrops. They tell her it will help with the pain. She believes them. And it works, for a little. Jamie blossoms into fifteen But much more has budded with her: More weight gain, more dreaming of death, and more slit wrists. So much blood flowing, and none being stopped.
by Tessa Rose
Blossoming into eighteen, Jamie is dealt a new kind of candy: A sugar coated peach ring from hell Now she hears all sorts of colors and shades of colors and even shapes of colors. They tell her to count sheep before she falls asleep, So she can dream of sheep herds and pillowy clouds. And ice cream And unicorns that shit rainbows But she still doesn’t feel real. Her insides start to feel like acid The ground beneath her feet caves in and she collapses with it Her eyeballs melt like ice cream And her uterus falls out into the crater beneath her feet Jamie used to dream of cotton candy sheep But now she closes her eyes and all she sees are black cotton balls that eat dirt They glare at her and whisper, “How do you know who you really are if you’ve always been addicted to candy?”
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COVER
the worry stone
bathroom confessional
re-tales: overthinking being unpaid
Shit I’m afraid to ask my doctor
diet feminism
Not A quick fix
pop quiz
Dear skeptics
and the bees
i see black sheep in my dreams
stand alone art piece pg. 29
Art by Maggie McConnell
Art by Adriana Kusmierczyk
Art by Kate Johnson
Art by Elizabeth Feldbruegge
Art by Melody Cutting
Art by Miles Honey
Art by Perry O’Toole
Art by Ariana Shaw
Art by Brooks Eisenbise
Art by Jessica Burkle
Art by Zuzanna Lutrzykowska
Art by Elizabeth Feldbruegge
Sponsored by:
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