University of Michigan
February 2019
WHAT THE F Your Irregular Periodical Issue 17
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.
april 2019 Issue 17
FUNNY, FRESH, FEMINIST, FIERCE, & FUCK Keep the conversation going! whatthefmagazine.com WhatTheFMag.tumblr.com WhatTheFMagazine WhatTheFMag WhatTheFMag
Letter from the Editor The Vulva Unveiled: Spilling the Tea on Your Body’s Secrets 04 Not (Completely) Straight 06 white liar 07 All of Our Imaginary Kisses 10 gamer gyrls 11 You Want to Know a Secret? / Gracie 12 The Dark History of Medicine in the US 14 It’s Not a Race 16 Lies Behind the Screen 19 Standalone Art Piece 20 Retales III: Or How I Became a Sellout 22 “Normal” Sex Scares Me 23 Let’s Talk About Smacking The Pony 31 Credits
01 02
Letter from the Editor Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical! Well, that was fun. Bye!!!
Just kidding. I’ve still got a whole page to fill. Strap on and strap in. I know what I said. This school year has been one for the books to say the least. We’ve seen a Polar Vortex. We’ve seen mumps (Well, four unfortunate students did.) We’ve seen Ben Shapiro (Well, 1,060 unfortunate students did.) It’s amazing that Ann Arbor has remained a bustling metropolis through it all. But that’s showbiz, baby. And Facts. And Logic. For Issue 17, I invited writers to share their secrets. I’ve jokingly referred to this theme as an oasis to quench my insatiable thirst for gossip, but beneath that incredibly weird metaphor lay a softer sentiment: I believe solidarity can be fostered through the funny, tender, and poignant aspects of our private lives. The turnout I received exceeded my expectations. This issue is packed with intriguing, intimate perspectives, from a first kiss confession to a reflection on female masturbation. I’m extremely proud of the WTF staff and the guest writers/artists who made it happen. While we’re at it, I’m extremely proud of you for picking this up. You’re really doing your part. For those of you who are envisioning a WTF-less summer with dread, dry your tears. Print season may be over, but we’re working on an online agenda to satisfy your ~feminist needs~. Keep an eye out for Instagram and blog posts over the next few months. If you’re feeling inspired, shoot us an email! I was planning on signing off with “H.A.G.S.,” but I decided against it. After sharing these little introductory notes with you all year, I feel like we’ve cultivated a bond stronger than that of you and your seventh grade locker neighbor. If you disagree, I don’t want to hear about it. Sincerely,
Lia Baldori Editor-in-Chief
1
by Cielle Waters-Umfleet
The Vulva Unveiled: Spilling the Tea on Your Body’s Secrets
For those who have them, vulvas can be a bit confusing. Whereas penises protrude outward, vaginas are inward, making self-exploration a little more complicated. To make matters worse, the female reproductive system has not been studied as extensively as the male, and much of what we know has been discovered relatively recently. (Heck, most of the information in this article comes from research published in the last decade.)
There are still plenty of mysteries hidden between labial folds and inside our abdomens, meaning that a lot of misinformation is swirling around. Sometimes it’s hard to distinguish fact from fiction, or even to know which questions to ask. Here we’re giving you the low-down on your down-there by dispelling six common vulval myths.
Myth #1: Your hymen “pops” the first time you have penetrative vaginal sex. The tea: The hymen doesn’t “pop” or “break.” It’s a thin, half-moon-shaped membrane near the opening of the vagina that allows period blood and discharge to flow out. Upon penetration by a sufficiently large object, such as a tampon, sex toy, or penis, the hymen stretches, which may cause pain or bleeding. However, this should only happen once, if at all; hymens aren’t elastic, so once stretched, they will remain so. Another note about the hymen: Some people are born with hymens that completely or nearly cover their vaginas. This requires a few snips from a doctor to fix to avoid complications with menstruation and sex.
Myth #2: Pubic hair is unhygienic and should be removed. The tea: Ironically, shaving your pubes may leave you more prone to infection than letting them be. In general, removing hair by any method (waxing, shaving, etc.) damages the follicles and increases the risk of infection. Pubic hair is especially important since the warm and wet conditions of the groin create a haven for bacterial growth. In addition, both men’s and women’s pubic hair protects against skin abrasion during sex, meaning that getting rid of it might cause more friction. (Not to mention the risk of ingrown hairs and pustules, too.) And if anyone tries to tell you that the fully grown look “isn’t sexy,” let them know that recent research suggests pubic hair traps sexually arousing pheromones, which contain a scent that excites your partner more.
Myth #3: The more sex you have, the looser your vagina becomes. The tea: Vaginas aren’t empty bags that can be easily misshapen. Rather, they’re a series of folds surrounded by muscles that expand due to sexual arousal and then return to normal later. If a woman is “tight” during sex, it’s not a sign that she’s new to the dating scene; it’s a sign that she’s not aroused or too anxious. Sexual arousal is supposed to make the vagina dilate, but the point is that it returns to its original shape after, no matter how sexually active a woman is. Aging and childbirth are the only factors that can permanently alter the size of a vagina, and even then, pelvic floor exercises, certain sex positions, and minor procedures from a urologist can help them maintain their shape.
2
Myth #4: The G-spot doesn’t exist. The tea: It does...but it’s not what we once thought it was. First described in 1950 by Dr. Gräfenberg, the G-spot is a region on the anterior wall (side nearest your belly button) of the vagina that produces sexual pleasure when stimulated. Researchers have debated for decades on what the G-spot really is, and even now some still doubt it exists. The best explanation is that it is the endpoint of the clitoral network, which extends back about four inches from the nub we know and love. It’s also been described as “the female prostate” due to its proximity to the Skene’s glands, which are responsible for lubricating the urethra and releasing fluids similar to the prostate’s. So while vaginas do contain “special spots,” because the sensation is a result of different systems working together, it’s not on any medical maps. Also, depending on your system, the G-spot may be close to the vaginal opening or nearer to the cervix, or it may be hidden inside vaginal folds. Wanna find yours? Self-exploration might be simpler than trying with a partner. And if you don’t find it, don’t worry. While some can orgasm from G-spot stimulation, others feel very little or find it uncomfortable. It’s your body. Never be afraid to figure out what feels good for you.
Myth #5: Cranberry juice can cure my UTI. The tea: Urinary tract infections, or UTIs, result from bacteria setting up camp in the urethra. As male urethras are longer, they are 4x more common in women. And common they are. Symptoms include frequent bathroom trips, abdominal or lower back pain, and a burning/stinging sensation while urinating. Although cranberry juice may help to relieve symptoms, research doesn’t show that it significantly works to fight bacteria. UTIs require a visit to the doctor to treat fully. Some prevention methods include using tampons instead of pads to keep the area drier, peeing after sex to flush out any bacteria that may come into contact with the urethra, and changing out of wet clothes like bathing suits as soon as you’re not swimming anymore. NOTE: If you or a friend are experiencing UTI symptoms, you should get to a doctor immediately. It will only get worse. That said, you don’t have to suffer while you wait for an appointment. AZO Urinary Pain Relief is an over-the-counter tablet that relieves symptoms within an hour. (Not sponsored, just caring!) Remember: antibiotics are necessary to ensure that the bacteria goes away, so make sure you still get medical attention, even if AZO has you feelin’ right.
Myth #6: A healthy vulva shouldn’t smell. The tea: A healthy vulva shouldn’t smell...bad. Vaginas are a bacterial jungle with many helpful or neutral species. Each one gives off a scent, making up your unique smell. In fact, researchers can divide women into seven different smell categories. The normal scents include tangy like beer or yogurt, earthy-sweet like molasses, and strong like BO or weed. However, smelling like copper or ammonia may be cause for concern. Metallic scents when you’re not on your period could indicate abnormal bleeding, and an ammonia scent could either signify a urine buildup or bacterial vaginosis. And despite what society may say, smelling like rotten fish or animals is NEVER normal. The former usually comes from bacterial vaginosis or trichomoniasis – two common infections that require antibiotics – and the latter often stems from a forgotten tampon (it’s more common than you’d think). Regardless of what your vagina is telling you now, avoid using heavily scented products or douches, as they may disrupt your bacterial ecosystem and leave you worse than before. If you’re bothered by the scent or notice a distinct change, your doctor can help diagnose infections and recommend treatment options.
In all cases, it’s good to remain critical and seek out information on your own. Just because something has been fed to you as the truth does not mean that it is. And for no topic is it more important to have accurate, reliable facts than for your health. The human body is complex and beautiful, and our reproductive
organs are no different, which is why we need to learn as much as we can about them. Through these tidbits on your tidbits, we hope you can better understand, take care of, and love the system you were born with.
3
Not (Completely) Straight: Discovering My Real Identity in Our Heteronormative Landscape by Ellery Rosenzweig
Giggling lying side by side in bed, she moves in close to my face and kisses me. A soft and long kiss. With the sheets covering our heads, we lie in our own little world, forgetting that our friends are in the room next door. “She” was one of my close friends in high school, and happened to have a serious boyfriend at the time. In my friend group, we always kissed each other. It was that “I love you like a sister,” we are drunk, peck kind of thing best friends often do. But looking back this kiss was a little different from my normal friendship kisses because I think I had a little crush on her.
4
I think when people in my life assume that I’m straight, they are pretty much right. Growing up, I never questioned if I liked boys. I always liked the guys in my classes, loved hearing love stories, watching romantic comedies, and fantasizing over the hottest stars like Zac Efron and Nick Jonas. My friends and I would talk forever about our future boyfriends and what our relationships would be like (with boys). And, for the most
part, this is all still true. I only have ever dated men. When I’m pursuing someone to be with, it is always a guy. I never really questioned my sexuality because I knew I at least liked men, and to me that meant I was straight. I’m usually attracted to men who are taller and bigger than me. I always justified this by thinking it was because they made me feel small, which I used to long to be. I thought that as a girl, my romantic partners should always be bigger, but I’ve realized that this is a sentiment I probably picked up from the stereotypical relationships I saw in TV and movies, not my own desires. After all, it’s pretty rare to see a movie couple where the woman is taller or bigger than the man, thus enforcing a strict, heteronormative body dynamic in my mind. 5
Earlier this year, I dated a guy who was similar in height if not shorter, and much smaller than me in body size. He was more feminine than anyone I had pursued or dated before. In the beginning, I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that I was so much bigger than him, but I really liked being with him and with time I soon realized that our sizes didn’t matter. Being with him showed me that I could be attracted to more feminine men. This led me to wonder, If I can be attracted to feminine men, why couldn’t I be interested in feminine people in general? I was kind of in shock. I’d never really had this thought before. I always thought people are attracted to or fall in love with one another for who they genuinely are. Not their gender or because of their parts, and not always because of the way they look (even though this is can be important for passion). Although I always had this belief that gender didn’t really matter in terms of romantic relationships, it finally rung true for me for the first time. This semester, I’m facilitating a dialogue on sexual orientation and attractionality through Intergroup Relations. This space, while is designed for my students to learn about their own varying
attraction and the structural inequalities in our society, has also allowed me to reflect more on my own sexuality. This type of conversation and reflection brought up old memories, like the one of my not-so-platonic kiss with my high school friend. So, now that I have been thinking and talking with my close friends about questioning my sexual orientation, what has changed? Nothing really. I still really only date and pursue men. I did change my Tinder to be looking for both men and women, but I have never really pursued anything with a woman there or in my real life. I have not taken a new label or orientation outside of “straight” because I’m not entirely sure where I land on the spectrum. For now, I think that’s fine. I technically do not have to know. I’m aware that there is privilege in this position, as my sexual identity is invisible and does not impact my day to day life. But, this is where I am now and the only way I’m going to be able to understand and learn about myself is by being genuine and vulnerable about how I feel.
white liar by Lindsay Calka since when did secrets and lies become different as a child we called them white as if they were good better than labeling them white made it better surprise party secret I tell white lies all the time I stopped sharing my location secret that’s not a lie fabrication fake information make for easy characterization secret and a lie does it seem true that part of me secret who I am to you does that even seem true the truth can’t hurt my lies are undisclosed you are not entitled to the secret dramatic irony in the story unreliable narrator writes her white lies
6
All of Our Imaginary Kisses by Liv Velarde
Catholic school showed me indoctrination so effective that it felt as though my brain had been completely rewired. I didn’t know that there were people in this world that weren’t Catholic until I was around eleven years old. Everything that I had been taught for my first fourteen years of existence was so steeped in Catholic ideology that I only thought and acted in ways that the religion dictated. If I failed to do so, then my own internal narrative told me I was wicked. In Louis Althusser’s essay, “On Ideology,” first published in 1970, the Frenchman and Marxist theorist explains how a person will act once indoctrinated by an ideology in the following way: If he believes in God, he goes to Church to attend Mass, kneels, prays, confesses, does penance… If he believes in Justice, he will submit unconditionally to the rules of the Law, and may even protest when they are violated; sign petitions, take part in a demonstration, etc. Here, I’ll explain how a person will act if they are raised within the ideology of the Patriarchy: If he believes in the Patriarchy, he will submit unconditionally to the rules of the Patriarchy (toxic masculinity; sexual harassment and assault; asserting power at home, in bed, at work), and may even protest when the rules are violated; rant online, prey on women, demean women he is threatened by. Men shame men and women. And again: If she believes in the Patriarchy, she will submit unconditionally to the rules of the Patriarchy (staying home and rearing children; cleaning; cooking; sucking dick; playing the “cool girl;” spending time and money on a beauty routine) and may even protest when other women do not follow these strict rules that she feels obligated to adhere to. Although the Patriarchy is oppressive of women, all people will act a certain way after having been socialized by the ideology of the Patriarchy, even when it is not really within their best interest. If one does not follow the rules set forth by one of the most dominant ideologies present in the media we consume, the family structures we’re used to, and the very air that we breathe, we feel wicked and ashamed. How, then, do we live our lives once we’ve decided to stop believing in the Patriarchy? About a year ago, I was done with men. I was done with dating full stop, but specifically I was done with men. I had just clawed my way out of a long relationship with a predatory and controlling man seven years my senior that left me feeling like a shell of a person. I didn’t know who the hell I was, what made me happy or what made life worth living. I wanted to look inwards, to understand what it meant to be alone and what that could do for my sense
of self. Seeking introspection, I overcorrected and became isolated. I’m trying to date again. I was living such a confined existence in my head trying to find myself that I just wanted to meet new people. I was sick of myself. Largely due to the aforementioned relationship, I’ve made it through most of college without totally finding my niche. I spend a lot of my time alone, and I was jealous when I looked around and saw that most of my friends had people who they saw every day and could never get sick of. My first foray into dating was an intense but short relationship with Ivy, which ended amicably. This was the first time I had ever been with a woman and it was the first time that someone else’s gaze made me feel good about myself instead of making me pinpoint inadequacies. When I see myself in the mirror or glimpse a photo of myself, I can think about Ivy looking at it, looking at me, and I feel warm. After Ivy and I ended things, I thought that I might be able to handle dating men as well. I had come to hate men so thoroughly, but I hadn’t really spoken to many outside of classes or family in a long while. I began to think that it was possible that my blanket hatred was unwarranted. Maybe it was a compulsive heterosexual backlash, but I felt like it was the right move. Besides, I thought I had met one who was nice. I asked him out. Things were going well. He seemed smart and considerate and went out of his way to read pieces I had published. On our third date, I tried to inject some vulnerability into our situation. I put pressure where it might break to see if it did. I knew that to reach the rewards of being loved [we must] submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known (kreider). Before I asked him about his insecurities, I told him one of my own. That no one would be able to divorce their perception of my physical being from their perception of my authentic individual self. “Why?” he asked. Just before this, he had told me that I was out of his league. I told him that I didn’t know what that meant. He told me that I was beautiful. “Well, because I’m beautiful.” “Don’t get too carried away.”
7
“You’re the one who just told me that I was beautiful and out of your league.” “People say stuff like that all the time.” I laughed it off. Some people don’t deserve your vulnerability even if you badly want them to understand. Maya Angelou said you should believe people the first time that they show you who they are. Still, I wish I had instead told him the story of the man who painted a naked woman because [he] enjoyed looking at her, put a mirror in her hand and then called the painting ‘Vanity,’ thus morally condemning the woman whose nakedness [he] had depicted for [his] own pleasure (berger). When I say that I’m worried that a man won’t be able to see past my beauty, I am not being vain. I’m not even saying that I’m particularly beautiful. What I am saying is that I cannot escape being a woman, and he cannot escape what the Patriarchy has taught him. I’m trying to communicate the terror I feel, that maybe I’m not an individual without the validation of a man. He could revel in being on a date with someone “way out of his league,” but I could not hold the mirror in my own hand. I should have told him the complex anxiety of constantly being aware of being seen. A woman must continually watch herself. She is almost continually accompanied by her own image of herself. Whilst she is walking across a room, or whilst she is weeping at the death of her father, she can scarcely avoid envisaging herself walking or weeping (berger). Am I suffering beautifully? Is my agony lovable? (jitterati on tumblr). Every time I look in the mirror, I do not see myself as I am but as I am being seen. I’m unfamiliar with my own face no matter how long I study it. We were laying down staring at each other. I wondered at us being so close without having a single clue about the raw thoughts of the other. If I’m in my body and you’re in yours with no way to swap, how can we ever truly be together? No matter how hard I press my face into yours, a space remains, so am I alone? (kilo kish). Can he know me in all of my profound ways? Can he know me in any profound ways if he doesn’t understand what it feels like to hate my body because I am accustomed to looking at it from the outside, with the eyes of the men I meet? Can he possibly understand me if he is not willing to understand that so much depends on my body (federici)? Can he ever understand that when I feel his eyes on me telling me that I am beautiful, I don’t feel good like
8
he intends? That, instead, my skin crawls because I never cease to be a sexual being since every genuine communication has a sexual component, for our bodies and emotions are indivisible and we communicate at all levels all the time (federici). He can’t see me without that. I can never stop being seen. The ideology of the Patriarchy is present in the School, the Church, and the Traditional Family. There is nothing that we do “willingly” that was not formed by some ideology, and that does not exist within several ideologies. We recognize that these ideas are within our consciousness, identify them as our own beliefs, and then feel obligated to act on them. The illusion of free will is just that. All of our actions, motivations, dreams, and nightmares are tainted by ideology (althusser). Dominant ideologies posit that the current state of the world is natural, therefore encouraging us to accept an imaginary peaceful relation to real violent relationships. The idealized Patriarchy is a representation of our true conditions of existence with a sugary coat draped on top of it. The omnipresence of sexual assault and harassment, crippling enforcements of femininity feed an inability to exist in the world in a way that feels truly authentic, which is why we turn to fairy tales that promise us an imaginary happy ending one day. The violent rules of our society seem second nature only because that (patriarchal) ideology has told us that this is the natural way of things. Our lived experiences are alienating, so we accept these imaginary relations to men. We put on makeup every morning without wondering why our bare skin should be covered up, go to work without questioning the men who talk over us, and we participate in sex with men that we try to convince ourselves is fulfilling because we made them feel good. Whether knowing these things is to our advantage, I’m not sure. The Bible, the source material for one of the most powerful existing ideologies, admits in Ezekiel that with
much wisdom comes much sorrow; the more knowledge, the more grief. It’s undeniably more difficult to participate in a patriarchal culture with this insight, but I hope it’s worth it. The first time that I ever had sex, I did it because I felt like it was time to get it over with. That I’d be past the gate and into the enticing world of sexually active adults. It was anticlimactic. Rainman was running in the background, and afterwards we left the basement to eat chicken and green beans with his mom. After afterwards, I cried by myself in my car. I had let someone see me and he had failed to really do so. I think the tears were a result of the shame. My Catholic guilt had told me that sex before marriage was wrong, but more intense was my disappointment at sex without affection. We both framed it as a straightforward transaction between two friends who wanted to do something fun on a day off of school, but it rocked my insides in ways I didn’t expect. I felt used. When I kiss the lips of a male oppressor, my hopes for the meaning of the kiss are simply the imaginary relation that ideology has formed. The imaginary relationship that I needed to believe in was that he wanted to know me profoundly. The real relation is that he wanted me to have sex with him. Think of a romantic comedy where a man stalks a woman for love. 27 Dresses, You’ve Got Mail, 10 Things I Hate About You, Say Anything (the one with the scene of the boombox outside of the bedroom window), Love Actually, Dead Poets Society, to name a few. In all of these movies, a man ignores a woman’s rejections because he’s convinced that perseverance will win her over. In a movie, he’s usually right. He’s rewarded for predatory behavior with a kiss or a white wedding. Media that presents harmful tropes like this are formed by patriarchal ideology. The woman in the movie will eventually realize that he “actually loves her,” rendering his perseverance morally upright. The representation of a woman finding stalking romantic is the imaginary relation. The real relation to behavior like this is terror.
I had a stalker in high school. He was my first boyfriend and we started dating around when we were 17, which meant the relationship was defined by a freedom of cars that neither of us had experienced before. He would use that freedom to park his car at the entrance of my neighborhood to see if I was going anywhere and then follow me. I used my first car to get a job and find a patch of grass to read on. He would drive past my house to make sure that I was really home like I said I was. The first time that I read the line we are bodiless souls for our female friends and soulless flesh for our male lovers by Silvia Federici, I was straight and I was deeply touched by her words. Every woman I’ve shared that with has been taken aback by it as well. It reveals the crushing loneliness that came when I realized a man had fallen asleep while I was talking about awful traumas I had barely ever expressed out loud before. I had a horrifying realization: being perceived as a soulless body was far worse than being considered bodiless. The latter meant that my soul was trapped inside, banging on the walls of her solitary cell with both fists, screaming to be let out, but ignored nonetheless. After going on my first few dates with a woman, I reexamined this quote. It felt so good to escape the suffocating binary that it set up. I wasn’t afraid that I wouldn’t be able to communicate my boundaries or that she would think I was boring and was only suffering through drinks to get sexual later. I felt confident that she would see the soul in my body. The first time that I had sex without cringing, without shame, without feeling used, was with Ivy. After, when we were laying next to each other, her face lit up and she said, “See, you are a sexual being!” and then kissed me on the cheek. I have no idea how she could have known that I needed to hear exactly that but she did. It wasn’t just sex without affection. We had figured out how to combine the flesh with our souls. In order to be comfortable with being a sexual being without shame, I needed to convince myself that I was not solely a sexual being. My body is not inherently sexual, but it can be sexual. And the terms of that sexuality are not contingent on being seen. I am not the meanings that other people ascribe onto my body. I now look into a mirror covered with steam. When I wipe away the filminess with my sleeve, I see a face that I recognize. Even though the reflection may again fog up with an imaginary haziness, I can see in my nose and my cheekbones and my eyes a complexity and a defiance that I can claim as my own.
9
10
Information collected by Tessa Rose
you want to know a secret? you want to know a secret? i think you’re beautiful but in a totally different type of way in an i want to spend all my free time with you cook for you do your hair for you type of beautiful
Gracie
the word grace surrounds me honestly i’m glad i’m a Christian that way no one asks me why this word is everywhere
and it’s crazy cause i think people are attractive all the time but this time it’s different
Grace is her middle name
it’s like i’m attracted to your energy and just want to be in your presence
you see it’s a complicated story with twists and turns and prayers and pain
and listen to your laugh
Grace is my angel baby
i don’t even want sex which is crazy for me cause i always want sex
and what happened with her was an accident i didn’t know what i was doing i was young and naïve
i’m pleased by your presence
and now i’m dealing with the consequences
but please don’t get it confused baby, i’m still down for sex.
so when i have that daisy on my arm, with petals that divinely divide into three just know it’s not for me, it’s for my Ava Grace
By Mayah Wheeler
11
The Dark History of Medicine in the US by Sona Raju The history of American medicine is very dark. It’s characterized by those in power manipulating the bodies of those with less power for clinical research and to further their own careers. Excuses are often made that those conducting unethical research were simply operating at a different time, before a firm code of medical ethics was in place. In reality, this is just a cop out to avoid looking deeper at the systems that allowed such things to happen. People are quick to condemn the Nazi internment camp experiments, but are hesitant to take down the statue of J. Marion Sims, the doctor who performed surgery without anesthesia on a dozen enslaved African American women from 1845 to 1849. Horrific acts like this are also justified by saying that their results will help better the “welfare of mankind”. This may be the case if you define mankind as wealthy, white Americans, but everyone else has historically been left disappointed by the country’s healthcare institutions. There are simply too many medical atrocities that have happened over the course of this country’s history for me to address them all in this piece, but I hope that focusing on just a few will reveal how prolific the problem is and why it is imperative that we learn from these errors to prevent them from happening again.
12
The biggest mistake we make when thinking about these past unethical practices is believing that they were just “bad actions done by bad men in a bad time.” Therefore we don’t have to worry about them happening again because they were just a natural product of the times. Right? This is all well and good to believe, but would you hold the same logic when thinking about the Nazi experiments? No – it is widely agreed upon that the experiments they conducted were gross human rights violations. Laws were
put into place to prevent such things from ever happening again. The U.S. is far more reluctant to condemn human experimentation in America on the same level. Part of it lies in the belief that the Nazis were “objectively bad” and that the doctors who founded our country’s medical institutions, whose statues are everywhere, and whose names are on hospitals, “had better intentions.” Looking closer at J. Marion Sims can help us unearth links between the racist and sexist medical practices of the past with current health inequities. Sims was and still is considered the “father of modern gynecology”. He earned his fame from developing a surgical method to repair vesico-vaginal fistula, a tear between the vagina and bladder resulting from extended childbirth, which would eventually lead to a loss of control of the bladder and rectum. He pioneered these methods on enslaved African American women, yet in the modern day, black women have a 3 to 4 times higher risk of pregnancy-related deaths (according to a 2017 CDC report.) Looking more broadly, the CDC reports that women in the US are more likely to die from childbirth or pregnancyrelated causes than women in other developed countries. Considering that the “father of gynecology” built his success off the backs of powerless women, it is no surprise that women’s reproductive health in this country is so poor. When the very foundation of the field is so tainted, it makes sense that we haven’t been able to build a supportive and effective medical system around it. From increased maternal mortality rates to restrictive reproductive health legislature, the US medical system is not doing enough to help women. It never has.
Pain assessment and subsequent treatment recommendation is another realm of healthcare that is still shaped by unfounded racial and gendered biases that originated hundreds of years ago. The belief that there are significant biological and genetic differences between different racial groups is now believed to be untrue, but the idea was prevalent for many years and is still believed by some. The once widely held, racist belief that black individuals feel less pain is objectively untrue, yet African Americans are still routinely undertreated for their pain according to numerous studies. Racial bias and false beliefs play a large role here in shaping how doctors treat their patients. In a 2016 study, researchers at the University of Virginia surveyed medical students and residents by presenting them with statements of false beliefs about biological differences between white and black people, ex. “black people’s skin is thicker than white people’s skin”, and having them rank how strongly they believed or did not believe them. The study found that the participants who supported these false beliefs rated black patients’ pain as lower than that of white patients, and made treatment recommendations that were less accurate. This is quite shocking and points to the enduring effects of false beliefs over the years and also to the prevalence of racially biased medical views among students. If students are allowed to have and foster views of this kind, they will likely carry them throughout their career. This is why it is imperative to properly educate anyone who is entering the healthcare field on racially biased false beliefs and how to avoid them. Steps must be taken to stop these kinds of views, and they will be most effective if they are done early.
Medicine does not have a pretty history either; it is filled with unethical human experiments and racist and sexist beliefs. Large-scale experiments like Sims’s surgeries, the Tuskegee Syphilis Study, or the Guatemala Syphilis Experiment were done with the purpose of making a difference and helping mankind, but at what cost? Often, “mankind” is usually not even referring to all of mankind, rather just a subset of it. Throughout time, minority groups have been used as test subjects and viewed as experiments rather than people, but none of the findings that came from their suffering have been used to help them. Throughout America’s history, the greatest benefits and advancements in medicine have been made for wealthy white people only. Nothing can be done to change the past. What we can do is learn from it. It is our responsibility to learn from and about the unethical medical practices that led to the scientific discoveries and institutions we still honor today. As history is written from the perspective of those with power, we may never truly be able to find the extent to which unethical medicine and human experimentation have been going on in this country, but this shouldn’t stop us from trying. Most importantly, medical professionals and institutions must remain committed to providing ethical and empathetic care by dissecting and learning from past missteps to ensure that they never happen again.
13
I have a not-so-secret secret: I am 20 years old, and I still haven’t had my first kiss. Now, people define a first kiss in a lot of ways. I have heard people say that they had their first kiss at age 7 on the playground, or at age 13 during spin the bottle. If this is the case, then yeah, sure, I’ve had my first kiss. But I have never kissed someone I am romantically attracted to, and while I know this is nothing to be ashamed of, it eats away at my selfconfidence from time to time. This teeny tiny fact about myself is so small in the grand scheme of things, yet I carry it with me like it’s the most shameful thing in the world. However, while I don’t advertise this trait to other people, I also don’t really make an effort to keep it a secret because that’s entirely too much work (and I’m not the best at keeping secrets). It’s just the truth, and I’m only interested in being the most authentic version of myself. Over the years, I’ve gotten a wide range of responses when I tell people that I ~still~ haven’t had my first kiss. In case you’ve ever wondered what NOT to say to someone in my situation, I’ve included a few of my favorites below:
by Alexandra Niforos
Why? Great question. I ask myself the same thing every day. My self-deprecating answers have ranged from “I have anxiety” to “I don’t talk to boys” to “No one has ever wanted to kiss me,” but the honest answer is: I don’t know. I really don’t. Asking me why makes me feel like I need to offer an explanation. But the thing is, I shouldn’t have to justify myself. It is what it is. I’m sure (insert male friend) would do it for you. This is a real thing someone said to me once. I called my best friend and cried afterwards, because although the culprit might have had good intentions, it made me feel like utter garbage. Apparently I’m so unlikeable and unattractive, that a friend pity-kissing me would be the only way for it to ever realistically happen. Screw that. Aw it’s okay. This is what I hear from people 99% of the time. How patronizing. I truly do not need your pity. This mild-mannered response has most made me feel like something is wrong with me for not having had my first kiss yet. I know it’s okay, and I don’t need your reassurance.
14
You know what, good for you! Thanks? I guess? It hasn’t really been an active effort on my part to be kissless as a junior in college; it just happened that way. This is kind of like telling someone who has never dated, “Oh you’re not really missing out. Dating is stressful,” (something that has also been said to me before). It is really hard for me to be reassured by someone who has already experienced the things I haven’t. It’s so easy. You should just get it over with. Listen sis, if I wanted to walk into a party and make out with a frat boy, I would. But now that I’ve come this far, I’m not really interested in kissing the first rando I see. I want it to mean something. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with kissing just for the sake of it; that just isn’t something I want for myself. It’ll happen. Maybe! Maybe not! Who knows! In essence, my insecurity over this really stems from what never having a first kiss means for me: I’ve never been in a relationship, I’ve never really been on a date, and I’ve never had someone confess feelings for me. In high school, I had a group of friends who were just like me, and all of us would commiserate together about our lack of love lives. But then, slowly but surely, they all moved on to relationships and hookups and here I am, feeling like a child as my once partners-in-crime bond over their shared experiences with boys in college. I’m not going to lie, I feel really stupid most of the time because a lot of people my age have already been in multiple relationships and have even been sexually active for years, meanwhile I’m still stuck watching Netflix rom-coms and wondering when even a speck of this type of love story will materialize in my life. I know that it’s complete and utter bullshit that I feel like an abnormality due to my lack of sexual/romantic experience. I’ve traveled the world, made incredible friends, and garnered academic accomplishments, and yet it all feels insignificant because I’ve never kissed a boy? Ridiculous. A good friend used to tell me that there’s no singular timeline when it comes to these romantic milestones; it’s just the fact that we compare ourselves to other people that makes
us feel like we are lagging behind. This reassurance used to frustrate me, but over time I’ve found comfort in it. I’m constantly trying not to compare myself to others (but you guys, it’s really, really hard sometimes). I’m confessing my secret here in these pages because I’m sick and tired of feeling like I’m a degenerate. I’m tired of my occasional call to my mom where I sob and tell her how I don’t understand why I’m so unlikeable. I’m especially tired of feeling like I’m the only person on planet Earth in my situation (when I know for a fact that I’m not). So, to anyone who reads this who might possibly be in the same boat as me, I’m going to tell you what I tell myself every time I feel downtrodden by my inexperience: There’s nothing wrong with you. This does not define you. It’ll be okay. It’s not a race.
15
Lies Behind the Screen by Hannah Brauer Scene I. There’s something theatrical about trying not to cry in public. My stage directions tell me to step onto the Michigan Flyer bus at 3:30pm, walk to the seventh row and sit in the window seat. I look at my reflection in the glass, veiled by grime and ice that’s been splattered up from the many trips between Ann Arbor and East Lansing. I’ve never felt more like an actress in my own life. My script tells me to tip my chin toward the glass and shield my eyes from the other actors’ stares. I see a hand wipe tears away from my cheek inconspicuously, to make the woman across the aisle think I’m tucking my hair behind my ear. As we drive away from the bus stop, a sunset backdrop is pulled behind Ethan’s dorm. I close my eyes. This isn’t the first time I’ve cried on a Michigan Flyer bus. I’ve had plenty of tearful departures, quick hugs goodbye while the bus driver watches, but this one seems to be my big break. I’m on my own. Ethan didn’t walk me to the station this time and we weren’t running from his room to catch the bus; instead, I sat inside a bathroom stall for an hour preparing for my role, releasing my tears onto the tile floors with the hope that they’d drain from my eyes before boarding the bus. I look down at my phone and realize it’s already logged into the bus’s WiFi. I almost feel sorry for it, knowing this is probably the last time it’ll reconnect with its old friend “MichiganFlyers8.” Instinctually, I open Instagram and regret it. I forgot I’d opened
16
Ethan’s profile in the bathroom stall with the intent to unfollow him. I remember we’d agreed not to unfollow each other and feel guilty for wanting to, so instead, I scroll down to the bottom of his profile to the first picture he posted of us. It’s a horribly grainy selfie from our junior year of high school: Ethan holds a Starbucks frappuccino, while I’m in the left corner while our friend Emily is smiling in the middle. I met the two of them through our school’s cross country team, and Ethan and I were also in Spanish class together that year. We frequently caught each other’s eyes during lectures; I’d look over and see his brown eyes flick back to the board quickly, his jawline hardened with concentration. I threw a Halloween party for our cross country friends just so I could ask him for his number. The next photo is from the first time I went over to his house. We’re sitting in front of the red curtains hanging in his basement, which his mom put up to cover the room’s horrible paint job. I see a photo of myself sitting on the hood of his Mini Cooper after school a few days later. Ethan posted it as we sat in his car in front of my house. Then he kissed me for the first time with his Instagram profile still open in our laps. Six people liked the post. Scene II. Ice hits the bus window as the bus makes its way onto the highway, the noise sounding like a clapperboard marking a new take for a movie. I imagine a director yelling, “Cut!” and allow myself to cry for a second, then continue to follow my script after
the next bout of ice splatters over my window. I glance back at my phone and see that my friend Sydney texted me. Are you okay? I’m still shocked. I forgot I called her in a delirious state after I left Ethan’s dorm, watching myself walk down Grand River from an overhead shot as I told her Ethan and I broke up. “What?!” she yelled. “You’re joking, right?” I had to stop walking and double over, covering my mouth to stifle the sobs. I sensed my audience members staring from every direction as they passed me on the street. I headed to the bus stop, unable to speak when Sydney asked, “Are you okay? What’s going on?” as I walked into the Marriott across from the bus stop. After collecting myself, I told her everything about my relationship I’d been keeping from her for years. I return to my own Instagram profile and open the last photo I posted of Ethan, ready to start my obligatory deletions when I see Sydney’s comment on it. The post was a slideshow of photos for our three year anniversary: a photo of him walking me back from the bus station in the fall, an accidental selfie on a cold walk home from high school, and a video of him feeding ducks by the Red Cedar River. The caption reads, “Thankful for the perfect and imperfect moments.” The only comment was: @SYDNEY_SFIRE: There are no imperfect moments I can’t bring myself to delete the post. Instead, I scroll further. I stop on my favorite photo of us. Ethan printed it out and gave it to me as a graduation gift that I hung next to my loft bed in my college dorm room. It was taken about three months into our relationship for a photography project, a series showing the different emotions in a relationship through colored paint on our faces. My dad had set up a studio background in our basement, and I asked Ethan if he would come over and model with me. I set the camera so it would take multiple timed photos to show the honeymoon phase. We pressed our noses together and smiled, laughing at the fact we’d willingly placed a camera in front of ourselves; we hated PDA. The next day, I edited it to be black and white and removed the paint from our faces. It was on Instagram by the following afternoon. 29 people commented on it.
group chat with my childhood best friends. Alissa immediately responds, oh my god. She made a bet with her mom that Ethan and I would get married after seeing my Instagram photo a photo of us at prom. I feel bad that I cost her $50. None of my friends knew how bad it had gotten. I found the photo from prom. My friend Emily took it as a candid, screaming to her other friends about how cute we were. Ethan and I were both grinning, my curls long down my back and his boutonniere pressed up against my cheek. I asked her three times to send the photo to me throughout the night. Before posting it, I edited his right eye (which was half closed in the original photo) and put a soft filter on it. I wanted everyone to have the same reaction that Emily did, to think that we really were perfect together. For our entire senior year, Ethan pressured me to come to Michigan State with him for college. He was raised by a Spartanobsessed family and didn’t apply to any other schools; he couldn’t see the value in going anywhere else. After I chose to go to the University of Michigan, he was convinced it was to spite him. He would call me almost every night, but refused to speak to me once I answered. Silence became our fight song. As we became more serious and started our long distance relationship, I had my doubts about how much time we were spending together. Ethan wanted to see me every weekend to make sure I wasn’t going to forget about him, so I avoided any activities at college that might have affected my weekend availability. I was constantly looking for photo opportunities when I was with him. I wanted another post to stun my followers, hoping someone else would snap a candid at the right moment, but it never came. That Christmas, Ethan came over to my house to meet my extended family. After attending dozens of gatherings with his aunts and uncles, I was excited for him to finally spend time with mine. We took a photo in front of my house and I posted it on Instagram. My friends Nina and Alissa both commented:
@EVA_LIANOS: My heart just stopped...this is so cute I could die @HANNAHROSE_ME: GIRL THIS IS LITERALLY THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY ENTIRE LIFE!!!! #relationshipgoalsforever @MADDIEMCD: My cold heart is thawing *heart eyes emoji* this is the cutest thing in the world!
@SHORT_GIRLZ_ONLY: can’t wait 2 receive a similar photo on ur Christmas card for the next 50 years @ALISSACM_: i’ve never seen anything more beautiful
I didn’t even know half of the people who commented. I included the photo in my senior portfolio, among my best work in visual persuasion.
Michael made an excuse to go home half an hour later.
The next Halloween, Ethan and I spent a day traveling to different thrift shops to find a good couple costume. We ended up dressing as Carl and Ellie from Pixar’s Up and took a photo holding rainbow balloons, and I clutched my adventure journal. 247 people liked it. 47 commented. @SYDNEY_SFIRE: How cute can one couple get @TOITEGO: This is possibly the cutest thing I have ever laid eyes on @ALISSACM_: I just started crying in my kitchen @MARGARETCOSTELLO: this is my favorite picture I return to my text messages, realizing I didn’t tell most of my friends I was planning to break up with Ethan. Hi everyone, just wanted to let you know that Ethan and I broke up, I send my
Scene III. Alissa and Nina text my group chat in rapid fire and their notifications get in the way of my scrolling. I’m so sad, Alissa says. But if you think this was best, I trust you. Nina responds, love is fake. I laugh. I guess you owe your mom $50, Alissa, I respond. I smile and imagine my director nodding in approval. Smile, don’t bring attention to yourself.
The woman across the aisle from me is sleeping now, her head tilted back and mouth open in a silent scream. She looks a lot like Ethan’s mom. I wonder if I’ll have to unfriend her on Facebook now.
17
I re-open Instagram and remove his siblings, but I still can’t unfollow him. I continue scrolling on my own profile and find the photo of us from my project. I had re-posted it on the photo’s two-year anniversary after realizing Ethan and I hadn’t taken any good photos together in a while. I was hoping it would get the same feedback as the first time I’d posted it, but hardly anyone saw it. Maybe Instagram itself was catching onto my false advertisements. After our freshman year of college, we spent a weekend on Mackinac Island and watched the stars from a spot on Lake Michigan. I brought my camera and tripod, ready to get a beautiful silhouette photo of the two of us looking at the sky with the Milky Way in the background. Ethan spent the entire time complaining about the cold. The stars were barely visible, so I had to take one photo of us looking at the lake and one photo of the night sky. That night, I spent an hour on Photoshop melding them together to make it look like we were actually staring at the stars, just the two of us and the universe. 12 people commented. It wasn’t enough. I now scroll faster through my page. I find a photo of us at his brother’s wedding, one at the cider mill, one before a football game, both events I couldn’t fully enjoy because I was worried about getting a good photo of us. My roommate, Ruby, texts me and asks how I’m doing. I’m doing okay, I respond. It’s funny, the hour since I’ve been on this bus has probably been the longest Ethan has gone without texting me since we started dating. She texts back, yikes. I respond, Maybe it’s for the best. He didn’t even cry. I feel my own tears coming back. The sliver of sun left above the horizon reflects off the snow and into my eyes. Scene IV. I hardly told anyone the details of my relationship. Like a good actress, I never break the fourth wall, but after three years I felt that I was only playing the role of the “perfect relationship.” So many people wanted us to end up together. I thought that editing out the bad sequences would convince my followers that Ethan wasn’t drifting away. Maybe I could convince myself, too. I decided to knit him a scarf for Christmas my sophomore year of college. I would bring my needles and yarn everywhere I went, unraveling it where I’d dropped stitches and trying desperately to add them back. The yarn became thinner, tangled in itself, and I worked relentlessly until I’d pulled so many stitches together they couldn’t fall apart. I wouldn’t let them. I planned to give the scarf to Ethan on Christmas Eve and invited him over to my house again to spend time with my family. I don’t think I’m going to make it, he texted me. I think my parents want me to stay here. I thought about how many hours I’d spent with his family that I could’ve been spending with mine. But I thought you didn’t have plans tonight? I responded. Can you at least ask your parents? He texted back, No. I tried calling him, but he rejected it. I don’t want to talk right now. He always preferred to fight over text. I called him again and he picked up.
18
“Yes?” he asked, annoyed. “Can you at least ask your parents if you can come over? It would mean a lot to me.” I wiped my eyes with his finished scarf. He hung up and texted me that they said yes, then a few minutes later backed out again. It’s supposed to snow and I don’t want my car to get trapped in your driveway. I looked outside to see the slightest dusting of ice. I responded, Can’t you walk? It’s only five blocks. I’ll drive you home. He said, It’s too cold. I’m sorry. Ethan never showed up. I finally gave him his scarf a week later, but he never wore it. Scene V. After I moved back into my dorm room for the second semester, I had a dream that Ethan and I were getting married but he didn’t show up to the ceremony. He texted me, Sorry, I forgot. You should have reminded me that was today. When I woke up, I realized I had taken the photo of us off the wall in my sleep and put it under my pillow. I looked at it, our noses pressed up against each other, smiles pulled into mocking laughs. I put the frame back up on my wall, but the next morning I found it on the floor under my loft bed. A couple days later, I bought my bus ticket to MSU. I decided I needed to end it. Though Ethan protested and pretended he was sick, I told him I was coming anyway. I rehearsed my lines on the bus ride over and had him meet me at the hotel where it dropped off. I told him I wanted to break up. Ethan was silent and listened while I explained myself. He didn’t cry. Tired of being seen, we headed back to his dorm room. We walked through Michigan State’s campus with hands in our jackets and eyes at our feet. Anyone passing by might assume we were acquaintances from class, two separate lives that only intertwined in this moment. I imagined us walking similarly down our high school hallways after Spanish class. Bare trees lined the path, their twigs split into fingers that almost touched before the wind swayed them away. Someone planted these trees, I thought. And someone might one day chop them down. I wondered if they were the same person. “Are you going to take me off of your social media now?” he asked once we’d reached his dorm. “I don’t think so,” I said. Something about removing all of my hard-earned comments and likes felt wrong, like a movie star erasing herself from the credits of her films. He walked me down to the first floor of his dorm. I gave him the slightest smile as I waved goodbye. The Michigan Flyer now pulls into the Blake Transit Center in Ann Arbor. I let a tear roll down my cheek; it feels like the word “swollen” sounds. I gather my backpack and make eye contact with the driver as I walk off the bus. He gives me a short nod, a director’s cue. And, scene.
19
Re-Tales III: Or
How I Became A Sellout by Ally Owens Remember how I spent the greater portion of 2018 and the early months of 2019 openly and obnoxiously lamenting the internship process and everyone involved with it in any way? If you recall, some of my greatest hits included (righteous) accusations of exclusivity and exploitation. To cope with the disappointment of spending another summer working in retail instead of advancing my career, internally I created a persona. In my head, I framed myself to be the hard-nosed, blue collar Mr. Americana too far removed from the privileged, nepotistic one percent to ever retain the right connections to secure an “in.” And I was proud to embody that man. Well, girls and gays, guess who’s been hired? So, like a true-to-form Rust Belt man, I’m going to alter my viewpoint to conveniently fit my current situation. Guess who just became an advocate for unpaid labor? If you actually believe that my new position will signal my transformation into someone who heralds the process by which young adults leave home to work their cute little asses off for the adult equivalent of a Girl Scout patch, then you grossly underestimate the depths of my cynicism. Mark my words — if there’s one thing I will always remain consistent in, it’s my ability to find difficulty with anything. Yes, even in earning fantastic opportunities, I will find something to be jaded about. #She’sAWife #DateMe In fact, gaining access to this system has only revealed more of the issues it presents for students who wish to advance their career, but lack the wealth to make such a feat possible (without strife). So, for my final adieu, as I evolve from the world of shitty uniforms to obligatory “business casual” dress, I will show you all why simply getting the job is not the end of your woes. Sometimes, it’s just the beginning. When I was first hired for an internship, I noticed that the questions about job qualifications were quickly being replaced by pressing queries into my financial situation. Was I OK with not being paid? Would I be able to provide housing for myself? Would I be able to come with a reliable means of transportation? What easy things to secure … when you’re in Los Angeles, being paid in “experience” and born into a family already broker than a joke. On one hand, I understood the utility of such questions — employers need to know if their new hires will be able to make it to the office in a timely fashion. On the other hand, I began to see the very clear subtext inherent in these questions.
20
In the realm of retail, it is common knowledge that one must lie to an employer when asked about his or her ability to provide transportation. It’s a trap. In admitting that you have to take the bus or rideshare to work, you unwittingly give your employer license to pass judgement upon you — not for your skillset, but for your class level (and every other preconceived notion lumped in with that categorization). In many ways, this question serves as a subtle screening test on the application, acting to block working class individuals from being hired. When I realized that the production company was trying to sift through me in the same manner that I had seen retail managers sift carelessly through potential hires, I used what I learned in the trenches and spun one of my best lies: Not only did I have an aunt who lived “right near” the studio, but I would also have my trusty Volkswagen from home with me. In the immediate aftermath, I did not yet feel the panic of a middle-aged white man who lost all of his money in forex trading. Instead, I felt an eerie parallel to the college admissions process. Simply getting in (or in this case, getting the job) was not the Ride Off Into The Sunset™ moment. Once again, I was wrangling with my abilities getting me to the door, but my income bracket leaving me without the key. Would I have to participate in this charade for my entire existence? Would I ever simply be able to break a glass ceiling without having to conduct a complex ruse to make it a reality? I refused to be boxed out during the application process, but when I started to calculate the tab on paying $800/month for rent, a $500 round-trip airline ticket, the cost of storage, and an infinite number of Uber and Lyft charges, I began to feel like I just might be boxed out. This in itself is the evil of gatekeeping. If employers’ intent was to hire people who already have what they are “looking for” in terms of pedigree, then that is what they will ultimately get by placing barriers in place for everyone who does not fit this mold. If you happen to need some investment from the company itself because your parents are not Lori Loughlin and Mossimo, then you are deemed replaceable. See? Clearly no one’s selling out over here. Things may look bleak for ole’ papa Ally now, but I sacrificed a spring break trip to ensure that I had some money to front the cost of this experience, and I didn’t spend a week alone in Ann Arbor for nothing. Being blocked at the door may seem disheartening, but you’re speaking to someone with experience in this realm of finesse. If I was able to Trojan Horse myself into the University of Michigan, I can probably strike gold twice. And when I do, I will be there giving you the inside scoop on every injustice present with the hope that something might be done to change this godforsaken system. Much love, Ally Owens
21
“Normal” Sex Scares Me. by Periwinkle Seljord
22
I
grew up in a household where no topic was considered a taboo. My mom was very transparent about sex and even her own sexual history with me at a very young age. However, even when I knew I had all the information I needed only a person away, the idea of sex or physical intimacy scared me. My illogical fears ranged from the irrational worry that I’d become pregnant without having sex (in hindsight, it would be cool to say I was the 21st century Mary,) to the universal and prominent uneasiness of not having a “normal” sexual experience. Growing up, I couldn’t define what constituted a “normal” sexual encounter, but I pictured some cheesy, unrealistic, Hollywood version that middle school children awkwardly laugh about. You know, the ones where foreplay and awkwardness are things of myth and a white, heterosexual couple miraculously climaxes simultaneously after two minutes of missionary. When I entered high school, those images of manufactured make out scenes left behind lingering misgivings about not performing well in a sexual circumstance. Would my kissing be satisfactory? Would I be considered bad in bed if I didn’t orgasm, or if the other person didn’t? Would my virginity label me as undesirable? These anxieties were only fueled by scrutinous gossip about my schoolmates’ sexual histories, no matter how much each story varied from the next. Bothered by consternation of being the subject of the next round of gossip and confusion of what the hell WAS typical sex (because Sally claims it’s sitting still while a guy licks your face but Betty declares it’s running naked around a room with another person while you both scream,) I quickly became self-conscious of, and intrinsically critical towards, my sexuality and sexual output. It became apparent to me that no matter who you were or what you did, anything involving sex immediately placed you on the judgment block, thus continuing a cycle of misinformation, fear, self-reproach, social criticism and stigmas surrounding sex. Deep down, we want to think we left those childish gossip games in middle and high school, but unfortunately, the adult world produces the same events and opinions, just in a more “sophisticated” way. Every day we are bombarded by magazines advertising how to be better in bed or sexier outside of it, bashing celebrities for showing a little skin (or not), and objectifying the same celebrities based off of their apparent sexual and/or romantic pasts. Our society perpetuates and promotes one wonted way of
having sex, never acknowledging the natural spectrum of human attraction in different people. We continue to dig the hole of sexual discrimination deeper and deeper while the bodies of the sexually hurt, repressed and confused pile higher and higher. I’ve been in a total of 8 sexual relationships/situations, and each experience was vastly different from the others. Some erupted from sundry situations, some resulted in various endings. Most were enjoyable, a few were regrettable, but all were educational. Every single one taught me that my fears about not being “good enough” were bullshit, or, more accurately, that the idea of “normal” sex is just a social construct. Pleasure is subjective, and what one person likes may or may not bring the same amount of happiness, arousal or comfort to another. If someone isn’t pleased by you, that doesn’t mean you’re not desirable; it means that person has a different taste and that’s okay. It’s common to want to please other people. I personally find great pleasure in making another person feel good venereally, but it’s important not to base your personal worth on how alluring you are to someone else. The first, and frankly only person you should be concerned with pleasing is yourself. Learn to be happy in your own skin, confident with your sexuality, and don’t let anyone else tell you what’s gross, wrong or abnormal. You may choose to never have sex or to have sex every night, to have one partner or 100, to wear revealing clothing or not; either way, it’s no one’s place to ridicule that because they don’t agree or understand. Instead of immediately building walls of contempt and humiliation when we encounter a way of life we don’t personally identify with, we should respectfully educate ourselves. The only thing that should be “normal,” is the understanding that pleasure is a boundless spectrum, and that it’s okay for people to fall on different parts of it. So, find your spot, or maybe a few, and shamelessly curl the metaphorical seductive finger towards anyone willing to have some fun!
23
Let’s Talk About
SmackingThePony by A.F. Ordesson
I am a woman. For as long as I can remember, masturbation has been part of my life. Fairly early in my childhood, I discovered the pleasure you can derive from stimulating your clitoris. In fact, my mom has told me that I was doing “something akin to humping” when I was still small enough to be sleeping in a crib. Although the way I smack the pony now has evolved from when I was a child, what I did back then was nonetheless masturbation. However, it was not until my first year of university that I met another woman who told me that she too had masturbated for as long as she could remember. Up until that point, I had felt utterly alone when it came to flicking the bean, and I had felt strange and somewhat shameful about my own pleasure. It’s not like I hadn’t talked with people about masturbation and sexuality before university; I certainly had! I grew up in a relatively sexually liberated European country where sex education is an integral part of the national curriculum. Additionally, my mom is a urologist who also has experience in gynecology. We have always spoken openly about sex and genitals in my home, and from an early age I was comfortable with words like ‘vagina’ and ‘penis’, even at that time in school when everyone is supposed to react with terror and squeamishness to those words. However, not all of my experiences with talking about masturbation have been positive. During my teenage years, there were multiple instances where, while talking about boys and sex at girls’ sleepovers, my masturbation stories and various experiences with dry humping in kindergarten and elementary school were met with disbelief, laughter, disapproval, and/or curiosity. My openness about pleasuring myself made me the 24
object of attention and fascination – a kind that would make me feel like someone on display, like I was weird and above all different. My selfassuredness was also met by acceptance and praise from close friends, increasingly so as we grew older, but I always felt abnormal compared to the other girls when it came to masturbation. No one shared similar experiences, and it left me feeling incredibly alone. Less-than-positive reactions from peers and a lack of similar stories in my life certainly underpin my feelings of isolation. Yet, I’ve come to believe that underlying these reactions and directly affecting my own understanding of sexuality and masturbation is a broader societal discourse about women’s masturbation. This discourse frames masturbation as deviance from some traditional and outdated behavioral norms pertaining to girls. It was not until recently that female masturbation has been acknowledged in mainstream debate and media, and its depiction is still heavily one-sided. In the media, masturbation is an act reserved for a small group of people: men and a specific type of woman, most notably the white, upper-middle class woman living in a big city. Think the women from Sex and the City or Girls. Additionally, the female masturbation that is portrayed in film and tv appears to require various vibrators and/or dildos. Masturbation amongst (pre-)pubescent girls that often do not have access to dildos and the like is never acknowledged in mainstream media. Consequently, the secrecy, isolation and shame surrounding girls’ masturbation forms part of the discrimination and oppression of girls
and women. If girls have no similar experiences of masturbation or sexuality to relate to, then one can imagine that they easily become silent about masturbation themselves and are made to feel sexually deviant; abnormal and weird if they partake in it. It is no wonder that there is a skewed perception of male and female sexuality and pleasure when girls are taught from a very early age that their sexual urges are anomalous. Moreover, masturbation amongst teenage boys and young men is a topic which far less stigma pertains to. It takes up much more time and energy in mass media and general discourse. In fact, one of Netflix’s new series, Sex Education, is partly centered around the main character Otis – a teenage boy – and his inability to masturbate. Otis is portrayed as odd because of his condition. Just imagine how this TV-series would have been received had the main character been a girl!! Depictions of young people’s sexuality on screen has quite the effect on the way in which masturbation is talked about amongst girls and boys. From my own time in middle and high school, I clearly remember the boys (and some of us girls) talking about and referring to male masturbation frequently. Yet, similar discourse
about girls’ masturbation was close to nonexistent, especially when there were boys around! What children and teenagers talk about and how they talk about it is invariably connected with the adults around them, and not least the culture and media by which they are surrounded. The current culture happens to be one that erases girls’ and women’s pleasure. How are we, girls and women, supposed to emancipate ourselves in and outside the bedroom when we are repeatedly taught that our sexuality is less than or dependent on male pleasure? If women are to be sexually liberated and the inequality between men’s and women’s sexual satisfaction eradicated, then women must learn to define and explore our sexuality independently of male pleasure. This, I believe, is something which must include eliminating the stigma around girls’ masturbation. The consequences of making an eight-year-old girl feel shameful about her own pleasure can have a lasting impact on how she relates to sexuality in her adult life. Secrecy and shame are intricately linked, and both must be dispelled when it comes to girls’ masturbation if women are to gain autonomy of their own sexuality.
25
26
COVER
The dark history of medicine in the u.s
bathroom confessional
it’s not a race
The vulva unveiled: spilling the tea on your body’s secrets
lies behind the screen
Art by Paige Wilson
Art by Maggie McConnell
Art by Molly Wu
Not (completely) straight Art by Ariana Shaw
white liar
Art by Sammy Theuer
All of our imaginary kisses Art by Anna Herscher
gamer gyrls
Art by Regina
Art by Marjorie Gaber
Art by Brooks Eisenbise
stand alone art piece
Art by Sammy Theuer
retales iii: or how I became a sellout Art by Kate Johnson
Normal sex scares me Art by Jessica Burkle
let’s talk about smacking the pony Art by Elizabeth Feldbreugge
Infographic by Anna Herscher
Sponsored by:
27